ROAM ISSUE 1 by Jonny Miller

4 A World of

Stories Where you’ve been this issue

6 The Quintissential Road Trip

8 New Zealand 10 Palestinian Terrotories 12 India

14 In An Ancient Army Truck

Majestic gorillas deep in Uganda

22 Worth Its Salt Beauty in the Bolivian highlands

32 Paris To Peking Classic car race of epic proportions 40 Mongol Rally Discovering the

wildnerness

48 London To Nepal On 2 Wheels Crossing continents by bike 31 Road Trip Playlist Sing-along down the highway 38 Beef Pak Choi Mouth-watering recipe 39 Dear Jeroam.... Your questions answered 46 Get Involved Calling all budding writers 47 WIN A travel guide to your dream

MEET THE TEAM Founder Editor abroad Laura GriffithJones

Co-editor Graphic design Dorothy Sanders

Co-editor Graphic design Jonny Miller

Finance director Advertising Ed Lane

to the first issue of the decade for ROAM – the magazine for travel-hungry students with a penchant for adventure!

Inspired by old-school travel memories, we’ve given the magazine a whole new look, with lots of exciting new features to get your toes tingling for the open road. Check out the competition on p47. get kitted out with the essential travel gear on p52, or plug into our epic road trip playlist – p31. A wise man once said, ‘there is no better time than now’, and 2010 is the year for making those ambitious travel plans. So get inspired and - excuse the terrible pun - get ROAMing!

This issue is packed with fabulous travel tales, from the impenetrable forests of Uganda, to the extraordinary diversity of roads criss-crossing the Asian continent, to the hidden beauties of the desolate highlands in Bolivia...

Take a bite out of this world.

destination

52 Get The Kit Cotswolds travel must-haves

he best road trips have no destination. The best road trips are spontaneous. The best road trips are off the beaten track. Road trips are arguably the most important mode of travel, even more so

in the modern world. Most travel that people undertake entails a rarefied leap from ‘Departures’ to ‘Arrivals’ in an unnaturally short space of time. The great Orson Welles said: “There are only two emotions in a plane: boredom and terror.” The invention of the plane has ruined the concept of journeying. The ability to near-teleport from one place on the planet to another means the loss of the valuable experienced gained during the journey itself.

ourneying has always been a vital aspect of life. Gilgamesh had his epic, Chaucer his pilgrimage and America had Route 66. In the modern world, we have the journey without the journeying. Robert Louis Stevenson said, “I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.” Life is change

and movement, that’s why people who are successful are said to be ‘going places’.

he vocabulary of journeying is ingrained in all aspects of our life – yet the process of journeying itself has been taken away from us with the advent of modern travel. Don’t get me wrong – it is sometimes very useful to be able to jump to the other side of the world in a day, for business reasons or a quick getaway – but you can’t learn anything about yourself watching classic movies, eating something that has a closer resemblance to food post-digestion, and being waited on by camp men and annoyingly spritely women.

ravel is far too controlled for my liking – guidebooks abound with lists of the

best things to see in each place, leading to the term “sight-seeing”, as if a good holiday involves crossing things off a list. G.K Chesterton put it best when he said, “The traveller sees what he sees. The tourist sees what he has come to see.” The most memorable parts of a journey are not those that we expected to see, but those that surprised us; jumping off a train at a random place, with random people met along the way and finding that it is miles more beautiful than the place you were heading towards, with friendly locals who offer to take you to the best beach in Greece; who don’t try to charge you £5 for the worst. When preparing to travel, lay out all your clothes and all your money. Then take half the clothes and twice the money.”

e spontaneous, enjoy the journey and seek out the unexpected. That’s the essence of a good road trip. And don’t do it in anything more glamorous than a battered old Golf… By Ed Lane

I take my backpack and guitar out of the back of the grey Subaru into the dark night, and with a thank you, say goodbye to my last lift. It’s dark under the amber streetlights of Waipukurau, 347 kilometres of road and sea from the town of Picton, where I awoke earlier this morning.

itch-hiking – road tripping for the adventurous – has got me round New Zealand for the past 60 days. The unspoilt beauty of this country’s legendary landscape has rolled on by my window, and I have already made friends for life among the friendliest of men here in the ‘Land of the Long White Cloud’.

hitches on, this day has been long. Waipukurau is empty and it’s tempting to stay here the night, but I’m still full of life. I’ve become addicted to hitch-hiking, the unpredictability of it – one of the few ways left today to throw yourself into the unknown. You never know who you’re going to meet or what will happen.

alking closer to the road, I put down my backpack and guitar and put my thumb up. Catching rides at night is not usually particularly successful, as not many people will stop to pick up a bearded, long-haired stranger in the night. 20 minutes later however and I’m in the car with a Maori named Kev. He has a tattoo on his left cheek and talks with a slight smile. I tell him about my travels and how far I’ve come today from the peaceful docks in Picton. ‘That’s some mean hitch-hiking bro’ says Kev enthusiastically. I ask him if he’s done much travelling, ‘No’ he says, ‘I’m not allowed out the country, got too many gun and drugs charges against my name’. It turns out he’s in the Mongrel Mob, the biggest gang in New Zealand and one of the most dangerous in the world. For the first time I notice his black leather jacket with a big patch on the left arm depicting a british bulldog wearing a Nazi helmet. The words ‘Mongrel Mob’ are written around the outside in bold white letters.

’m in the car with a member of one of the most dangerous gangs in the world, this is adventure, adventure beyond what I was expecting, adventure that makes me feel alive. I ask many questions, the opportunity to talk to someone like this won’t come along again soon. We drive and talk until ahead we see two flashing lights in the distance. Kev is suddenly brusque and a little threatening, ‘Right, that’s a cop and I’ve got lots of stuff I shouldn’t have in the boot, we’re pulling into this petrol station and you’re going to have to go out and buy something’. For the first time in Kev’s company I feel significant fear. He’d told me earlier he was one of the main arms dealers for the mongrel mob – I didn’t have to ask what was in the boot, I already knew. I get out the car trying my best to hide my fear and buy myself a cereal bar from the petrol

station with the few cents I have left in my wallet. I look at Kev for the signal that I should get back in the car, my heart still racing. He gives me the okay, a casual thumbs up and wink. I head back in and we drive off, the police car is waiting on the right, I still feel fear of being caught in the middle of an arms bust and as we approach the police car pulls out towards us. We’re busted. Kev and I exchange fearful glances but no words are said. Then in one of those eternal moments the police car drives straight past us and blocks off the car behind us. We let out an audible sigh of relief, he’s the one their after, not us. We drive on, my heart slows down, and I smile to myself. We’re in Hastings now and Kev drops me off in the empty, dusty outskirts. I breathe a secret sigh of relief.

little shaken by my adventure, but the thought of giving up hitch-hiking, which has made my adventure here so unforgettable, makes me numb. Before I know it I’m grinning and walking along the main road, guitar in my left hand and my right hand and thumb raised... By Clive Fischer

Arid it may be, but you can see why it’s called the Promised Land. Picture-book vistas of deserts, mountains, olive groves and flatroofed white homes evoke images from my illustrated children’s bible. My lasting impression is that it is a place run by children: young shepherds

sporting traditional flowing white robes herding goats in the Judean desert on their mobile phones; children running everywhere with plastic toy guns – reenacting the last intifada; seventeen year-old male IDF (Israel Defense Forces) soldiers wielding machine guns at checkpoints looking seriously bored; seventeen year-old female IDF soldiers manning the wall and Jordanian border, giggling whenever a good-looking westerner approaches.

his is a political nation where bold graffiti adorns the walls, the colour of your keffiyeh announces your political leanings and it’s rare that anyone talks to you about the weather, more likely their latest encounter with the IDF or the corruption of Fatah. It’s also a scarred nation – the gunfire in Gaza could be heard throughout the tiny West Bank, and they have learnt that nothing is sacred. Busloads of tourists are waved through the wall into Bethlehem everyday, to see the place where Jesus was born, then

many of whom still sleep in the ancient city, the sun casts the city a different colour at every minute of the day and it was tempting to cast all our worldly possessions aside and join them. By Sarah Brown

jump back into their tinted-window coaches and head straight back to Israel. Above all, they are a warm and generous nation. Every evening we would break fast with our neighbours, plied with food and questions, and it wasn’t unusual for a passing family, whether we knew them or not, to stop and offer to take us wherever we needed to go.

finished our stay by crossing the Jordanian border, pausing to float in the Dead Sea, to reach Petra, a majestic ancient Nabataean city carved into the desert sandstone. Situated along an ancient caravantrade route, it is one of the New Seven Wonders of the World. Run by the bedouin,

board. Some even had disco lights, fur curtains and decidedly dodgy sound systems, a blast from Southern India in the 70s.

the risk of sounding like a train spotter - it is by these railways and roads that you can really begin to try to feel and understand the country as a whole.

he very act of travelling often defines the way in which you see a country, and for me India will always be remembered in visions of Kerelan palm trees, villages of Tamil Nadu and Bangalorean traffic jams flicking past through bus windows. Monsoons drumming on a metal bus roof, and sleepless nights on rock solid bunks above snoring, grunting families. India has been criss-crossed by bus and train-lines for over 150 years, and - at

n a practical level, these modes of transport allow you to travel hundreds of miles in a single, very uncomfortable sitting, distances which make up only a fingertip on a map of India. On an aesthetic level, the window of a bus is the best place to see millions upon millions of snapshots of life, snapshots which would be missed on the luxury of an internal flight. In Indian road travel, that sense of risk and anticipation which is so crucial to any really eye-opening journey is everpresent. One evening my friend and I discovered ourselves stuck at Hospet bus depot surrounded by dozens of unnervingly friendly men. For the three hours spent waiting for the right bus to arrive, they stared at us, laughing amongst themselves and repeatedly offered their services and even their hand in marriage. Three hours later – during which my rape alarm was set off

accidentally with the sole result of attracting even more suitors - we found ourselves on an all-night bus hurtling through the mountains, curled into balls on seats not made for sleeping, with one stop for chai and a bite of a samosa. At another bus stop, I was unexpectedly spat at by transvestite, whose attempts to dance for us with her skirts round her shoulders I rather unsubtly resisted.

erhaps most importantly, overland journeys allow the weary traveller to encounter people who would not otherwise be met and who are as fascinated by you as you are by them. In one beautifully surreal moment, on the way back from the hedonistic beaches of Varkala by bus, a young Indian student recited Wordsworth’s ‘Upon Westminster Bridge’ whilst I could only gawp. On these bus journeys throughout India, my iPod was passed from passenger to passenger, each listening in turn to my Western music, and I too was given my cultural education as Bollywood films and music blared out on

ravelling by road trip across the world, you experience the essence and flavour of every place at its strongest, the sounds, smells, sights - whether sweet or sour. Nothing replaces the pace, the colour, the danger, the sounds or the people of India’s overland buses,nor the sense of freedom you feel when being flung from an old place to a new. So, heed my advice and always, always choose a road trip rather than a flight! By Charlotte Thompson

Mzungu, how are you?” while their chivvying elders offered us dodgy kebabs or hard-boiled eggs.

“The typical African mentality of ‘Hakuna Matata eh… In Africa there is no hurry!’“

DAY 1

With a weary splutter, our sludgecoloured land-rover kicked into motion. We turned out of the uneven, rubbish-strewn yard, leaving behind in a cloud of dust, the sign-post that had first seized our attention - “Old army trucks for sale or to rent! Very cheap!” Soon, we were free from Jinja’s rickety buildings and sprawling markets and on our way…

he luscious countryside of Uganda’s rainy season became still greener as we continued our journey westwards. The roads we had travelled on previous journeys in Uganda had stretched, vein-like,

across the country but had been to say the least, somewhat precarious. However, heading West the roads were quite different. They were no longer treacherous, pot-hole-peppered and exempt from normal road rules, where the words, ‘My vehicle is bigger than yours – if I were you, I would get out of my way’ were read in the facial expression of each lorry and bus driver in central Uganda, accompanied by the horn’s deafening ‘Beep beep beeeeeep!’ But not in the West. Instead, the roads westwards were straight and made of tarmac. Along these we zoomed towards the mountainous horizon, from time to time stopping off in roadside villages where children shyly waved and shouted, “Jambo

hilippe, our driver for the two weeks, was the same age as us. He had been brought up in Northern Uganda until the civil war’s violence had become too dangerous and he had been sent southwards to safety. He did not know whether his family had survived or if they had where they resided and whether he would ever see them again. He turned and looked at us and pointed out to the miles of green leaves that had become increasingly apparent along the sides of the roads – “Tea, like you have in England!” It had been many hours since we had left Jinja and we were weary and very wind-swept in the back of our old-school army truck so it was with some relief that we arrived at our abode near Fort Portal. Clambering along slippery pathways, we made our way towards one of the most idyllic places I’ve ever stayed. Tiny, whitewashed, thatched cottages perched on the summit of a hill surrounded by trees. Looking out over the view, the sky had begun to turn purple over the Rwenzori Mountains, before which acres of verdant tea plants shimmered under the dappled light as the sun dropped in the sky. A sunset dip in the icy waters of the nearby crater lake seemed necessary and a few

minutes later, we were plunging into the arctic depths, with our fingers and toes crossed that no crocodiles stalked these waters.

DAY 3 We were approaching Queen

Elizabeth National Park when the rain began to fall - slow, steady droplets plummeting from a growling, darkening sky. At first, the rain was cooling after a long and stuffy night but soon the gentle pitter-patter had transformed into monsoon-like torrents. We wrestled with the truck’s heavy canvas roof until it was in place – a protective barrier against the elements. It was now that Philippe chose to tell us with a wry smile as we huddled in the back that “this time of year – March to May – it rain so much that many roads cannot be passed!” The African savannah with its wide expanse and occasional acacia tree is quite magnificent in the rains. Usually strangely peaceful with only the snorts, snarls and sounds of wildlife, the rains over the African plains fill the air with a thunderous drumming that shakes the earth and overpowers all else, even the sounds of the engines spluttering.

t was now night-time in Queen Elizabeth National Park. We were staying in a little cottage right on the

edge of Lake Edward, with a view over the lake to the Congo. Philippe warned us – “Avoid night-time walks my friends… There are many lion, elephant and even worse, HIPPOES!” Hippoes are supposedly the most unrestrainedly brutal of African wildlife if a human-being is to step unwittingly between a mother and her child. However, fully revived after our 10-course sumptuous dinner for a measly £8 at the nearby Mweya Lodge, rather rashly we had taken no heed of Phillipe’s wise warning and there we were, stumbling in the dark towards the cottage, nervously giggling between ourselves. With every sense fully alert and hearts skipping at any sound, we arrived back at our wilderness home only to discover

“The rains over the African plains fill the air with a thunderous drumming that shakes the earth and overpowers all else, even the sounds of the engines spluttering.” that between us, the door -key to our place of safety had been left on the table back at the lodge, a treacherous walk away. Our hearts sunk with the realisation that we were faced with a night out in the open in a national park where dangerous, hungry beasts ranged the land, just waiting for a bunch of reckless mzungus to forget their key. Turning around, our eyes fixed on the eyes of a lion, glinting at us through the pitch dark. Fear encompassed us all.

uddenly, the flash of a spotlight and to our utmost relief, there stood Philippe with one hand extended and in it our keys dangling. Thank god. We explained in a great panic

that we had seen a lion “just over there – honestly!” Philippe calmly shined the torch on the spot that we had just indicated – no lion just two white rocks. Our feverish, frightened minds had been playing tricks on us.

DAY 6 We looked half-

amusedly and halfdespairingly at our vehicle, now totally kaput and with paint-peeling off after the downpour of the night before. Our journey to our next stop, Lake Bunyonyi, was beginning to seem further and further away. Philippe and the other safari guides were taking on the typical African mentality of “Hakuna Matata eh… In Africa there is no hurry!” Wires were being attached and safari trucks linked together in a great effort to jump start our rather antique army truck. Failing plan a), plan b) followed and soon the boys were pushing the truck then running until finally, a click and a splutter and the engine was clattering and clunking and we were off once again.

t was soon made even clearer that our not-so-trustworthy truck had clearly not been serviced for quite some time and was certainly missing some of the vital aspects of

modern vehicles such as suspension. As we wound along the mountain roads towards Lake Bunyonyi with vertiginous drops on one side and sheer cliff edge on the other, we bumped and jerked from side to side, even losing a wind-mirror without warning on one corner. It was with very bruised behinds that we arrived outside a rustic reception where a sign read ‘Lake Bunyonyi Overland Resort’. Later that day, I thought to myself, as I sat sipping a Tusker beer and staring out over the wide, inky waters at the bobbing fishing boats, how right Winston Churchill had been, when he called Lake Bunyonyi the “pearl of Uganda”; that indeed it was.

DAY 9 The South-Western tip of Uganda was

our next stop on this road adventure. After what seemed like days of jarring bumps, stuck to the metal bench in the back of our truck, a rather daunting set of metal gates with security guards came into our vision. A muddy sign read – ‘Bwindi Impenetrable National Forest – Beware Gorillas!’ It certainly did look impenetrable with its severe

security guards, metal gates with barbed wire coiled along the top and behind these, thick, thick forests. After a search to check I suppose that we weren’t carrying any illegal goods, we were allowed entrance to the impenetrable forest.

lthough torrential rains had battered our two-man tents for the majority of the night, on unzipping our tents ready for our GorillaTracking expedition, bright sunshine blinded us momentarily. The water evaporating from the sodden grounds created a mist amongst the trees and into this, we set off to find the rarest and most majestic of all the apes, the mountain gorillas. Only 700 of these great creatures remain in the world, creatures whose DNA is 97% - 98% identical to that of humans. Nine tarzans trekking through the jungle with bandanas, branches as walking sticks and trousers tucked into our socks, we made quite a picture.

DAY 10 A number of hours into our trek,

muddy, weary from the challenge of

the mountainous, untamed terrain, Denis, our gorilla tracker, held up his hand and said, ‘Ssshh’. Peeking through the shoots and leaves were a family of eight gorillas; most continued to munch, unperturbed, but one or two of the youngest tentatively approached us with inquisitive eyes. The gigantic silverback sat behind, king-like, in his bed of leaves. There can be few wildlife experiences more enlivening than the anticipation of tracking mountain gorillas through the thick, tropical rainforests of Uganda. As George Schaller famously stated, “No one who looks into a gorilla’s eyes – intelligent, gentle, vulnerable – can remain unchanged…”

rom our rather antique army truck, we looked out across the thick, seemingly so hostile forest, where deep within, the gorillas picked knits from one another’s coats and chewed on leaves. Grudgingly we waved farewell to our ancestral friends and to the vast Bwindi National Forest, so impenetrable. By Laura Griffith-Jones

“No one who looks into a gorilla’s eyes – intelligent, gentle, vulnerable – can remain unchanged…” George Schaller

Dr Ambrosoli Memorial Health Centre

is a maternity hospital in Kaliro in the Kaliro District, Uganda. The healthcentre is run by a remarkable couple - Dr Margaret and Denis Onyot. Although predominately maternity, the centre is also a welcoming haven for anyone unwell in the area. Other diseases addressed are Malaria, HIV and Typhoid. Moreover, they do amazing work walking to local villages to inoculate new-born babies whose mothers are unable to make the journey to the hospital - crucial for the prevention of common diseases.

For further info or to make a donation, visit Laura and Emily’s Just Giving Page:

Initial objectives • To provide basic equipment for the 19 existing rooms – a new delivery bed and equipment, weighing scales for adults and children, height measuring scale, 30 mosquito nets, 30 mattresses, sheets and blankets, bandages and dressings, immunization kits and a fridge for medicines. • To acquire additional mosquito nets to supply the surrounding villages to reduce the high incidence of malaria in the area. • To install a solar-powered generator to provide back-up electricity.

Subsequent objectives

• To complete the maternity section of the centre. • To create and equip a new laboratory for medical tests. • To install a rain water collection system.

How will this be achieved?

FOAG (www.foag.org), a small but superbly dynamic charity has agreed to support this project. FOAG focuses entirely on helping communities in Uganda to improve their quality of life. FOAG currently supports 12 agricultural, educational and medical projects in Uganda. Graduates Laura Griffith-Jones and Emily Colville will be returning to Uganda in May with hopefully enough funding to get buying and get building! They will then be climbing to the summit of Kilimanjaro to raise further funds.

ransport in South America has a wondrous and mysterious pace of its own – a twentyminute car journey at home becomes a bottom-bumping six-hour adventure in a bus which sways from side to side on exhausted groaning springs. For seven months I wound my way along the veins of a continent in a crazy dance of buses, trucks, oil lorries, cars, and jeeps. This is the story of a road trip to the Salar de Uyuni in Bolivia – the fabled ‘salt flats’ – a huge empty desert formed by the evaporation of a giant lake where pure salt reaches over nine metres into the ground.

PART I

Earlier, in the murky dawn, we walked across the border from Argentina. Now the little town of Villazon has woken up and aromas of freshly squeezed orange juice and coca tea mix with diesel fumes and animal

manure in a dusty but not unpleasant mix – women in traditional dress line the streets selling their wares. The first bus we find has a windscreen smattered by old bullet-holes and a couple of mechanics poking out from under its rusty belly. Not discouraged we grab a couple of tickets and heave our backpacks on, eager to reach Tupiza where we would find our jeep to cross the wilderness of salt flats, the largest in the world.

he engine roars, gears connect with a growl and the bus sets off at alarming speed through the crowds of pedestrians, bicycles, and handcarts – chickens squawking frantically in a flurry of feathers. Creaks and groans issue from the battered roof, floor and sides of the bus, and the brakes squeal alarmingly at every application. Despite this, as we leave town the driver cranks it up to a surprising speed and bowler hats bob in front of us like black-backed gulls on a rolling sea. Iconic of our time in Bolivia, this accessory would later be involved in a highly amusing incident with an open bus window and a rather strong gust of wind – shortly followed by a skidding halt in the middle of rush

“We see the most incredible lakes – bright turquoise, ochre red, clear crystal, white borax, each of these scarfed by a fringe of ice.”

hour and a comical dash back up the road by a lady swathed in seven colourful skirts to retrieve her prized object.

or now, clouds of sand and grit billow behind us, and we gaze out onto a world tinted by fragile light, filtered through a dust-heavy sky. Through the thin curtains, hastily patched up in places with tape, glimpses of other peoples’ lives flash past before our eyes. The view through a bus window is like an old-fashioned moving picture, rolling and flickering through scene after scene. Slowing at a hairpin corner, I see a middle-aged lady standing patiently in

front of her stall – nothing spectacular, just like the other hundreds who make a living in this way – and I catch a glimpse of a little face peeping out from under multicoloured blankets on her back. Craning my head, I watch her vanish from view. But the image stays and I imagine her figure standing there, day

after day, through all the seasons, watching buses come and go, one way then the next, yet always

remaining. I feel grateful for my freedom.

e arrive in dusty Tupiza in the late afternoon and find a friendly little hostel, where we take turns for a muchwelcome shower, cold of course. Later we successfully arrange our road trip for the morning. Scalding our throats as we gulp down sweet mate tea, to ward off the effects of altitude sickness, we set off with our friendly guide in an elderly 4x4 – it is rather well worn but appears to run pretty smoothly.

e climb higher and higher, driving up onto the Altiplano, and a chill penetrates the sunny air. Given the narrow dusty road, the precipitous drops into deep valleys to the side, and our driver’s tendency to

negotiate each curve at a hair-raising speed, we are all alert and excited. In the back, we attempt to suppress our hilarity at the music selection – panpipes and more panpipes. We drive further and further from civilization, and the wild beauty of the country is stunning. Standing on the edge of a high windy ridge, we stop and see fantastical natural rock columns craning their necks up from the valley bottoms, eroded by the heavy summer rains.

here are very few people here. Vast herds of llama and sheep seem to be almost the only inhabitants of the barren Altiplano, and we pass only a handful of hamlets. Pausing at one small cluster of buildings, seemingly thrown together by happy accident, we meet a couple of other jeeps – the only vehicles we see all day. A few minutes down the road and one of the jeeps is lodged in a hollow of sand and grit that has accumulated in a huge pothole in the road. Laughing, everybody piles out and helps to push and shove the sturdy old vehicle back on track. Later, on a wild and windy plain grazed by hundreds of llama, we shelter on the tailgate and bask in the sun like lizards,

“Translucent shadows of the Milky Way, like jets of steam from a celestial kettle, are strung cobweb-like over pinprick stars.” munching homemade tamale meatballs – our first taste of Alpaca, a little spicy but delicious.

PART II

Over the next day or so, we see the most incredible lakes – bright turquoise, ochre red, clear crystal, white borax, each of these scarfed by a fringe of ice. High on the lack of oxygen, we decide to edge cautiously out onto the slippery ice surface, and seconds later

it is, typically, my boot that punctures the ice. We reach our highest altitude yet at around 5000m, and feel quite out of breath as we race each other up small hills on the shores of the rainbow lakes.

or such a barren and desolate place, there seem to be a disproportionate number of wonders hidden here. We see the uncannily blown stone tree – Arbol de Piedra, we hold our noses at the stench of billowing sulphur geysers, we bathe in thermal springs after a night at temperatures well below freezing, we see distant spirals of volcanic smoke

immobilised in cloudless skies, and we explore the shadows of Pueblo Fantasma, a Spanish mining town abandoned in terror of a devil’s sickness.

nd in wonder, at their incongruous presence in this seemingly desolate land, we watch the wing-beating beauty of thousands of pink flamingos who gather to feed on the algae-rich waters of the colourchanging lake, Laguna Colorado.

ne night after dinner we sit beneath the stars. Warmed by hot soup, we venture out, and cold air pulses from a void of total darkness – no light pollution reaches this desert

“Like something from a vision of outer space, the crunchy white salt extends as far as the eye can see. “

and the temperamental generator powers only a few solitary light bulbs. It doesn’t take long for our eyes to adjust and an awed silence replaces our conversation. The sky is spectacular – there are enough stars to fill ten lifetimes. Here darkness steals all sense of place and perspective, and translucent shadows of the Milky Way, like jets of steam from a celestial kettle, are strung cobweb-like over pinprick stars.

PART III

We wake early the last morning, the sky just beginning to lighten at the fringes and race the sun out onto the Salar. Half an hour later, clambering awkwardly out of the jeep, we shiver in the sub-zero

temperatures, cold stinging our cheeks, and marvel at our first sight of the endless pancake-flat expanse in the dusky indigo gloom. Slowly the sky is dyed a soft orange – pinks and purples bleeding into shadows of distant mountains. We turn to face the promise of warmth and an electric blue sweeps high across the clear sky. Finally the sun spins over the horizon and our little spot is flooded with sudden heat and light. It happens so quickly it is like a ball of fire leaping into the sky and it feels so close. The beauty is blinding.

ike something from a vision of outer space, the crunchy white salt extends as far as the eye can see. Sunlight glitters on the crystal pentagons and the whole world is silent. There is something deeply moving and strangely primeval about watching the sun rise in this magnificent setting – feels so totally new.

e make our way to a rocky

island with a spiky mop of tall cacti for hair – it seems to sprout unconventionally from the sea of salt – and have breakfast on tables carved from salt. Miraculous perspective pictures can be taken in this white desert and we have great fun distorting distances – friends take some hilarious pictures with a tiny blow-up dinosaur which becomes substantially larger than life. Later, driving into the centre of the Salar, our driver unwisely allows a few of my crazy friends to grasp the wheel and drive rather too fast across the unmarked expanse, accompanied as ever by his impeccable choice of music. It is exhilarating.

PART IV

Heading for the town of Uyuni, where our trip will end, we make a final stop

Summer Of 69 - Bryan Adams Road Trippin’ - Red Hot Chili Peppers where the salt is mined. Small pyramids of pure white cascade across equally white plains and a little water is pooled on the surface, reflecting the blue blue sky. We glimpse the stark beauty and perfect reflections of the rainy season when the Salar are flooded with water and transformed into the largest mirror in the world.

acing too fast from this stunning landscape – where distant mountains float in an uncanny illusion a few millimetres above the horizon,

where the undiluted sun strikes ancient salt crystals and scatters from a thousand prisms, where laughter is swallowed by space and where the stars are just within reach – I know already that one year when the rains come, I will return.

ow, a year or so on, I find an impulsive comment scribbled at the time in the margin of my travel diary:

“The salt flats are incredible! Feels like we have reached the edge of the world and will drop off if we drive any further! Flawless beauty.”

By Dorothy Sanders

Like a Rolling Stone - Bob Dylan Hotel California - The Eagles Chasing Cars - Snow Patrol If you’re going to San Francisco - The Byrds One for the Road - Ocean Colour Scene Have a Nice Day - The Stereophonics I Walk The Line - Johnny Cash Pounding - Doves The Road - Tenacious D This River is Wild - The Killers Queen - Don’t Stop Me Now Golden Brown - The Stranglers Ize of the world - The Strokes Dare you to move - Switchfoot I’m Yours - Jason Mraz Save Me - Remy Zero The General - Dispatch Rock and Roll Star - Oasis

â&#x20AC;&#x153;It is nearly 10,000 miles from Paris to Peking... and I have yet to meet many people who credit driving the distance as a good idea. In 1907 no one had driven the route and commonly perceived logic was that a novelty item such as the automobile, then in its infancy, would never survive such a harsh journey. None the less, five teams thought that they could prove the world wrong and attempted the journey. Four of them finished, the car was vindicated and international rallying was born.

n the intervening years several attempts were made to revive this first rally. Cold War politics intervened and it was not until 1997 that the 2nd Peking to Paris took place following the southern Silk route through India, Afghanistan and Iran; sadly today again impossible.

00 years after the original I was at the Great Wall of China with my father Mark, awaiting the start of the 3rd Peking to Paris. Our route

and that of the other 133 entries was to recreate the original arching North West from Peking though Outer Mongolia, the Gobi desert and out the other side into Siberia, through Russia to Moscow, St Petersburg, the Baltic States, Poland, Germany, France, finally Paris. We would have been more apprehensive if we had known what to expect.

ll of the entries were automobiles designed pre1960 and two thirds were pre-war. Here I should stress that 1920s Bentleyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s are racing cars and in particular that they do not like driving through deserts. Further more neither myself nor my father are rally drivers or mechanics. Before June we had never driven this car any further than Scotland. However, she had spent a year in preparation

and was the best she possibly could be. The real question was whether we could match her. We knew that we were very unlikely to be competitive. Our aim was to finish.

eaving behind what is left of Peking, and its new smoggy replacement Beijing, the first few days in China were relatively trouble free. We found the authorities taking a keen interest and directing us at each corner with escorts through many towns. It was clear that not everyone in China gets this treatment when one of the locals, seemingly unused to driving, ran into one of the various Police stopping side road traffic emerging. Watching the policeman clambering off the bonnet with his note book I did not envy his assailant.

he north west of Beijing is a heavy industrial area. It is a deeply unpleasant sight, presumably reminiscent of the coal fields in northern England two hundred years ago, although on a vast scale. The sooner such a wretched lifestyle finishes the better. On the whole the roads were good tarmac with the exception of a 50 km stretch of roadwork’s, involving driving through river beds and on dirt

“Our average speed was 12 mph thoughout the whole country.” tracks. It was very slow and a taste of things to come.

nce we reached Inner Mongolia the traffic melted away and we got onto high grassy plains. Running through it all was a totally straight duel carriageway to the Outer Mongolian boarder. It was so empty that we stopped in the middle and watched as the odd local car drove the wrong way down the carriageway to no particular danger.

fter crossing the rally reached the Gobi desert where the roads disappeared and we were left to bump along dirt tracks all the way to Uulan Batar two days away. Our average speed was 12mph through the whole country. The desert is empty and quite beautiful, however I should probably have realised that the reason no one lives there is because being boiling by day, freezing at night, totally infertile, rocky, sandy and scrubby, it is not a very nice place.

ithin hours of crossing the border we were in a sandstorm so strong it pitted the windscreen and stripped paint off the car. It was dark and we were driving too slowly to charge the headlights off the battery. Thanks to the terrain, dark and storms we did not make the base

camp with most of the other cars – which we subsequently learned had anyway been flattened by the wind. Instead, in what became part of a common theme, we pitched tents in the desert meaning to wake at first light and catch the rally. Honourable mention should go to Tesco and their £9.99 Value tents, every desert traveller should have one.

ollowing two more gruelling days in the Gobi, driving and repairing the car on 20 hour shifts and sleeping the remaining four, we reached tarmac and I realised to be thankful for small mercies. Indeed throughout the rally a medal of St Christopher was firmly glued to the car, immeasurably more useful than a tool kit. The tarmac lead us to Uulan Batar where in common with the rest of Mongolia the inhabitants either live in crumbling Soviet tower blocks or Yurts –a largely immobile round tent with a chimney.

ongolians –and indeed the Chinese- do not

share the same concept of personal space as is common to the West. Whenever we stopped, the car was immediately surrounded by sometimes hundreds of people who all wanted to pull or press every lever and button and sit in the car. The large shiny leaver on the outside of the car by the driver was a particular favourite. As this happens to be the handbrake it was all very dangerous. Inevitability it became impossible to keep an eye on everything and opportunistic thieves over the course of several days walked off with Dad’s camera, our insurance and border documents and even some of the spark plugs from the engine.

never thought that I would be so pleased to see Russia. There was not a driver to be seen shedding a tear for what we left behind. Mongolia is a wild and unspoilt land which makes for a hard way of life. Doubtless lovely to see on horse back, driving through the country, especially in an 80 year old car, is a great challenge but not fun.

nce we reached Siberia there was a totally unexpected day of sunshine, wonderful winding tarmac, greenery, animals, log cabin villages and flowing rivers. It was quite a change. We reached Omsk and stayed in the first of many government run hotels. These were generally considerably worse than Fawlty

“Within hours of crossing the border we were in a sandstorm so strong it pitted the windscreen and stripped paint off the car.”

towers, but at least there was a roof. All hotels included innumerable form filling and a matron on each floor jealously guarding the room keys.

he Russian Police have permanent checkpoints on most of the main roads. For Russian drivers it is a matter of course to slow to a crawl and pull over immediately if indicated. We had a rather different approach and motored through ignoring all signals to stop. This later proved a wise course of action when a very large number of our fellow competitors who did stop were required

to hand over amounts from $10 to $10,000 to continue on their way. We had the same experience in several hotels, by far the worst being in Moscow where overzealous security guards operating a rather bizarre scam involving hotel laundry attacked guests in their rooms in the early hours.

ne of the most unexpected sights was coming across a wedding on the motorway. We stopped for champagne and perhaps because everything in a foreign country appears strange to an outsider did not think much of it until later.

fter a nine-hour boarder crossing, hampered a little by our lack of documents, we were over the boarder and into Estonia and Europe. Generally Europe felt far more familiar and the benefits of centuries of infrastructure became apparent, there is far more character in these States, centres of turmoil

â&#x20AC;&#x153;I am still astounded by what a fantastic piece of engineering the Bentley is...â&#x20AC;? for much of the Twentieth Century, than in Eastern Russia or even most of the parts of China that we saw. The area is still relatively poor, horses and carts are common, but were clearly a step up from what we had seen before. By this stage the car was in a sorry state, we were constantly undertaking running repairs to the magnetos and the springs had flattened out to such an extent that we were worried about cracking the Chassis on bad roads.

fter a few days we reached Germany, crossed into France and headed for the finish in the Place Vemdome. The rally and the many characters on it had become normality and after weeks of moving it was strange to stop, indeed Dad and I thought nothing of driving to London

the next day. 12 hours later I was at work as if I had never left.

n total over 100 of the cars finished, all looking considerably more battered than the shining machines that had set off over a month earlier. Some had been out of the rally for several weeks and many made supreme efforts to get their car to the end. In many ways my primary feeling was of relief, that we and the car had been able to make it. I am still astounded by what a fantastic piece of engineering the Bentley is. There is simply no modern non-four wheel drive vehicle that could have achieved what it did.

am pleased to report that we managed to raise money for two highly commendable charities. Breadline Africa and Wizz Kidz. Please have a look at their respective websites, where it is possible to see what they do and make donations, at www.breadlineafrica.org.za and www. wizz-kidz.org.uk.

Some say he is a vagabond raised by a couple of escaped ligers in Malaysia. Some say his only possession is a holy ukulele he was given by the Dalai Lama. All we know for sure is that goes by the name of JeROAM and he’s here to answer all your travel questions...

The world is a big place, where should I go? I hear talk about getting off the beaten path but surely the tourist sites are popular for a reason?

Spin a globe, Last King of Scotland style, throw inhibitions to the wind and go on a wild spontaneous adventure! However, never underestimate how much fun you can have in planning your escapade. Even if you tear up all plans when you hit the proverbial highway, it is well worth having a destination or purpose to the trip in mind, like travelling overland from London to China by any means possible! Iconic tourist sites are often worth visiting, however, bear in mind that guidebooks are not flawless, advice from locals or other backpackers trumps lonely planet every time. I remember this beach in Indonesia dubbed ‘Dreamland’. It had simple huts of thatched palm and patchwork plywood.

There were smiling locals, fresh fish, and glorious peeling waves. It has since transformed into a four star casino and hotel; stripped of its individuality, with all the charm and grace of a mugging. The problem, I think, is that many tourist attractions naturally bring in lots of tourists, which can make these places feel congested, ingenuine and only tenuously connected to the local culture. Many sites are highly seasonal. Most of S.E. Asia is generally uncrowded during the nights of the full moon as the every backpacker descends upon Koh Phangan for the infamous full moon parties. Set aside a cloudy and dreary English day. Go to a vast bookstore, notepad in hand. Sit down and skim through every travel book you can get your hands on for inspiration. Even if you merely gasp in awe of the photos or gain a healthy respect for distances, it will be worth the trip….find a world map, some drawing pins, string and just go crazy!

ix weeks previously Will, John and I were gleefully waving our hoards of fans (Three parents, one brother and a stray theatrical beggar) goodbye through comfortable Sussex sunshine.

ews of our record-breaking lap of Goodwood race circuit was already flying through the electric interweb waves on it’s way to editor’s desks at national newspapers. Our, soon to be iconic, strategies of casual tailgating and unrelentingly abusing second gear, combined with a car fitted with go-faster speed doodles and Fleetwood Mac stereo propulsion system would soon be seen percolating into top level motorsport. Giddy on optimism we sped, as fast as one can speed in a petrol powered mobility scooter laden with an obelisk of gaffer tape, into a traffic jam, into being lost, into a pickle and into an insane,

By Gordon Squire

“We had eaten ‘bear’s ears’ and other undisgestable obscenities at the behest of our gracious hosts.” spluttering, comedy maniac voyage. Thith ith the Mongol Wally!!!!

he past six weeks had brought the world rushing through our eastward-drawn carriage. We had bribed our way out of disputes with international and local law enforcers, partied with Romanian “beach” bums, drunk litres of vodka with Russian mechanics, eaten “bear ears” and other undigestible obscenities at the behest of gracious hosts, accidentally hit on a buff Ukrainian horseman at a beach rave festival, amazed and offended passers-by with our rolling Rorschach test, been robbed from by Kazakh locals and policemen alike, provided backup in a sit-com police raid, met the “president” of

Kazakhstan, snapped our driveshaft, and experienced a world besides.

he mountain pass we had driven through yesterday was the most beautiful in the world. I’d revelled, like an autistic toddler on a steam train, in literally whipping all 31 horsepowers out of Chamillionaire for the final few bends of Russian tarmac. However we found, once again, that on the rally, nicely simmering pots have a tendency to spill over and cause an electrical fire in the kitchen. The scenery quickly flattened out and dried up as the border shack and adjoining garden fence grew on the horizon. We trundled into the back of the dusty queue and settled down to spend the remainder of the day playing the waitingat-the-borderindefinitely game..

“Something needed to be done about those ruddy etiquette bandits!”

t was so cold during the night that I had to wake up several times to glue my digits and genitals back on, a challenge superseded in difficulty just later that day when I lost to a gang of Mongolian chess masters disguised as five year olds. We woke up to news much worse than maskwearing midget intellectuals; every self-respecting British person’s worst nightmare; improper queuing! During the night several tenacious Mongolians (presumably wearing some sort of thermal blubber suit) had picked up and carried their mini bus into a gap in the queue of cars that was too small to drive into.

his crisis necessitated a strong brew! Tea in hand, we gathered around the war table. After much complaint that this was “ just not cricket”, and general agreement that something needed to be done about “those ruddy etiquette bandits” we concocted plan ‘tut and eyebrow raise’. An ineffective hour later, bewildered and with severe facial fatigue we retreated. Plan “implore them to be

reasonable” was also dashed against unforgiving cliffs.

ur Kazakh queue compatriots showed us their customary way of dealing with miscreants, their plan ‘punch them in the head’ was also ineffective but provided a welcome spectacle. Inspiration crept in through the window left open for breakfast of puke-in-a-packet noodles (advice: don’t spend all your food budget for the month on $1 Russian noodles based on the reasoning “It’s well cheap and it probably tastes hilarious”). A scale bust of a large rock hewn from very similar rock, who had previously been watching from astride a moral fence, joined our campaign. Although his intellectual prowess was invaluable it was in his capacity to prevent the transit of our ill-mannered foe where he really provided a sturdy kick to the jockstrap of defeat. Celebrations went on for hours, John got wasted and foolishly tried to hit on our masonic friend, rock (even when tipsy) as anyone will tell you is a tough nut to crack, and crack is what happened to John’s chosen hitting appendage.

e were then treated to a tour of the award winning bureaucracy of the Russia/Mongolia crossing that, if implemented at Heathrow would create a Britain so empty of foreigners

that even the most ignorant would have cause to reconsider his personal economic paradigm. When the universe had collapsed, re-big-banged and progressed in it’s cycle to several hours after we had begun in the previous universe we were let free into the wild, tempting Mongolian terrain, accompanied by five stalwart companions in two other rally bangers.

o call what we were driving on a road is more generous than the

Easter bunny is obese. Other vehicles had driven there before us, though of course the drivers, not being naughty ‘lads on tour’ (whey!!!), had chosen vehicles with far larger ground clearance than us. This meant that we had a choice of straddling the gravel ridges they had carved out, or surfing on top of them. Upon testing we discovered the former resulted in having our mechanical vegetables constantly ground against t’ gravel. We chose instead the later, a pursuit so enjoyable that it didn’t matter that we progressed nearly nowhere and that any corner left us swinging the steering wheel like a maniac swatting two-dimensional flies for the next quarter mile. Less than a mouse year into Mongolia we decided to follow the mushroom cloud of dust trailing behind

our off-road venturing chums. I turned off the road, down a bank , we rolled down, turned the steering wheel, pushed the accelerator, nothing happened, hmmmm, tried again, nothing happened, tried again time this time punching the gear lever, still ineffectual … bugger. Our drive shaft had fallen off. Demanding that the old girl perform the unnecessarily reckless manoeuvre of turning a corner had caused her leprotic limb to disengage from its weary torso.

here was nothing we could do except accept a tow from our companions. The price? Six cubic centimetres of Will’s beard hair and a five minute snuggle with John’s backup teddy was one we were reluctant to pay, although with no other options we accepted. This was less fun. We were dragged by the nose over iceberg rocks and gravel cairns; all the while four Donkey-Kong tyres were throwing barrels of dust into our faces. This continued for more than several miles, until we looked right and saw,

“We turned the steering wheel, pushed the accelerator - nothing happened...” at the foot of a steep hill, a frantically waving Mongolian man. The next second he was gone. We looked left and to everyone’s bewilderment he was in the car. Apparently we had picked up a hitchhiker.

nly a self-hating precautious toad would deny itself the opportunity to coast a car down a Mongolian mountain. We aren’t amphibious, so when the opportunity arose moments later, we cast off our oppressive tow rope, all jumped out of the car, ran pushing as one dangerously unprofessional bobsleigh squad and leapt back in to the rapidly accelerating sleigh. The driveshaft-less car laden

with fatties accelerated very quickly, up to 40mph and beyond. A large ditch popped into our path, I swerved, careering off road, throwing john’s face out the window. The second ditch wasn’t so lucky, it got squashed by the full brunt of the car which came to a cacophonous halt in its belly, one wheel still spinning. Fortunately a quick inspection precipitated only a wheel change, then we were off coasting once again. When the ‘road’ levelled off the other cars shunted us for the rest of the distance to the next town. Our bewildered hitchhiker friend invited all 8 aromatically challenged members of our party to stay at his house for the night. We politely refused and moments later were enjoying Mongolian pastry bars and tea around his dinner table. Much vodka later and we were passed out in his spare room, dreaming of plumbing and pies. Join the 2010 rally at http:// mongolrally.theadventurists.com

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By Matthew Robb

Other than a change of clothes and some maps, it was just me and my bike. Preparations had been rudimentary – I knew the countries I was to travel through, I had four of the visas I would need, and the rest would be bought along the way.

he first ‘trouble’ I experienced was crossing into the little known Trans-Dniester region between Moldova and Ukraine, where I had

to pay to get in and bribe my way out. On asking why, it was simple – they had the guns and I had the money. Taking an old research vessel from Sebastopol, which I had been assured was a bona-fide car ferry, I sailed up the Bosporus to Asia and Istanbul – the Hagia Sophia and Blue Mosque silhouetted against the early morning sky is a memory I will always carry with me.

few weeks later, holding my breath, not sure if I would emerge from the ‘terrorist regime’ of Iran, I crossed into the largest surprise of my journey. Nothing but smiles, welcomes and the treasures of Ancient Persia greeted me – the Valley of the Assassins, the Zoroastrian holy shrine stronghold of Takht-e-Soleiman, and the extraordinary 1250 BC ziggurat of Chogha Zanbil, to name but a few.

hen it was on again, traversing the baking deserts of Turkmenistan and riding beneath the Celestial Tian Sian Mountains of Kyrgyzstan – before arriving at the gateway

“With its monkey temples, colourful saris, and pungent spices India was a place of marvels and mystery.” to China. Entry here was anything but straightforward. Although I had a visa, my bike did not and unless I wound my neck in, left the bike at the border post, took a three hour taxi ride to Kashgar to obtain the correct documents, the Chinese threatened to send me packing under armed guard. Instead I took the breathtakingly stunning Karakoram Highway from Kashgar to Islamabad, only open from June to October. Something everyone should see before they die. Clinging to the side of the Hunza and Indus Rivers, the road snakes through the high-sided valleys – verdant, terraced, and with every inch of available ground used for cultivation, it is an extraordinary ride.

riving in India was indescribably awful – trucks, two abreast, hurl round blind corners with the attitude ‘he who is bigger and honks louder wins’. It is no wonder there are a

million deaths on the roads each year. I explored Rājasthān’s collection of vast fortress towns built on precipitous rock faces, bringing tales of Kipling’s Kim flooding to mind. With its monkey temples, colourful saris and pungent spices, India was a place of marvels and mystery.

ext stop – Nepal. Hooking up with a couple of other overlander bikers, we cheerfully ignored the ‘Lonely Liar’, ie Planet, which advised strongly against passage in the monsoon season. It was not likely to stop three hardened, bearded bikers from having a damned good go – and despite washed out roads and frequent chaotic landslides we did finally make it to the Royal Bardia National Park. All that needed was a hotel.

owling along the main highway – ok the only highway in Nepal – we parked up wondering where to stay. Two resourceful youths, who seem to proliferate in this part of the world, rushed out of nowhere and insisted on directing us to a batch of places to stay, one of which was of course “my uncle’s hotel”. Following the prescribed track, it suddenly ran out into a large wide river, apparently a dead-end. Luckily, the usual crowd of onlookers appeared as if by magic, and demonstrated that the river was in fact no more than 20 inches deep. Later, comfortably settled in our jungle accommodation and lubricating the old voice box

with a well-earned cold beer, Jim, the third member of the party finally strolled in, having navigated the river in the dark.

he day started by having to re-cross the now swollen river. It was not an auspicious start. With check points along the way, and both the other lads’ bikes in need of new chains and sprockets, the going was slower than anticipated. We made forty kilometres shy of our intended overnight stop, only to find out the following morning the road to Pokhara was closed due to an enormous landslide, which had happened the previous evening. Returning to the town we met some NGO’s who told us the road was likely to be closed for the next four to five days whilst they searched for some dynamite to help clear it. Keen to move on we set out for Kathmandu only to find that road was also closed; a vital bridge had been washed away by floods.

e waited three more days, each morning promised the roads

would open, but on the third day we lost our optimism and headed out to Varanasi over the border in India, where sprockets awaited. Disaster struck not far over the border for Charles, who, whilst trying to avoid one of the numerous ‘holy cows’ side-swiped it and burst his radiator. We flagged down a grown-up tuk-tuk, loaded both bike and rider in, and Jim and I headed off for the nearest railway station and the three-hundred mile trip to Varanasi and the Ganges.

aking the train encountered frantic negotiations and lots of running around organising packing, loading and securing the bikes whilst on the train. I don’t recall why we

“Trucks, two abrest, hurl round blind corners, with the attitude ‘he who is bigger and honks louder wins’.”

took the train, but travelling by bike is much more preferable. We arrived in Varanasi at four in the morning, and spent a lazy day wandering the filthy streets, marvelling that anyone who so much as dipped a toe into the Ganges – pronounced Ganga – could survive, let alone the countless thousands who daily wash and swim in it. It makes the Thames look like mineral water.

ould I do it again? You betcha!!

To follow the next adventure, log onto

www.lonebiker.net

headed back to Kathmandu to fly my trusty two-wheeled friend home for a well-earned service. With over twenty thousand miles under our belt, together we had struggled over and around landslides, crossed flooded rivers and washed out roads, visited 22 countries, stayed in more than 93 ‘hotels’, and been away for 178 days. I was exhausted, but thrilled to have seen so many different amazing places and cultures, and to have destroyed so many preconceptions.

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