Hitchhiking Planet

If you have ever been to Catalonia, you probably know that Catalan people are very proud of their cultural heritage and that’s not without reason. Along with other unique cultural traditions, festivals and celebrations, castell (human tower) is a spectacle definitely worth watching. It will leave you speechless, I can guarantee it.

Castell is a street performance during which members of the team form a tower by climbing onto each other’s shoulders. There are many variations of these human towers and the highest can reach up to as many as 10 levels (about 14 metres off the ground)!!!

It’s truly breathtaking! Just imagine trying to stand still on your friend’s shoulders, who is also standing on somebody’s shoulders, while at the same time trying to hold the person standing on top of you! Not only does it need great acrobatic skills, but it also requires the highest levels of concentration and team responsibility.

It’s a very gripping spectacle during which you will keep your fingers crossed and pray the wobbly tower of people doesn’t fall right before your eyes.

Facts and background:

• The tradition of building human towers started in the town of Valls, near Tarragona, at the end of 18^th century.
•  The castell is considered successful when all the members manage to climb onto their designated positions and the enxaneta (the topmost person, usually a child) raises their hand with four fingers erect, which is a gesture symbolising the stripes of the Catalan flag.
• Apart from the regular climbers, who form the upper parts of the tower, there are others who create a so-called pinya – the bottom base of the castell. Its function is to sustain the tower’s weight as well as play the role of a cushion in case the tower collapses.
• Traditionally all castellers wear white trousers, a black sash, a bandana and a coloured shirt representing the team they belong to.
• The sash (faixa) is the most important part of their attire, as not only is it used by the castellers as a hand- or a  foothold while climbing up the tower, but it also supports the lower part of their backs and prevents injuries.
• The motto of castellers is “Força, equilibri, valor i seny” (Strength, balance, courage and common sense).
• In 2010 castells were declared a UNESCO Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity.

Where to see them?

Castellers, giants (another traditional Catalan show) and falconers will perform in Barcelona, from now on  throughout the summer, every Saturday.

Castell – Castellers de la Sagrada Familia – Portal del Ángel, barcelona, Spain (9)

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Castell – Castellers de la Sagrada Familia – Portal del Ángel, barcelona, Spain (19)

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Castell – Castellers de la Sagrada Familia – Portal del Ángel, barcelona, Spain (22)

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Castell – Castellers de la Sagrada Familia – Portal del Ángel, barcelona, Spain (29)

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Castell – Castellers de la Sagrada Familia – Portal del Ángel, barcelona, Spain (33)

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Castell – Castellers de la Sagrada Familia – Portal del Ángel, barcelona, Spain (36)

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Castell – Grupo Joven Chicos de Villafranca – Portal del Ángel, barcelona, Spain (9)

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Castell – Castellers de la Sagrada Familia – Portal del Ángel, barcelona, Spain (23)

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Castell – Castellers de la Sagrada Familia – Portal del Ángel, barcelona, Spain (25)

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Castell – Castellers de la Sagrada Familia – Portal del Ángel, barcelona, Spain (27)

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Check out the details:

18/05 – Av. catedral
Castellers de Sants
Castellers de la Vila de Gràcia
Gigantes Coordinadora de Gigantes de Barcelona

25/05 – Pla de la Seu
Falcons de Barcelona
Halcones de Capellades
Gigantes de Santiago

08/06 – Av. catedral
Castellers de la Sagrada Familia
Castellers de Rubí
Falcons de Barcelona

15/06 – Av. catedral
Castellers de Barcelona
Castellers de Berga
bandada Renaixença
Bastoneros de Poble Sec

16/06 – Pla de la Seu
Haciendo país. 60 aniversario de Ballets de Cataluña

29/06 – Av. catedral
Castellers del Poble Sec
Grupo Joven Hospitalet
Esbart Santa Eulalia
Bastoneros del Raval

06/07 – Av. catedral
Castellers de Barcelona
Castellers de Lleida
Gigantes del Raval

13/07 – Av. catedral
Grupo Joven de Barcelona
Castellers de Sant Feliu
Bandada Catalán de Danzantes
Cuerpo de Bastoners

20/07 – Pla de la Seu
Ballets de Cataluña

27/07 – Av. catedral
Castellers de Barcelona
Castellers de Cornellà
Gigantes de San Pedro

10/08 – Av. catedral
Castellers de la Vila de Gràcia
Castellers de Castelldefels
Gigantes pequeños del Pi

17/08 – Plaza Nueva
Falcons de Barcelona
Baile de bastones de Sitges
Moixiganga de Valls
Gigantes de la pl. nueva

31/08 – Av. catedral
Grupo joven de Barcelona
Castellers de Viladecans
Colla Sardanista Mare Nostrum

written by: Ania

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Hello everyone and welcome to the 41st edition of our popular weekly Travel Photography Competition. As every week, we have for you a fresh selection of photos, which got the biggest number of votes on our Facebook page between 14th and 21st April.

The first winner in this week’s competition shows the beautiful Dimitrios shipwreck located near Gythio, off the eastern coast of the Peloponnese Peninsula, Greece.

Dimitrios sunk on 23rd December 1981. There are many rumours about its tragedy, one even involving a ghost. The most convincing story, however, says that the ship was used to smuggle cigarettes between Turkey and Italy. On the fateful day it was apparently seized by the port authorities and then deliberately released out to sea to meet its destiny. It was then set on fire to, to hide the evidence of cigarette smuggling.

There are a total of 26 shipwrecks off the Greek coast.

This beautiful shot was sent by Petros Asimomytis, a passionate photographer from Greece, who focuses on colours and lights in his works. If you like this shot, visit his website and his Flickr photostream.

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In the second position in this week’s competition we’ve got two photos with the same amount of votes. The first of them was taken on Mont Blanc du Tacul in the French Alps. Mont Blanc du Tacul (4248 m) is a mountain in the Mont Blanc massif, situated  between the Aiguille du Midi and Mont Blanc.

The first official ascent took place in 1855 by the English climber Charles Hudson and his team.

This great adventurous photo was taken by Ruberti Cristian from Italy and it was his first ascent over 4,000m. Congratulations!

If you like this photo, visit Cristian’s Flickr photostream.

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The second photo with the same amount of votes was taken in Foz do Douro, Porto, Portugal. Foz do Douro, which literally means “Mouth of the Douro”, is located at the  mouth of the Douro river flowing into the Atlantic Ocean. Foz is one of the most affluent districts of Porto and its mostly inhabited by the upper class.  This is also where many popular beach-front bars, cafés, clubs and restaurants are located.

This lovely photo was sent by Bibi Anabela Cláudia Alves from Portugal. If you like this photo, you should visit Bibi’s website.

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And the last photo in this week’s selection was taken in front of the Taj Mahal, Agra, India. It is a white marble mausoleum built in 1653 by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan for his third wife Mumtaz Mahal. This unique UNESCO World Heritage Site attracts between 2 to 4 million tourists every year.

You can visit the Taj Mahal between 10.00 am and 5.00 pm.

Ticket prices: – Foreign tourists: 750 Rs
- Citizens of SAARC and BIMSTEC Countries: 510 Rs
- Domestic/Indian visitors: 20 Rs

Find more information on the official website tajmahal.gov.in.

This beautiful picture was taken by Jean Nicole Uy Alaba who says: “The photo is a shot of Taj Mahal from a dreamer’s point of view. We, dreamers, tend to look up in the sky when we hope for something unreal to become a reality or something impossible to become possible. We dream when we are asleep and we dream when we are awake. Nothing does hinder us. And when a slight chance of hope is imparted on us, may it be a form of a possibility or a quick win, we feel that our dreams are a step closer to becoming true. The bird in the photo represents that even the unexpected moments can awaken even the stalest dream. These peculiar chance of hopes is what fuels us to strive and yearn for more. It encourages us that we should not limit ourselves to the obvious world that we are encapsulated in. It tells that in the simple things, we should see hope for our dreams.”

If you like this, visit her blog at theeagertraveller.com.

Thanks to everyone who participated in this week’s edition of the competition, either by sending or by voting for the pictures! We wish you nice end of the weekend!

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What are Travel Photography Contribution Weeks?

Each week we publish the three pictures which got the most “likes” on our Facebook page giving the photographers the credit they deserve.

Visit our Travel Photography page to see all the previous winning photos and find out how you can participate.

If your pictures are among this week’s selection, feel free to use one of our HTML snippets on your website and tell your friends about it.

Keep sending your photos and travel safe!

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After the evening in Ganta watching the Christian preaching show [link], I woke early the following morning to make the long journey along the messy, un-driveable road to Zwedru.  A jeep full of suited men and women stopped first for me.
"Are you a Peace Corps volunteer teacher?" said the most important looking man.
After being a traveller for so long, I've learnt how to always say the right thing to any person I come across.  So this time, I said; "Yes!"  A little white lie won't hurt anyone I thought.
"Oh good! Jump in then! I work for the Ministry of Education.'
So I had given the right answer.
We stopped for lunch along the way where I got talking to one woman named Deborah.  She worked for the Norwegian Refugee Council (the jeep was full of professionals from different organisations all connected in some way), and she was also a Reverend at her local church.  I took the opportunity to ask her opinion on the preachers crusade in Ganta that night.
"I don't like that he asks for money.  Nobody likes that.  People here don't have money to give."

After lunch, we reached their destination where they then helped me find a ride going further on towards Zwedru.
"She's a Peace Corps teacher" Deborah said to the UN officer who had stopped, importantly, for the white woman who was apparently in need of safe guarding.  He took me to the UN headquarters where he tried to find anybody who was driving to Zwedru that day.  Nobody was.
"It's ok, I'll just go to the road and wait for a car."
Ever paranoid as UN peace workers seem to be in Africa, he escorted me to the road and said to the guard;
"She's a Peace Corps volunteer, make sure she stays safe."
That meant that my little lie was carried on to my next ride with a woman from another branch of the UN, the UNHCR (whatever that is), thankfully enough because I had to fill out a waiver form for the vehicle and state which company I worked for.  Peace Corps it was!  I'm not proud of lying, I just think this story is funny, plus I'm not entirely sure I would have gotten anywhere that day if I had told them I was just a traveller.  Nobody even understands the word 'tourist' in Liberia... because there aren't any.

That ride took me all the way to Zwedru, where I met a friend of a friend, Frank, an American working for an organisation which organises refugee camps for those who had moved to Liberia during the civil wars in their own countries.

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Liberia imports all it's fuel, making it very expensive, therefore making traffic incredibly scarce especially in remote areas such as Nimba and Maryland.  Because of this, the following day, I waited around three hours for even one vehicle going anywhere near Harper.  I was lucky though, as I always seem to be, as a man stopped for me, apologised for not having air-conditioning, then drove for five hours all the way to the village just before Harper.

Once I arrived, I met a friend of a friend (again!), Tim, an American who is a Liberian history teacher at the local university.  He introduced me to his friend Lee who gave me a place to stay for two nights.  So he was a friend of a friend of a friend.  One my second day there, Tim held a presentation at the university on his current research project about a sacred rock situated just south of Harper.  For hundreds of years this large rock was believed to be sacred by everybody within its proximity.  There were traditions and rituals carried out in the name of the rock following the strong beliefs by the people.  When the country was founded in 1821 by freed African-American slaves, they brought with them Christianity and spread it through the country to the indigenous people.  The rock then became less and less important in the lives of these Liberians, till the point where now only the elders of surrounding villages remember and have stories to tell.  As with most religions, traditions, and beliefs of the world, if they are not documented in the 'western' way they are easily pushed aside and forgotten.  The rock, which was incorrectly translated to English as "Devil's Rock", had its stories passed down through generations by word of mouth.  Just as the rest of Africa, and Latin America to add, the traditional beliefs of the people of the land were nullified by Christianity.

Hearing this story from a professional historian, it confirmed to me my belief of how strong Christianity is.  I compared this to my recent memories from the Jesus Crusade in Ganta.  I questioned if it is Christianity which is saving these people.  Could their original religions do the same for them?

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Now if I thought that Zwedru was difficult to escape from, imagine my difficulty leaving Harper; the last and only town with an open border along the entire stretch of Ivory Coast!  Apparently rebels of Ivory Coast hide out along the border and cause trouble for anyone worth anything - like professionals, military personnel, or even Westerners if they have the chance.

I took a motorbike early in the morning but got stranded half way to the border when the tyre burst and needed changing.  We stopped in a tiny, isolated village whilst the driver got it fixed and I was offered a seat on a small block of wood outside the villages shop.  Some women came to sit with me, to keep me company I suppose.  Then a strong, fully-built deck chair was brought across the village especially for me.  I sat, looking around and realising the truth behind the fact that Liberia is the second poorest country in the world.  Almost everybody was skin and bones with huge, swollen bellies indicating malnutrition.  A young boy, I would guess around four years old from his height, was crying and moaning continuously.  He sat alone outside on the dirt floor in a tired, uncontrollable sob.  I asked a woman if he was ok.
"No.  He sick.  He got piles."
His extremely skinny limbs contrasted sharply with his huge belly.  He was so malnourished that his liver had swollen to the point of pushing his insides outwards.  He reached upwards with his small arms to pull himself to his feet.  His little legs quivered with weakness.  He tried to walk the few steps needed to reach his mothers side but fell down after two steps.  His mother picked him up and sat across from me with him on her lap.  I coughed away a few tears and swallowed hard to relieve the lump in the throat.  I felt sick with hurt.  I asked the woman if I could take a photo of her with the boy.  She smiled and said yes.  She didn't know my reason.

The motorbike was fixed and before we left I took one last look at the little boy who had no hope of living very much longer.

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We reached the border where I hastily got my visa checked and passport stamped, then jumped into the boat which would take me across the river to Ivory Coast.  The driver, or paddler should I say, told me a ridiculous price for the five minute journey.  I told him I would swim instead.  Everybody in the boat laughed then one woman blurted out; "I paid 150, it's 150!'  The driver snapped her an evil look, then sighed in disappointment as I handed him the 150.

Frantically searching through my collection of coins from around the world for some West African Franc which I might have left from Senegal, I realised I was stranded with no useful money in this remote border town.  Here, there were definitely no vehicles to hitch with.  The woman who helped me on the boat then offered to pay for my journey to the next big town where I could then pay her back.  Wow!  Where did this woman come from?!  Who was she?  She was Catherine and she was my saviour for the day.

We reached Tabou, where I managed to exchange some money, and where Catherine and I had decided to be friends for the next day.  She was heading to Abidjan the following morning on a bus, so I decided that was my plan too.  We got a hotel room between us for the night.  After lots of conversation, I got to know her story.  It was during the civil war that the rebels came to take her.  Her father protected her but they shot him in the foot to warn him of their power.  He handed her over to them.  She was raped multiple times by the gang of rebels.  She was fourteen years old.  Nine months later she gave birth to a baby boy.
"He lives with my parents.  If I look at him he reminds me of what happened."

It wasn't all doom and gloom conversation with her though.  She was actually a happy, cheerful, independent woman with a good life and a good job in Harper.  That night we got drunk on beer on the expense of a French white man who we met in a bar.

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What a lot to write for only five days of travel. Liberia really is a place full of people with incredible stories.  Tragic stories at that.  But also ones filled with hope and faith in God and in themselves, looking to a future whose only way is up.

20th-24th December, 2012, Shiraz and Persepolis I am a giraffe in Iran. I walk the streets with my long neck, swaying in the breeze. People stop and gape. “Where from? Where from?” They’ve never seen a giraffe before, not even on television. Trouble is, being an exotic animal is starting to grind me down. They […]

Few things are more incongruous than me flying to a Mediterranean island. From the moment I set foot on Cyprus, I felt not in my right place. In front of Paphos airport, palm tree leaves rustled gently in the wind. The glistening sea daintily threw up waves in the sun.

From home that day, pictures had reached me of two cars that slithered off-road nose-diving into a nearby waterway and a train that had derailed because of the day's frost and ice (it was skilfully photo-shopped by a satire magazine). Heightened risk of accident notwithstanding, winter is my favourite season, and oh the pang of missing out on the year's first proper snows! The bright daylight softly caressed my skin, but I longed for the bite of more appropriate December degrees on my skin. Anyway, there was little I could do about it now, so I had better go and start hitch-hiking away. Plus, as I had to remind myself, there was a reason I was here - to meet my old time friends, Lena and the Joker, and I was looking forward to that.
Soon, a first car took me along.

I let myself be under the illusion that the lifts I got that day provided me with some sort of measured representation of population distribution on the island. First an English expat married to a Russian took me on, then a Russian father and daughter who live on the island, and in the end a few cars with Greek people with very limited, but existing English.





Apart from the clement weather and the beaches which attract all those foreigners, many Russians register their businesses in Southern Cyprus. Although their companies are operating in their homeland, they do this for the usual purpose of tax evasion.
As my drivers took the fastest road leading to the next city Limassol, "exit" signs for leaving the motorway started flashing past us. However haltingly, I can read the Greek alphabet, and the Greek word appears to be "exodos". Insert some sort of joke about the Biblical significance of motorway exits here, but
anyway, I was reminded of the "Le Grec Sans Peine" self-teaching Greek course of which I had once, a long time ago, perused a few chapters. It had been a very instructive experience. After all, the ancient form of this language underlies so much of our specializing terminology in all European languages today. And modern Greek still continues to have much of the same vocabulary.  To name just a couple of obvious exponents most of us will recognize, "khronos" (from which we have 'chronology') still means 'time'; "gluko", which gave us 'glucose'), means 'sweet' or 'sweets'.
The juxtaposition of a high-brow lexeme of European languages with the simple meaning of the original Greek frequently leaves a funny impression. Think of "thalamos", which means "chamber, booth". Speakers of modern English may know this word from designations given to parts of the brain in neurology. There is for example the "hypothalamus", a Latinized form which as we know now literally translates to "the chamber below". The usage of the Greek cognate is a bit more prosaic: "Telephone booth" for example becomes " telephonikos thalamos". Next, take the word "atomo"; originally it has nothing to do with complicated physics, in modern Greek it applies to humans and simply means "individual". "Apostolee" is a verb that means "to send", so think of the apostles as the "sent ones". "Protos", as in 'prototype', is the translation of the ordinal number "first". The list goes on and on.

In the end I got sick of waiting by the road side and gave up on my project hitch-hiking to the seaside city of Larnaka, my destination.
    Nothing so incongruous as me with a handful of other tourists  on a bus shaking along on a road parallel to the sea with popular Greek music as the soundtrack.

But I met Lena and the Joker that night!

"My mother comes from Hyderabad", she said as an aside to some story. "She" being the girl with the backpack.  "Wow, that sounds so exotic" I could not help but exclaim, myself never having been East of Lahore, in Pakistan. "Oh, it's just another foul city", she brushed away my remark.

I had been staying with some old friends in the far-flung Eastern Turkish town of Kars, when I met her. The town's main street is always busy. Shoeshiners sit at the side behind the large, heavily ornamented and gold-plated boxes they carry, waiting for someone to put their foot onto them. Small boys thread the crowd picking on individuals to sell paper tissues. At the beginning of my second week's stay in Kars, on a calm sunday afternoon ambling down that very mainstreet, I saw before me a huge backpack swaying from left to right above a slim pair of legs. I felt chatty, so I thought "let's babble with the backpacker". The person on the other side of the backpack was Indian, and her name was a bit long, a bit complicated, although it sounded beautiful, Malavika. It was just a little bit too long and too complicated for the few days of our acquaintance, so that in my head I came to name her simply "the girl with the backpack".

She had rigorous opinions on the politics in her country. "What would have to happen for the system to change in India? Slow democratic processes, or will it take a series of armed uprisings leading to revolution?" "Oh, nothing will help. Only the Black Plague."

A day later a friend of hers arrived, a girl named Sonya, who had the misfortune to be married to a man called Dexter.  (Mind you, still a few years ago, there would have been nothing very special about that name, but you do wonder how she is handling the constant jokes today. Even I could not suppress one.)
The same evening all of us met up, and we toddled up to the shop to get hands on some cheap Marmara beer and Anadolu cigarettes before hiking the steep way to the castle to consume them.
When the shop keeper rolled up the beers into newspaper before putting them into a black plastic bag like it is usually done with alcohol purchases in Turkey, Malavika remarked, "Interesting that they do that. In India it is hygenic pads they roll up in newspaper and then put into an opaque plastic bag. Menstruation and alcohol - the two have to do with shame!"
The only answer I could think of was, "Anyway I do both, I menstruate and drink at the same time!"

Ten minutes later we settled down with our bottles on a wall overlooking the nightly city just under the castle gates to share stories.

Kars Castle at night

The girls were three days in the country and had accumulated an annoyance a day having to do with dodgy guys. The last happened with some man who offered them a cigarette not far from here when the two were strolling in the autumn sun. They then followed his invitation to the teagarden, where with extremely intrusive behaviour he irritated the hell out of them. Although a lot of local women smoke in the house, accepting a cigarette from a man in public is basically a code for answering in the affirmative the question whether you are a loose girl, sad but true. It is weird how I find that so natural when being in more conservative regions by now. Personally, I still do what I want, I drink and smoke in public, but while doing so, I avoid eye contact with anyone of the male part of society, and if anyone dares to be so impudent as to offer me a cigarette, I for sure send them away with a hostile remark!
There is a lot of 'codes' to learn. Like the proper answer to a man's question "Do you work here?" is as fast and decisively as possible answered with "No, I am a tourist." The question about work coming from an unknown man in 99% of cases  is meant to be an abbreviated version of "do you work as a prostitute?"

Another story of a bothering suitor was with an off-service policeman inviting Malavika for soup. She took her contact lenses off and put her glasses on, as to make herself unattractive. Quite a funny idea, that anyone would think that would work.

Thankfully, in her short time in the country, Malavika made observations other than that overbearing impression of men being a nuisance. She made a list of Turkish words she recognized from Hindi:

Turkish      Hindi        English Translation
Sabun       Sabun       Soap
Şeker        Şakr          Sugar
Sabah        Subuh       Morning
Çorba        Şorba        Soup
Badem       Badam      Almond
Meydan     Medan      City-square
Vakit          Vakt         Time
Köfte          Kofta       Meat-balls

As I initially assumed most of these words are of Arabic origin, and entered both Hindi and Turkish from there (with a detour via Persian sometimes, as for Hindi). Researching a little, I learnt that for Şeker and Badem, things went the other way round: Both entered Turkish from the other direction - they are originally from Sanskrit, having 'travelled' via Persian.
By the way, the first two words, soap and sugar, are cognates in English, too, although their shape changed rather a bit more.

"İnsan and İnsaniyet - Human Being and Humanity, are the same also", Malavika added as an afterthought. "Insaniyet, the word for 'humanity' is one of my favourites anyway. It sounds so close to 'insanity', so very fitting."

The next night, I invited the two girls to come for dinner. It was sweet to see the transformation of my friends into such typical super hospitable Turks! Sevim brought Kadayif as dessert especially for the occasion, and Nihat made it a point of giving them both a little present (small wine-bottle shaped candles).  The two tourists loved it too, kneeling on the carpet around a table cloth of newspaper, sharing traditional food with a bunch of hippies who could only communicate with them with hand and feet.

"Oh my god, we searched for you everywhere! My name is Ayan, and you, I already know, are Iris!", the Minister's translator had walked towards me, taking my right hand with both of his so as to shake it most vigorously. "The whole city knows you already, your description was transmitted to all police agents!", he recapitulated the events of the past two hours. For the lack of anything else to say, could I formulate it the way that I was at least flattered that they put so much effort in trying to find me? Not really. For Christ's sake, it wasn't like I was really lost, to start with!
But that is another story.

Tuva

In any case, my travel partner and I, we had found each other again. Now, how to get rid of our chaperones? They had taken us to the tourist office and were, in fact, engaged on an advertising bender, opening all sorts of brochures in front of us, trying to sell to us the best hotels, cruises and resorts of the region (well, if Tuva had any resorts or cruises...). There was no way we could convince them that we wanted to just stick our thumbs out and hitch-hike away from here. After I had got 'lost' to so dramatic effect already one time today, they wanted to make sure we slept in one of the city's best hotels tonight!
We negotiated for a bit, and got to a compromise that pleased neither party involved, but placated both: Gregor and I would take a minibus to a small town an hour south of here, and stay in the only 'hotel' there, the municipal guest-house. The sort of thing all decent-sized villages have, most of the time used not by travellers but by workers arriving from other villages or the city, laying new gas pipes for example, or working on the municipal telephone lines.
By moving there, we would have the change of scenery from the capital city that we desired, and it would be cheaper.

The minister and Ayan escorted us to the minibus station, and Ayan warned us one last time, that he told the driver exactly where we were headed, and that he was also going to phone the hotel tonight and tomorrow morning to see what we were up to. "So please guys, no funny tricks!" If I had entertained the thought of starting to walk away trying to hitch-hike instead, this uprooted the idea. The message was clear, and so we stuck around, finally took our places in the back of the vehicle and paid the fare.
A girl came and sat next to me, and started chirpily chewing my ear off, with precisely the openness and sociability with which Tuvans strike you so often. After she had peppered me with questions about my life in Europe for a good while, she invited me and Gregor home: She lived on a stoyanka, a traditional farm, with cows and sheep guarded by big, dangerous dogs, her and her family housing in yurts, making their own butter and yoghurt. We would have to get off some 20 kilometers after the next village, and then we would have to walk four kilometers out into the countryside from the road. We would for sure love staying with her, she would give us lots of salty tea to drink and stuff us with gorgeous food! It sounded enticing indeed, but our path had been laid for us by others: The people at the hotel were waiting for us, and Ayan would soon call them to see if we had arrived.
However small the chance, if Ayan and the minister indeed would get the police to actively look for us, as they said, that was potentially bringing trouble on any alternative hosts. So really, we had to decline. A phone, the girl did not use. This was a one-off chance, and it had just effectively passed, even before the offer was made.

We ended up getting off the bus as convened over an hour ago in the village of Saryg-Sep, the minibus driver dropping us off exactly at the door of our quarters for the night. A hotel worker was already standing outside, smiling at us and enthusiastically waving, before she came scurrying over to help us carry our bags inside. "Oh my god! Foreigners arrived! I am going to tell everyone that I met foreigners today! I work here for years, and the last foreigners came two years ago in 2010! They were French and driving their own car. I did not work that day and I missed them!"
Once inside, she made us each a cup of tea and sat us down to register our arrival. Handling our passports she looked at them as if they were articles beamed in from outer space, and filled in all needed detail into the large, frayed ledger with a hesitant hand, as if she had never done this before. "You live in Amsterdam? In which country is that?"
There were some letters from the Latin alphabet she could not read, about which she asked me for help: 'W', the letter with which Gregor's surname begins and 'r', the second letter of my name.
But she did not see the task as a chore; all the while she was excitedly giggling as if she could not believe the adventure coming over her today!

Our `Hotel`

Her name was Natalya, and after she finished signing us in, she made us another cup of tea, and kept us for a rather long and intense exchanging of ideas. So interesting, a tète-à-tète with real foreigners!, she must have been thinking. Foreigners! Not Kazakhs or Chinese, no, Europeans! She bestowed a lot of local knowledge on me over the course of the following few cups of tea, and I began not to regret having come anymore. Gregor patiently sat on the chair next to me and listened to the conversation in the foreign tongue. At some point Natalya paused, seemingly randomly in the middle of a sentence. "Cлышали гул?" Did you feel the rumble? I had not. But twenty minutes later, there it was again. Very faint and far away, I would not know how to describe the phenomenon other than the earth grinding its teeth somewhere miles beneath.
"They always told us in school that Tuva lies on the sutures of a geological Tuva-Mongolian micro-continent, and that it is therefore a high risk seismic  zone. But we never believed it! Only thirty years later, December last year, the first serious earthquakes of our lives happened! And we have been shaking the whole year! There were times when the earth was like gelatine. The lights go out, and you try to run outside as far away from the houses as possible. You hold on to a tree, so as to try to stay on your feet. There were workers here, who arrived laughing: "As a child I survived the earthquake of Tashkent", one of them said to me, "I am not bothered by your earthquakes here."  With the Tashkent earthquake he meant the most devastating earthquake of Central Asia which happened back in the 60s. But days later him and the other men, they sat out on the street the whole night after an earthquake, pissing their pants so scared they were!"
The seismic centres were always somewhere out in the taiga, in uninhabited places, the first being over a hundred kilometers from the village Saryg-Sep, where we were now. But since then they had been coming closer: The centre of the strongest earthquake in February 2012 was only 50 kilometers from here, and right here in this village they measured 8,5 points on the MSK scale. Russia uses the Medvedev-Sponheuer-Karnik scale on which the highest point is 12, rather than the Richter scale we use in the West, which measures intensity on a scale between 1 and 10.
Indeed only a week after we left Tuva, there was an earthquake whose seismic centre was located as being only 15 kilometers South-East from the capital city Kyzyl. Thankfully, it was only 3,2 points on the MSK scale, and ended up being the last earthquake of the year.
     "The worst thing of this was that the earthquakes destroyed parts of our homes, our ovens especially. The government promised to dole out subsidies to those most affected, but in the end we received nothing. People with historic, a hundred year old houses even received nothing! And there were devastating hail storms this year as well, which completely destroyed this autumn's harvest; and it is not the first time something like this happened. The politicians put all the money into their own pockets and live in the lap of luxury, while the people suffer. Me myself, I am already a pensioner, and yet on top of the pension I receive I have two jobs to make ends meet." I thought back to the lady we met earlier today, coincidentally, the Minister of Finances. What a long day it had been! In any case, it could hardly be expected that she would be the glorious exemption from the systematic embezzlement going on among the ranks of those of her profession.
  We drank the last cups of tea by candle-light, then Gregor and I wandered off to our room as Natalya put the generator on. 

There can be said to have been a bit of an anti-climax as we realized we were paying for a place to stay for the first time in two weeks, but there still was no shower to scrub off the filth of the hundreds of kilometres of Altayan mountains and Tuvan steppe left behind us. The female toilet, an outhouse like usually, was lacking toilet paper, but had half a book (about plumbing, with text and illustrations) from which you could tear one yellowing, rancid page at a time. The male toilet did not even have an analogous book, I heard from Gregor.

Cowering trembling behind the generator, Gregor found a kitten. It may have been deaf to choose that particular spot to sit in. Even standing next to the thing, the noise was ear-splitting.  The frail, jittering animal had eye-disease and was barely bigger than Gregor's palm. Scooped up with the left hand and sheltered by a cupped right hand from above, it purred blissfully as he held it close to his body, onto the hollow above his solar plexus. He took the smelly little furball to bed later that evening.

Before bedtime we wanted to go out to get some beer, but Natalya advised us against this: "You know, the locals all get drunk after sun-down, and if you are from outside, they can easily start making you problems." It was a story we had heard many times before.
I let Gregor play with the furball, wrapped myself up in a few blankets, and simply snoozed off.

[Link to photo album for this post]


This time I had no choice.  I was in the middle of nowhere, so hitching was the only way to reach the closest city 200 km away.  Exhausted with malaria, I sat at the side of the road waiting for a vehicle.
I was stuffed in the back of a jeep, sharing a one person seat with two other people.  The road was unbearable.  Spoiled by the rain and bad driving, we got stuck several times behind vehicles which had been too hasty.  Stopping gave me a chance to vomit out my guts and for others to feel sorry for me.

Upon passing through the border of Liberia, I was put in the front seat of a taxi and waited for it to be filled.  My brain didn't work fast enough to think of finding a ride which was leaving immediately.  So I just sat there.  For hours.

Finally, here I was in Monrovia.  Desperate for rest, I stopped in a compound and lay down on a sun lounger at the side of a pool.  I was woken up hours later by a man asking what I was doing.  He invited me to stay in his home, where I stayed for the next week.  He turned out to be the second richest man in the second poorest country in the world.




For the following three weeks, I was shown dramatic differences in wealth in this country.  This also reflected back to what I saw in Sierra Leone, but hadn't fully comprehended at the time.  These two countries have such a large expat community, especially Liberia; with NGO's (Non-Governmental Organisations), big businesses, and funding from Europe and North America at every turn.  Both countries are rich in natural resources like diamonds, gold, and iron ore, among others.  Yet, despite all these facts, more than 60% of people live below their national poverty line in both countries.


It was nice to have a rest from the difficult conditions I had been living in for the past few months, so I couldn't really complain about staying with rich, white people and hanging around with them every day.  They were all very nice, interesting people.  But it was strange to adjust to this way of life when in the back of my mind I knew I was in poverty-struck Africa. Here's how my story in Monrovia went...


One night I went to a party of the man who I first stayed with, the second richest man in Liberia; only expats were allowed into the party, money was spent on alcohol, and by the end of the night there were people falling all over the dance floor from drunkenness.

The following day I was kindly invited to a buffet lunch; it was Easter Sunday so they had hidden painted eggs all around the house for us to find.  I admit I had a good time, had some nice conversations, ate some good "western" food which my stomach was dying for after such a long time away from it.

I met some journalists from Canada at this lunch, and managed to tag along with them on their business trip to Robertsport.  It was really interesting to hear them talk about how they create a story, how they find out all the information they need.  They asked about my trip and were astounded at what I was doing.  From then on they kept asking me questions about what I had come across, about people, about poverty.  I shared my stories willingly of course, but it did feel strange to be being interviewed by these people, who were also in Africa.  It was like they didn't know that they were here too.
Whilst the journalists were out collecting information each day, I spent my time at the beach and in the town.  There was a little boy, Elijah, who was always hanging around the beach, collecting coconuts and mango's to sell to people.  He said he didn't need money from me because I was his friend.  I ignored those comments and gave him a few dollars here and there.
When he was still at the beach in the afternoon, I asked "Why aren't you at school?"
"Oh, I didn't collect enough coconuts" he replied.
"What do you mean?"
"The teacher said no money, no school."
"What about your parents?"
"My mum is in Monrovia because my grandmother has died.  So I'm here by myself.  That's why I'm collecting fruit to sell."
I costs five US dollars for the books he needed for the whole school year.  I gave him the money.  He gave a fast, heavy sigh, smiled, said "thankyou my friend" and ran up the hill towards school.  I saw him later and he told me all about what he had learnt that day.
Later in the day, he hurt his foot playing in the sand.  He ran to me to tell me.  I cleaned it and wrapped it up in a bandage.  I felt like I was his mother!
When the journalists had got their stories, we returned to Monrovia.  I gave Elijah some money and told him to be careful with it and don't spend it all at once.  He is ten years old, so I doubt he will be manage it all that well.

After spending a week with the second richest man in Liberia, my already-organised Coushurfing host returned from a trip home, so I moved in with him for the following two weeks.  Mario had a good job, lots of money, but I could see that he didn't spend it on himself; he always talked about his family and what he had done for them.  Staying with him was very funny, he lived such a bachelor lifestyle!  One evening we had cereal and beer for dinner.

I was invited to a weekend trip to Mount Nimba by the friendliest couple I've ever met, Katie and Guillaume, and some of their other friends.  We had a great time, everyone was so friendly and fun to be around.  We walked up Mount Nimba, (where I unfortunately began vomiting; the first signs to me that the malaria had come back for a third time.  I won't tell that story again, it's the same as the last one), and saw the beautiful landscape together.
     After expecting an untouched jungle with an abundance of wildlife, I was saddened to see that whole mountain tops had been dug into mines to collect iron ore from the 1950's until the 1970's and left to stay like that for eternity.  On the other hand, this did create a unique picture of layered hillsides as well as a lake that had burst through from a spring during the mining, the iron ore even made the lake a bright blue colour.
     During the long drive back to Monrovia, we stopped in a leper colony to check out a shop which had been recommended to us by somebody.  The people of the village handmade wicker baskets, which I have to admit, were really impressive and would probably sell in Europe for more than fifty euros each.  There was a church service going on when we arrived, and when I went to watch the people singing their hymns, a small boy reached out to shake my hand.  For the first time on my trip in Africa, I had to refuse.  Leprosy is spread through touch.  He looked at me confused.  My heart sank.
     As we waited for some of our group to purchase some baskets, some of us sat in the car waiting.  The conversation was something about this new technology that had been developed where you put this tiny computer in your shoe and it can somehow tell you directions to the place you desire to go....our driver of the rented car, a Liberian man, who hardly talked for the entire trip, burst out "Why do you need that?!"  Yeah, that's right, what a stupid conversation to be having when we were in Africa, for one, and in the middle of a leper colony, for another.  I wasn't the only one who though this; we all looked at each other in embarrassment.

None of this story is meant to attack the people I met, who were all very nice people, or anybody else who is working and living in Liberia.  I am only explaining my experience and that it felt very strange and kind of unethical to be so separated from the real world, living a life of luxury, drinking, partying, playing, not being involved in the Africa that surrounds you.

After writing this post, I can see it will be really difficult for me to adjust when I return home. 

[Link to photo album for this post]

I had seen the signs all over Liberia:
"Healing Jesus Crusade - Dag Heward-Mills"
I had no idea, though, that when I finally decided to leave Monrovia, I would, after six hours of hitchhiking, arrive in a town on its first night of the show.  I was told by the diver of my last ride that God must have organised it this way for me and therefore I must attend.  [I don't usually call this God, more a coincidence or fate... but what is an a word?]  I took his advise and decided to stay here for the night.

As I walked through the dark; dim-lit streets of Ganta, a man named Thomas decided he would accompany me to the show.  The open football field was filled with thousands of people, people who had come from remote villages from all over the Nimba region of Liberia, even people from neighbouring Guinea, all just for this special event.  Thomas told me the last time there was a large Christian crusade like this was in 1989; four years before the civil war began.




The show started with hymns being sung in the traditional African call-and-response way between the singers on stage and the thousands of spectators in the crowd.  I decided to join the big family behind me, mainly made up of children who had noticed the white woman and all had their turn to hug me, who were especially enthusiastic in their clapping, dancing and singing.





Then the preacher came on stage and ruined everything by asking for money.
"Who has $1000?"
"Probably nobody" I thought, disgusted.
"Who has $500?"
"Is this man even on this planet?!" I couldn't believe my ears.
"You can be part of this crusade you can be our brother or sister in spreading the message of God to the people of your country!  Be our partner and God will reward you!"
Some rich person chirped up with $100.  Then a few more did.  People in red shirts came out to the rest of us, shoving bags in faces encouraging people to give what cash they had.  I gave in to the pressure too; it was embarrassing not to.

After the cringe-worthy section was over, he got down to the real preaching.  The story telling.  The guilt-trip avenue.
"Let's talk about sins..."
"How many of you have lied before?"
Everybody put their hands up, laughing guiltily.
"How many of you have stolen before?"
Everybody put their hands up, laughing, chatting, admitting to each other.
"How many of you have fornicated before?"
This got the loudest laugh as most people put up a hand.
"How many of you have killed someone before?"
There was a striking cry of guilt as half of the crowd put their hands up.  My heart sank in momentary confusion.
"Yes, many of you were involved in the war; you were rebels or otherwise!"
He ended his speech with a long prayer for the crowd to repeat after he had spoken.  Not one person remained silent.  They spoke to God softly and with passion and love.  They spoke to Satan with anger and strength; "Satan! I am finished with you! I belong to God!"
The electric force of the cries of the thousands of people around me sent shivers through my body and jolts through my heart and tears to my eyes and an unbearable lump to my throat.

After my time so far in Africa, I have been coming round to the opinion that religion is actually good.  My self-important, "intellectual", "western" mind of thinking that religion, forced or otherwise, has so many negative effects has gradually become void.  After witnessing the reactions in this crusade, my mind has been changed entirely.  All these people who have terrible pasts filled with war and death and who are faced with guilt and heartbreak in their memories... How could you ever move on from that?  You can't, because you are still waking up every day struggling to feed your family because you live in one of the poorest countries in the world.  Until Africa is relieved of its poverty, religion and belief in God is the only answer for individuals.

Good news for all you shutterbugs!

SnapKnot is giving away either a brand new Nikon D800 or Canon 5D Mark III ($3,000 – $3,500) to one lucky photographer. The winner will be selected by a random draw on 15th July 2013.

All you have to do is to like their Facebook page & provide your contact details.

The contest ends on July 15, 2013 at 11:59 pm PST. No purchase necessary.

Shipping is free for USA residents; winners outside of USA are responsible for shipping fees and your country taxes. Read the full rules of the competition here.

Big thanks to the SnapKnot wedding photography directory for offering this great camera giveaway!

Good luck everyone! Hopefully one of us can win! :-)

Filed under: Competitions Tagged: camera, Canon, competition, giveaway, Nikon, photography, travel photography

At Amsterdam-Amstel, there is a liftershalte, an official place for hitch-hikers to stick their thumb out and hope for a lift (because "hope" is what they do here). It is designated by a road sign depicting the unmistakeable erect thumb, white-on-blue. In my lifetime I was stupid enough more than once to try to hitch away from there.

Hello everyone and welcome to the 40th edition of our popular weekly Travel Photography Competition. Have you already decided where you’d like to travel this year? If not, maybe our competition will help you make up your mind, as every week we show you three stunning places most definitely worth visiting.

If you have recently visited a beautiful place, we encourage you to share it with us by posting it on our Facebook page and if your photo will be among the three most “liked” shots, we will publish it on our website.

This week we’re reviewing pictures sent between 6th and 13th April.

The first winning shot was taken in Yorkshire, England, United Kingdom. This cracked old boat must have been there for a very long time!

This unique picture was sent by one of our most regular contributors from England George Hodan. If you like his work visit his Facebook page Hodan Pictures and his website where you can download all his photos for free.

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The second winning picture this week was taken at Pateira de Fermentelos in Portugal. It’s a natural lake located in the triangle between the Águeda, Aveiro and Oliveira do Bairro districts. It is the largest natural lake in the Iberian Peninsula (15 km perimeter) and it’s very rich in flora and fauna.

This great picture was sent by Bibi Anabela Cláudia Alves. If you like this photo, you should visit Bibi’s website.

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And the last picture in this week’s selection was taken in Porto Germeno, Greece. It’s a beach resort area located in the Attica prefecture on the north-eastern coast of the Corinthian Gulf. Nearby you can find the fortress of Aigosthena, dating back to the 3rd century BC, which is considered one of the best-preserved ancient castles in Greece.

This stunning shots was sent by Vagelis Pikoulas, our regular Greek contributor. If you like this picture, go to Vagelis’ Flickr photostream for more.

Thanks to everyone who participated in this week’s edition of the competition, either by sending or by voting for the pictures! We wish you nice end of the weekend!

***

What are Travel Photography Contribution Weeks?

Each week we publish the three pictures which got the most “likes” on our Facebook page giving the photographers the credit they deserve.

Visit our Travel Photography page to see all the previous winning photos and find out how you can participate.

If your pictures are among this week’s selection, feel free to use one of our HTML snippets on your website and tell your friends about it.

Keep sending your photos and travel safe!

__________________________________________________________

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15-20th December, 2012, Yazd I see the sun rise over the desert as my train chugs into Yazd. The girls in my carriage quickly jump down from their bunks and begin wrapping themselves in headscarves, checking make-up and folding sheets, which an attendant soon comes to collect. I find the Silk Road Hotel close to […]

Why visit Granada?

Many are drawn to Granada for one simple reason: the stunning Moorish complex of the Alhambra. Part tranquil gardens, part resplendent palace, part imposing fortress, the Alhambra is a wonder of the modern world. It is a constant presence wherever you are in the city and many visitors simply never look beyond it. For those willing to look a little closer though, what they find might surprise. Put simply, Granada is cool. With its free tapas culture, abundant student population and quirky Moroccan tea houses, Granada is Andalusia with a twist, that simply cries out to be explored.

Granada: the facts

Granada is the capital of the Granada province which is within the larger autonomous community of Andalusia and is called home by 250,000 inhabitants. It sits at the foot of the Sierra Nevada mountain range and at the confluence of three rivers: the Beiro, the Darro and the Genil.

Founded during the Caliphate civil war of the 11^th century due to its militarily defendable position, the village quickly grew into one of the most important cities of Al-Andalus (Moorish Spain). In 1228, The Nasrid Dynasty established the Emirate of Granada which was to remain in place for more than 200 years and their architectural influence is still felt in the city today. However, the tides of change were flowing against the Emirate and on 2^nd January 1492, Emir Muhammad XII, the last Muslim ruler on the Iberian peninsular surrendered to the Los Reyes Católicos (‘The Catholic Monarchs’) Ferdinand II and Isabella I after defeat at the Battle of Granada.

Religious persecution soon followed as the new Catholic rulers set about Christianising its new lands. The Jews were forced to convert or were expelled in the very same year as victory was won. Muslims suffered humiliation and persecution and by 1501 were given the same choice. Granada fell into terminal decline that was not arrested until the 1830′s when the Romantic Movement’s interest in the restoration of Granada’s Islamic heritage heralded the arrival of tourism.

During the Spanish civil war Granada was seized by the Nationalists at the outbreak of hostilities. It is estimated that over 4000 people with leftist sympathetic were killed including Federico García Lorca, Granada’s most famous writer.

The climate in Granada is extremely sunny with little rainfall. The winters are generally mild with temperatures ranging from 1^oC – 12^oC and hot summers (17^oC – 33^oC).

Granada Now!

Modern day Granada’s economy is driven by the booming tourism industry. The University of Granada is one of the Spain’s largest, and most prestigious, and ensures a healthy student population and thus night-life all year round.

The most important city festival is the Feria del Corpus Christi which takes place in the week leading up to Corpus Christi (8^th Sunday after Easter.) The festival takes place all over the city with a number of different events such as processions, flamenco acts and fireworks. The Festival de San Cecilio on 2^nd February marks the day of the city’s patron saint and is celebrated with gastronomy contests and is great way to try out some of the local specialities.

written by: Jon

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11-14th December 2012, Qeshm Island We’re surfing the back of a black Toyota pick-up truck as it skirts the narrow road through the desert. We screech with delight as the wind drags our faces into maniacal grimaces. My hijab flies off my head, but I couldn’t care less. This island seems completely lawless. The black […]

Hello everyone and welcome to the 39th edition of our weekly Travel Photography Competition. I’m sure the majority of you already know what it’s all about but just in case you’re new to the website, I will briefly explain that here at Hitch-Hikers’ Handbook we indulge in beautiful places; even more so if immortalised by excellent pictures. We also like promoting independent photographers and we’ve created this competition to give them the chance to show their work to a larger audience and to give us travellers some ideas for future escapades.

This week we’re reviewing pictures published on our Facebook page between 29th March and 5th April.

The first winner this week is this stunning shot taken atop Max Patch (1,411 m) in the Bald Mountains, North Carolina, USA. The Bald Mountains, which are a part of the Blue Ridge Mountain Province of the Southern Appalachians, rise along the border between North Carolina and Tennessee. So named due to the frequent occurrence of grassy bald patches on their peaks. The highest summit in this range is Big Bald, which rises to an elevation of 1,681 m.

This lovely photo was sent by WiredNomads. It looks like a perfect camping spot, doesn’t it? If you like it, check out more pictures from their trip here.

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The second winner in this week’s competition came all the way from Vietnam and shows a beautiful sunset over the Kê Gà Cape in Hàm Thuận Nam district of Bình Thuận province in southern Vietnam. The lighthouse, which is 35 m tall, was built in 1897 and was first used in 1900. Now it’s a popular tourist attraction of the area.

This great shot was sent by Duc Vien from Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. If you like this shot, check out Duc’s website.

_________________________________

And the last photo for today was taken in Morocco. What I really like about this picture is the beautiful Moorish architecture immersed in delicate light, bringing the promise of the mid-day North-African heat and the man on the bicycle tirelessly pedalling onward.

This beautiful photo was sent by the very talented photographer Alex Köhl who lives in Chinon, France. You can see more pictures from his trip to Morocco here. If you like his work, subscribe to his Facebook page KOEphotography.

Thanks to everyone who participated in this week’s edition of the competition, either by sending or by voting for the pictures! We wish you nice end of the weekend!

***

What are Travel Photography Contribution Weeks?

Each week we publish the three pictures which got the most “likes” on our Facebook page giving the photographers the credit they deserve.

Visit our Travel Photography page to see all the previous winning photos and find out how you can participate.

If your pictures are among this week’s selection, feel free to use one of our HTML snippets on your website and tell your friends about it.

Keep sending your photos and travel safe!

__________________________________________________________

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Accommodation 

Finding accommodation in Granada need not be stressful as there are a wealth of options to cater to all tastes and budgets. Below we list some of the cheapest options, with budget travellers in mind.

Funky Backpackers (Conde de las Infantas, 15-17) is centrally located, only a few minutes walk from the Cathedral, and offers Wi-Fi as well as a host of activities for those looking to meet fellow travellers. 6 bed mixed dorms are the cheapest option (9€-11€) but there are slightly more expensive dorms (4/5 mixed: 10€-16€ and female only:13€-15€) available.

HostelOne Granada (Calle Azhuma 30) is perhaps a little further out of the centre, but it is still within walking distance of the major attractions and has a shared kitchen and a charming rooftop garden in which to relax. Basic 6 Bed Mixed Dorm cost between (9€-11€) and are the cheapest option. Other dorm rooms include Standard 6 Bed Mixed & Female Dorms (12€-14€).

Oasis Backpackers Hostel Granada (Placeta correo viejo, 3) is situated amongst the narrow winding streets of El Albayzín so it is an ideal place from which to explore the city on foot. Wi-Fi and breakfast are both available and the highlight is probably the relaxing patio with a BBQ, a great place to make new friends. 10 Bed Mixed Dorm (10€-14€) is great for penny-pinchers, although there is a variety of other dorm options with the price increasing as the size gets smaller.

Going Out

Granada is a very popular Erasmus destination, which ensures the most active night-life anywhere in Andalucía outside of Sevilla. As it’s typically for Spain, the bars and clubs fill up very late, generally starting to get busy around 12 pm; restaurants tend to open their doors at around 8 pm.

• Located to the south of the city centre, Calle Pedro Antonio de Alarcon is lined with bars and is extremely popular with the city’s student population. The surrounding streets also play host to the traditional Spanish ‘botellon’ with groups of young people warming up for the evening by drinking on the streets first.

• The area around Plaza Nueva is slightly more upmarket, mature and popular with tourists and is particularly busy in summer, with people taking advantage of the weather to sit at one of the many terraces on offer. The square is one of the traditional homes of high quality tapas in the city and there are also a number of bars with live music.

• The eclectic Calle Elvira & Carrera del Darro are popular bar streets very close to Plaza Nueva. They are popular with tourists so expect generally higher prices and a slightly older crowd.

• Calle Calderia Nueva is one of the roads leading off Calle Elvira and is popularly known as ‘La Calle de Las Teterias’ (The Street of the Tea Rooms). As the name suggests the street is packed full of Moroccan style tea rooms, ideal for relaxed evenings with candles, cushions and a streaming brew.

Things to try and buy

Granadan cuisine is quite typical of Andalucia with staples such as gazpacho soup and grilled sea food available in almost all restaurants. However, for those looking to try local specialities Tortilla Sacromonte, a Spanish omelette with a local twist, is a good place to start. Jamón de Trevélez, ham that is cured in the snow of the mountain top villages surrounding the city, is unique to the region and is often served with other local specialities such as Papas a lo Pobre (potatoes and green peppers) and Migas (fried bread) to make a filling meal. In the chilly winter months Olla de San Antón, a pork, bean and potato stew, is the perfect stodge food.

Granada is also one of the few cities in coffee drinking Spain where tea is popular. So, if you are fan of a cuppa, head to one of the many Moroccan tea houses where you can try some green, black, white and red varieties.

Marquetry pottery (made by applying pieces of veneer to form decorative patterns) is also considered something of a local speciality and is heavy influenced by Moorish designs and makes an interesting souvenir.

Internet

Here a few places that offer WiFi connections:

written by: Jon

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CK One à la Tunisienne

I had to do a double-take, when I first saw this in a village in Tunisia, because it looked like a collection of whiskey bottles. Taking a closer look I realized that this was not in fact an alcohol bar, but an assemblage of perfume bottles. You can come with your own small receptacle to the local kiosk and buy a shot of your favourite fragrance.

Colonial architecture in the centre of Bizerte

The day before, a man had shown us on the market in Bizerte how to artisanally distill perfume from jasmin flowers with a simple metal contraption.

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One of the few remaining inhabited places on Cyprus whose population is still very much mixed is the village Pyla, which today lies in the UN buffer zone. The village has always been bi-communal, with Cypriote Greeks just slightly more represented than Cypriote Turks, although it is the Turks here who own most of the surrounding land.
During the violent events which repeatedly shook the island from 1962 to1974, Pyla remained quiet. The inhabitants of Pyla seemed to have a tacit contract that peace would be maintained. Pyla was not totally unique of course, there were a few other villages where no violence ever erupted between communities. Potamya near Nicosia was cited to me as an example. Today it is also situated in the buffer zone.

A Lusignan cathedral converted to a mosque, Lefkoşa

As for the case of Pyla, unfortunately that peace was kept only on the surface. Underneath, tensions were seething. The appearance of calm did not mean that the people of Pyla were innocent. While pogroms were raging elsewhere, some of the Greeks of Pyla went to those areas to participate in the assaults on Turks. These individuals would come back boasting about what they looted, and whom they raped, so inevitably everyone else in Pyla would know. This created considerable strain locally on the inter-ethnic relations.
In 1974, with Turkish warplanes bombing Pyla, most Greeks left, thinking that the Turkish government would take over. When shortly after UN forces moved in, they came back.

Armed with that much history, learnt from a few articles I read as well as from the stories of my articulate Couchsurfing host Nikolay in nearby Larnaca, I make a plan to visit the intriguing village. I get on the bus; with me, there are some students from abroad, Nigerians maybe, or Ghanians. Their student residence is on the outskirts of Pyla, that is where they all get off. The entire surrounding area has been taken over by foreigners: Blocks of holiday houses, built by Europeans, defigure the landscape the length of a few kilometers all the way down to the sea.  
I start a conversation with the bus driver. He is a Cypriote Turk, who, he tells me, left with his family in 1974, and who came back some five years ago for economic reasons; he could not find a job in the North.

When I arrive in the town center, one of the first things I remark is that small Pyla is actually quite picturesque. Small streets are lined by white-washed houses with climbing plants at the gate, further down, at a short distance, a large new church invites a visit with open doors, while at the very village square the minaret of a mosque can be seen just behind the pub with the Efes sign. Right in front of it UN jeeps are parked. The UN office is in another corner of the square. In its window a poster reads, "Hunting in the buffer zone is strictly forbidden. Hunters in camouflage carrying guns are easily mistaken for soldiers. They may draw fire from either side." The message is repeated in Greek and in Turkish.

The street signs show the word "street" in two languages, "odos" and "sokak".  The village also has two mayors, the "Türk Muhtarlığı Pile" being situated right here on the square, "Pile" being the Turkified version of the village's name. The most common theory as to the etymologic origin of the name is that it may come from the Greek word "pyli", "passage",  the village occupying a strategic position on the transition point from the coastal area to the central plain.
There is a Turkish primary school in the village somewhere, I was told. At the street corner a kasapadvertises both in Turkish and English. The shop keeper may well know that the Greeks anyway prefer to buy from a Greek butcher. As far as I have heard Greek landlords confine themselves to renting out to Greek tenants here, in the same way that Turkish landlords let only to Turks. Despite appearances, it is a bit of a segregated world.

One anecdote Nikolay relayed to me was the one of a Turkish man who always used to come to the Greek tavern. Everyone in Pyla thought he was a spy. Nikolay related it this way: "It may sound incredible, but that is really what people were saying to each other. Personally I don´t think so, I think he was just not very clear in the head. He was probably ever so slightly mentally handicapped, and he also had a gambling problem, that is why he always came there."

The Buffer Zone is a duty-free zone, and despite any existing inter-communal tensions, this incited people to cooperate economically, it simply being in everyone's best interest. Before the border opened in 2003, Pyla used to be famous for its "fish taverns". At that time, the Turks of Pyla were among the few Cypriotes who could go and seek employment on both sides of the divided island. So the Turks of Pyla engaged in trade, bringing cheap fish from the Northern side, delivering it to the Greeks of Pyla who owned restaurants who quickly became famous across Greek Cyprus. The Greek restaurant owners in return would employ Turkish waiters, because it came in handy should a fight break out among customers. A Greek waiter could not possibly hope to meddle in a dispute  involving one or more hot-headed Turks, a Turkish waiter however might try!
While the Greeks had restaurants at the time, the Turks were shops owners. Along with the fish they contrabanded fake brand-name products, clothing or perfums. Pyla was the place to go if you wanted cheap clothes, and also for alcohol and cigarettes. 
Then, in 2003, the border opened, the prices in the North went up, and all that business collapsed.

In the few afternoon hours that I spend in Pyla, there is almost no one on the street. People seem to drive their cars around rather than walk. The woman in the shop advertising "açık" on its door, from which I buy some Ülker chocolate, graces me with a big smile when I change to her mothertongue Turkish after she has not understood my question in English, a language widely understood on the Greek side of Cyprus. I am looking for directions for Pyla's two historical sights: A Venetian tower, and an apparently very well preserved Lusignan chapel (most Lusignan architecture being located on the territory of the Northern government, it has been left to dilapidate).
This woman, and another man later in the pub where I ask something about the bus time table, are my first contacts with Turkish Cypriotes. Curiously I try to analyse their accents and physiognimies. Of course, a couple of weeks later I am going to traverse the border to the North and the importance I attribute to these individuals, right now constituting such peculiar objects of interest which I hold against the light and muster with much eagerness, will then be washed away by the countless experiences and conversations I will have with other Cypriote Turks.


For now I go around finding a place to wait for the bus to come, and just as I sit down with my bag at my feet, the evening call to prayer resounds. It does so very timidly, as if not to disturb anyone, and I would almost not have noticed it. The sound of the television coming out of the door of an empty restaurant on the other side of the square seems to be just as loud!




Such are the rather tame adventures of the day, I muse as I snack on the feta cheese-flavoured crisps that I got together with the Keos beer from the "Antigone" supermarket on the square. Not really that exciting, but I am glad I made the effort.

Granada is one of those must-see places in Spain, which if omitted makes every trip to Andalusia incomplete. For many, one of the main reasons for going to Granada is to lay their eyes on Alhambra, a stunning Moorish palace and citadel towering above the city. Although this relic of Spain’s long bygone Islamic past is a well-preserved UNESCO World Heritage monument, it shouldn’t be the only reason to visit, as Granada has much more to offer.

Every conscientious visitor can’t forget about its sun-bathed squares and winding cobbled-stone streets of the Moorish medieval district of Albayzín, whose miradors (viewing points) offer truly amazing perspectives of the city.

For the more active, Granada offers picturesque hikes in the nearby Sierra Nevada mountain range, which surround the city.

And since we are in Andalusia, all culinary-lovers will be in heaven after having discovered the abundance of tasty and free tapas.

As you may expect, reading the title of this article, that’s not all… Although Granada is one of the oldest cities on the Iberian Peninsula, here tradition and modernity have merged to create a surprisingly well-matched couple.  Here graffiti isn’t offensive, destructive and in bad taste; it’s quite the opposite. Granada’s street art is inspiring, attractive and nicely stands in opposition to the more traditional face of the city.

Street art, Granada, Spain

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Granada, Spain (111) – Street art

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Granada, Spain (112) – Street art

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Granada, Spain (115) – Street art

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Granada, Spain (116) – Street art

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Granada, Spain (110) – Street art

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Granada, Spain (109) – Street art

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The best examples of creative street art can be found on Cuesta del Caidero street, which leads down the hill from La Alhambra in the Realejo – San Matias district, and in the Albayzín district.

written by: Ania

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Hello everyone and welcome to the 38th edition of our Travel Photography Competition. As happens every week, we’ve got for you three beautiful photos, sent by our contributing photographers from around the world, which got the largest number of votes. In this edition we are reviewing shots published on our Facebook page between  21th and 28th March.

The first winner was taken in Leça da Palmeira, Porto, Portugal and shows Farol da Boa Nova lighthouse. This beautiful building, which is 46 m high, was erected in 1926.

This stunning picture was sent by our regular contributor, Manuel Meneses from Porto, Portugal. If you like it, make sure you pay a visit to his Facebook page ManuelMeneses | Fotografia.

_________________________________

The second picture, with an equal number of votes, comes from Greece and was taken in Alepochori, a village located in the Ilia regional unit.

It was taken by one of our longest-participating contributors, Vagelis Pikoulas from Greece.

_________________________________

And the last photo in this week’s selection shows Aurora Australis over the Hazard Mountains, Tasmania, Australia. Aurora Australis is the southern counterpart of the northern lights phenomenon, which is observed in the northern hemisphere. The jaw-dropping spectacle of light and colour is nothing more than energy charged particles, coming from the solar wind, which collide with atoms in the high altitude atmosphere when pulled towards the Earth by its magnetic field. The effect is amazing and it doesn’t surprise me that in medieval Europe people believed it to be a sign from God. It’s truly a divine sight!

Ben Fewtrell, who sent us this amazing shot, says: “I just witnessed one of the most amazing things I have EVER seen in my life. (…) Overnight there was an Aurora Australis, it’s like a flare up in the solar system and it creates the most amazing night skies but you need to be out of and away from any major cities to see it… I have so many shots”.

Thanks for this amazing sample, Ben! If you like Ben’s work, visit his website onthreelegs.com.

Thanks to everyone who participated in this week’s edition of the competition, either by sending or by voting for the pictures! We wish you nice end of the weekend!

***

What are Travel Photography Contribution Weeks?

Each week we publish the three pictures which got the most “likes” on our Facebook page giving the photographers the credit they deserve.

Visit our Travel Photography page to see all the previous winning photos and find out how you can participate.

If your pictures are among this week’s selection, feel free to use one of our HTML snippets on your website and tell your friends about it.

Keep sending your photos and travel safe!

__________________________________________________________

YOU MAY ALSO LIKE

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It seems that if I stay in one place for longer than one week, my mind works overtime and I come up with an idea that blossoms into a plan.  I stayed at the alpaca farm for five weeks.  Imagine!


Busking in Vienna didn't go too well.  It was too loud and busy to find a good place to play.  I gave up and spent my time with my Couchsurfing host Nicki. We walked to the top of a hill and saw a foggy view of the city, then got lost in the night in Schoenbrunn Palace Gardens and had to listen to an ordinary woman secretly practicing singing opera.





Whilst hitching to Salzburg I met the man who is responsible for 90% of the world's agricultural knives (he was so rich he bought me a luxury breakfast), a woman who looked very much like Barbara Streisand, and a skydiving instructor called Gurt.





Salzburg is definitely one of the most beautiful places I have ever been to.  I took more pictures in this small town than I take in months anywhere else!  My CS host Katrin (one of only 319000 people from Iceland - pretty rare to meet one come to think of it!) took me out in the evening with her friends.  We drank beer, lots of it.





Lake Chiemsee was next.  I had been told by every German I've ever met to go here.  I was a little late in the year though... the weather was rainy and foggy; I couldn't see a thing.  On the up side, a stayed with a man called Luke who was a real-life version of Bear Grylls.  He gave me a knife and a survival book as a souvenir.




I was supposed to be going to Innsbruck after that, but I was let down by a CS host last minute.  I changed my plans and headed to Zurich but had nowhere to sleep so went to the airport.  But then I got a message off a guy from CS called David, originally from Nigeria.  He picked me up then a few minutes into the ride home said:
"Some people get scared of black people, you ok though? You sure?"

David

Broke my heart a little, that did.
I only intended to stay for one night but ended up staying for four.  David and his friend Roland showed me the true meaning of Nigerian hospitality.
David explained to me how hard it was for him when he first moved to Europe alone.  Nobody said hello, nobody even looked in your face;
"It doesn't hurt to say hello.  It doesn't cut your skin.  There's no blood.  It's just a word"
I completely agree with him.  In the "rich" countries of the world people are scared of each other.  It's so apparent coming from a place where people have no possessions to a place where people have "everything".

Roland

David and Roland loved my travel stories too, especially my plans for Africa.  Roland kept telling everyone we met:
"She gonna visit Africa and hang with the people.  She don't want no hotel or car, she gonna see the real place."
When I left, they both woke up at the crack of dawn to drop me off at a good hitchhiking spot.
"You sure you gonna be ok?  If you still here later we will pick you up."
"No, no, don't be silly, I will be ok, stop worrying!"  I replied.
Then I was stood there in a highway service station at rush hour with two big Nigerian men jumping and excitedly giggling;
"If you got that, that... that heart, then you gonna make it!  You gonna make it!!"
After that, Nigeria was made a definite on my list for Africa.



I hadn't made it yet, there were still two big countries to get through!  That will be in my next post...

On my travels I am lucky enough to meet some incredible people.  People with so much humour, people with an incredible story, people with a fascinating future.  For me, this is the main reason I love travelling.  I am constantly being inspired by others; which encourages me to have more faith in the world, to have bigger dreams and to always hope for more.
Sometimes though, I am even luckier.  I meet somebody who I will forever call a friend.  A deeper connection is made; we are on the exact same wavelength and we both know it.

John.  Born in the USA.  32 years old.  Hilarious.  Honest.  Hairy.
From day one our conversations were unstoppable.  Every one was either filled with jokes, or was meaningful and undoubtedly honest.

My Americn accent grew from stupid-blond-girl to bearded-cowboy; whilst John's British accent was a high-pitched cockney chavs.  It became impossible to have a conversation wih either of us without having these accents involved.

Something else I owe John for is the music lessons.  He was a natural guitarist.  Picked one up in his youth and played songs without even thinking.  He taught me how to play the ukulele without even knowing himself.  He taught me how to listen to music and interpret it in my own way.  We practised together so many days and nights; one month at the farm with him and I felt confident enough to busk in the streets in the next cities I visited.

One thing that made John even more special was his honesty.  All the spare time we had together made long conversations our favourite hobby.  He told me about his past; about being gay and not being able to tell anyone until he was 25 years old.  About his family not accepting it.
He told me about the death of his father two years previous: 40 years old, deciding last minute to attend a school reunion, then falling down some stairs at the school and dying instantly.  John told me how it felt.  How nobody told him, nobody ever said the words, but he knew that his dad had died.
He told me about his siblings and how they struggled so much with the death of their dad.  They each received a small inheritance from him.  John spent it on this trip to Europe.  His brothers and sisters spent it on heroin.  He visited them before he left for Europe and couldn't believe the state they were in.  He said that he would easily have spent it on heroin too, but he knew he needed something more than that to show to his dad.  He knew what his dad was thinking about his decision. "Good for you John. Live your life, live your dreams!"

John had ideas about travelling.  About meeting amazing people, feeling inspired and being happy.  He loved my stories.  His eyes lit up when I told him of my adventures.

Him and Steven ran out of money a month or so back, so they felt restricted in what they could do.  I wish they had stayed and used the ideas I gave them, but a couple of days after I left the farm, they went to the US embassy who sent them home the next day.

Travelling is always a learning curve, as I well know myself, but with John's situation at home I can't help but worry.  I don't want him to get influenced, to get dragged down.  I hope he has enough courage to look after himself instead of putting everyone else before him.  I really believe that he will do what is right for him, it just breaks my heart to think otherwise.  He has ideas and passion, he has life in his eyes, dreams to be lived, and an unforgettable smile that shows all this.  I am so lucky to have met John.  He inspired me more than he will ever know.

In the middle of the vineyards in the countryside of Western Germany, there sits a little farm complete with thirty alpacas.  How they got there; who knows?  Somehow I got lucky and got to spend five weeks working with them!



When I first signed up to the Workaway website, I got pretty obsessed, sent out way too many messages and got way too many replies.  Staying on the Ashton's farm in France for so long made all my travel plans change, so I arrived at the alpaca farm in Altenbamberg around four months later than originally planned!


Julie

Billie

Me feeding Purple Percy!

At the Medieval Fest

After spending a few days at Ellie and Mike's in Amsterdam after the Olympics, it was time to move on.  I had already promised to be in Munich the following week to house/cat-sit for somebody on Couchsurfing.  So a quick-stop tour of Germany it had to be.


First stop Düsseldorf.  Forgive me, I can't remember how I got there, it was months ago now!  Hitchhiking ("Autostop" in most other languages), yes. Story, no.

My hosts Robert and Jenni met me at the main station and before I knew it we were on our way to their friends place for a barbeque.  I was treated to my first German sausage and first German beer... among other food, most of which I didn't have a clue of what it actually was.

The following day, Robert and Jenni had everything planned out: a bike ride around the city taking in the sights, then a few hours swimming in the river Rhine and lounging on "Paradise Beach".  I think the cargo ships going by are the reason for the word 'paradise'.  Honestly though, it was the nicest (and first) beach on a river I have ever seen.

Jenni had to work that night, so me and Robert had dinner together at home.  He had super intelligent opinions on politics and world affairs and even had ideas on how to make changes.  He really believed in a consumer democracy; where everything you buy gives you a vote.  For example; buying organic food votes against huge food corporations, therefore they can't affect farming and don't control prices (for instance, the reason why a burger at McDonalds is cheaper than buying fresh fruit and vegetables).  He also had a website where he posts about subjects like this, as well as fun topics and activities to keep it lively.

That evening we went on another bike ride to see the city by night.  We had a few beers in a popular spot before heading home.

With Couchsurfing, it's so easy to only ask people with hundreds of references for a couch, because without even thinking you know they will be a great host.  But as Robert and Jenni showed me, it is definitely worth staying with new members of the website.  They were so hospitable and put so much effort into making my trip memorable.  Obviously, that was also because they are amazing people too.


The next morning they made me breakfast before I headed off to the next city; Cologne (Köln).  I met my host Laura on arrival.  One of the first things she said to me was that she was so hot the night before that she put her t-shirt in the freezer.  From that moment on I thought she was awesome.

We walked around the city taking in the sights; namely the cathedral and the ice-cream which had fallen from the sky.  We then visited her friend who lived nearby.  She was a tiny girl who looked about 14 years old.  She had a baby and a Latin American husband, so I was relieved to find out she was actually 22.  They were really poor; he couldn't find work because of his nationality and visa, and she couldn't find work because she needed to breast feed because they couldn't afford a fridge to keep milk.  Wow.  This just adds to the big list of people I've recently met who confirm that country borders suck.  Despite all this, they offered me a beer.  I politely refused.

We then went back to Laura's place for the evening, accompanied by another friend of hers, Sandra.  We sat on the roof (not a roof you would imagine is sit-able, just a normal tiled slanted roof) drinking beer and talking about travels.  Sandra was in the process of building a boat with her boyfriend.  They learned the skills and techniques at a Workaway somewhere in Germany.  Their plan is to travel the length of the Danube then head West in the Mediterranean to then go round ending in the North of Germany... altogether lasting a few years.  Now that's ambition!  What an awesome idea, I definitely need to do something like that one day!  They have a website where they share their story and, at the moment, the whole boat-building process: www.mutanttravel.com

One night with Laura definitely wasn't enough.  I will have to return one day to spend more time with this hilarious girl.  That night we fell asleep to the audiobook for one of the Harry Potter books; of which Laura assures me is purely to improve her English.


I was up at the crack of dawn to start hitching to Frankfurt, 200km away.  Again, I can't remember one single part of the hitching trip.  Either somebody drugged me or it was just too long ago to remember.  All I know is that it was simple and fast.  I met my host outside his apartment at 5pm.  When I say met, I mean scared to death as he jumped round the corner at me.  His name was Meez, originally from Lebanon.  He treated me to pizza at a restaurant that night and we walked around the local area before heading home to watch a film, complete with a bowl full of popcorn.

Meez worked during the daytime so I was left to my own devices the following day.  I took the chance to do what I always do; get completely lost.  I finally found my way to the centre which was filled with expensive shops which I didn't even bother to look in.  I found a big public square complete with a fountain, a very comfortable bench, and the perfect setting to people watch.

When he had finished work, Meez met up with me and took me on a tour of what Frankfurt has to offer.  We walked along the banks of the Rhine and then headed to another kind of bank; the banking centre of Europe.  Huge skyscrapers and a massive € sign were a dead giveaway.  Naturally, there was a protesting camp right outside.  Namely, Occupy Frankfurt.  Meez said the only people left were druggies, so to prove him wrong I went to talk to them.  One second into the conversation I knew he was right.  I look around hoping to see somebody without a shaky jaw, but it didn't happen.  What a disappointment.

I remember one of the reasons people at Occupy Liverpool found it difficult was the amount of vulnerable and homeless.  We wanted our doors to be open to everyone; we had to given that we were fighting for a different system built on equality and fairness.  But we were just normal people, not therapists or psychologists like some of these people needed.  Maybe if we had carried on with Occupy, everybody would have been disenchanted and left, except from those who had nowhere else to go.  Occupy Liverpool might have become just like Frankfurt.

Anyway, we ended our night with conversation and another film.  Then it was an early night for me; I had to be up first thing in the morning to get to Munich.


Ok, so now I remember something unique about this particular trip.  I had to get a short bus ride to where I needed to begin hitching.  Only the short ride turned out to be quite long.  Cut the long story short... You know you're a real hitchhiker when you've had a poo in a forest next to a motorway.

I got a ride after a few minutes waiting which took me ten minutes down the motorway to the nearest service station.  Then five minutes later I got a ride all the way to Munich!  Awesome!  The lady even invited me to stay at her house in the future!


I had organised to stay at an old friends place that night; Lisa, who I met in the hostel I worked at in Montego Bay in Jamaica last year.  She had a baby boy since then, so it was lovely to meet him and catch up with Lisa over some food and drinks.  She was going on holiday after that so the following day I moved to Ludwig's house.  He and his family were going on holiday in a few days so they needed somebody to look after their cat.

Here's where the craziness comes in.  They had a little boy, I think he was 5 years old.  After being there for a few hours, he urinated on the floor in front of me.  Then later on in the day, he had a poo on the floor in the bedroom I was sleeping in.  Every morning he climbed onto my bed shouting "Aufwachen, aufwachen!" ("Wake up, wake up!")  One day he urinated all over the couch... When his mother shouted at him he replied "Well the cat does it too!"  For me, he was way too much to handle, his scream was so frequent and annoying that for the rest of my stay I avoided the house as much as I could.


Once they had left for their holiday, I messaged a few people on Couchsurfing to see if anybody wanted to hang out.  A girl named Ale messaged straight back and within a few hours I was on my way to a party.  She was originally from Venezuela, and so were most of the other people at the party... so naturally it was a night full of laughter.  We said goodbye at the end of the night then I asked some people nearby where the nearest subway station was.
"There is no transport at this time of night."
"Come with us, we are going to a house party!"
So there I was, somewhere in Munich in the middle of the night, walking to a house with a group of Mexicans and Venezuelans.  The house turned out to be a tiny room complete with a bed, a couch and a kitchen sink.  Everyone squeezed in and before I knew it we were knocking back tequila.  I was on the first train in the morning and got into bed at 6am.


Ale and I hung out for the rest of the week; going out for food, watching films together, a few nights out, sunbathing in the naked park (mainly just full of old men), as well as attending a Couchsurfing meeting where we just stared at everyone and guessed between ourselves where each person came from.  All in all, I completely admired Ale.  She loved to travel just like I did (with no money, living with only basics) and she was also established in many parts of her life (she had just finished a masters degree in Biology, she had worked researching wild animals in jungles around the world, she was super sporty and took part in three week long triathlons, and she was really intelligent when it came to any political or social issue.  On top of all that she was funny, and really easy to talk to.  Everyone else thought it too; there's not many others quite like this girl.


For the rest of my stay in Munich, the other activities I got up to were visiting Dachau concentration camp (wow, that was depressing!) and visiting my old friend Cati who was back from Mexico (where we lived together for a few months) living with her friends in rural Bavaria.  It was such a coincidence that we were in the same place at the same time.  The same thing happened in Mexico.  It's almost like she stalks me or something ;-)


My journey in Germany didn't end there, it actually lasted another two months or so, as you will see in my next few posts (when I finally get them up!), but it is right to end this post here.

Auf Wiedersehen!

My next destination was Grenoble.  I was to visit one of my oldest travel friends; Virginie, who I met in Texas in 2009.
I hitched there from Zurich in about three rides.  During the longest ride, music was playing on the radio and I sat back, satisfied with myself;
"Wow, I understand every word in this song.  I'm doing so well with my languages!"
Then I realised it was in English.


I hitched to the Ashton's farm, after a quick stop in Lyon, and it took forever!  I started super early in the morning and was still going when it was dark.  Standing under a street lamp at a péage on the outskirts of Toulouse... no chance, I thought!  Yet, I was wrong again!  I was picked up by a man in a van heading to a town very close to the Ashton's farm.  He was a theatre and film actor, and most recently was the voice of a fox in a children's film.  Yes, I got to hear all the voices of cartoons that he had ever done, it was hilarious!  It was pitch black outside, so he insisted on taking a de-tour to take me all the way to the front door of the farm.  What a kind person!

Me and Squeeky!

I spent a good few days with my favourite English/French family (and animals).  The biggest shock was that Squeeky (the one day old baby chick we bought and hand-reared) had turned out to be a giant cockerel!





Katie dropped me off, this time with a little more confidence, on the road towards Spain and I was hitching again, this time towards Barcelona.  I went the long way round, apparently, and didn't touch a highway once, only country roads through the French and Spanish Alps.  This made me a little nervous a few times, as I sat on the side of the road in blistering heat with not one single car going past.  Well, sometimes there was one single car... lucky for me each one picked me up!
My longest ride was with a man called Johan.  He filled me with drinks and chocolates.  He shared his own travel stories with me.  We sang at the top of our voices to Spanish songs.  He really was the happiest man in the world.  When he dropped me off just outside Barcelona he gave me fifty euros; I refused with determination, but he wouldn't take no for an answer.  I felt like crying when he left but I can't really explain why.  It wasn't the money, it wasn't the act of giving it to me, it wasn't all the nice moments during the ride... it was his happiness and his desire to help me and make me feel happy.

I arrived in Barcelona a little later and saw an old woman begging on the street.  I gave her the fifty euros. She kissed my hand and pointed to the sky as though I was some angel from heaven, but I did it for no gratification.  That money was given to me by somebody who wanted to help me.  I felt like it would have better use in her hands.  I felt happy about it yes, but not because I felt like I had been kind but because I had passed on that happiness that Johan gave me.
My host in the city was Enric.  He was a great guy with a really good idea of what Couchsurfing is about.  We shared some nice meals and easy conversation and he even let me stay one more night even though he would be away working.
On my last day I joined in with a motorbike group heading to Tibidabo; the mountain with the famous cathedral at the top.  It was very nice, but the most enjoyable part for me was riding up and around!



Valencia was my next stop and I was hosted by a wonderful man named Adolfo.  He was brand new to Couchsurfing and had joined, first and foremost, to practise his English.  He took me out for tapas one night with his friends.  They all tried so hard to speak to me, and with that came the laughter and embarrassment for each others level of English.  One of his friend's was disabled; he had fallen over whilst skiing just a year before and was now paralysed from the neck down.  Adolfo explained how it affected them all so much, that this had happened to their best friend.  I could see they were all very strong people and even stronger friends; it was very inspiring to see.

Whilst strolling around nearby Adolfo's place one day, I found an animal circus being set up.  I looked around at everything; tigers in tiny cages, elephants with removed tusks, bulls and ostriches sharing cages... it was all awful to see.  I went to see the show on it's opening night and was even more horrified, especially when the tigers were frightened into place by the crack of a whip and the elephants were lead into standing on top of each other.

During the interval a man walked around the audience with a baby tiger in his arms.  He held it by it's collar and swung it around each time a new family wanted their photo taken with it.  FLASH! next. FLASH! next.... All I could think was how soul-destroying it would be to be born into the world and all you know is being thrown around by men and a big flash in your face every thirty seconds.
After the show I asked if I could have a job.  I thought it would be a good pursuit to join them and find out how it all really works, even find out what they think about what they are doing.  The answer was no, but it was worth a try!

I had no particular place to go next, but I had a hope that I could make it to the ferry to Morocco in one day.  How wrong was I?!  I hitched all day and into the night, making it only around 450km to some random town.  It's train station wasn't open during the night, so I went to the police station where they offered me a bench in a warm room.  Sounds... strange, but it was all innocent!

I set off early the next morning and every town that I made it to was impossible to hitch back out of.  The highways in Spain are so complicated!  I ran out of patience and decided to walk along the motorway with my sign sticking out.  After three hours of walking, a huge lorry came to a stop in the middle of the road.  I ran as fast as my blisters would allow me.  He was Moroccan and on the way home.  Luck, at last!
His place on the ferry was only for the following morning, but it was my seven month anniversary of this trip that day, so I decided to try to make it to Moroccan soil that night. Hitching on a Sunday night onto the ferry was practically impossible, so I paid the passenger fare.  That is cheating in my books, so it shows how desperately I wanted to get to Morocco for that day!

I made it! That initial idea turned into a plan, then turned into reality!  What a great feeling!

We stayed in Dakhla an extra day due to the updating news about the situation currently spreading through the region of north-western Africa.  Terrorists from sects of Al Qaeda have been taking over northern Mali since March 2012, but over the past week have gained ground over the whole country.  The French military were called upon by Mali's government as well as the worried neighbouring nations.  The French responded, were supported morally by the UN and logistically by other European armies, and within one weekend had entered Mali to expel the extremist groups.  This made the terrorists spread out, crossing the borders of Algeria, Mauritania, and Burkina Faso, looking for hide-outs as well as foreigners to kidnap for hostages or to kill.

I contacted my embassy, and as always, I was welcomed with a big, fat waste of time and passed from one person to the next - none with the authority to give advice on where to go or what to do.  Wojtek and I had both spent hours researching, conversing, and worrying about what to do next.  We decided to take the bus to the Mauritanian border and then cross the country to Senegal as fast as we could.  The one bus that was available was at midnight and arrived at 5am.

We had the rest of the day to worry some more.  News came in that Europeans and Japanese had been kidnapped and two British been killed.  The numbers swapped and changed whilst more towns and regions were deemed unsafe.  I started to backtrack on my plan to take the bus.  Then I met a Rastaman outside a surf shop.  He was Moroccan but after his father had travelled the world, his whole family became Rastafarian.  They sat me down, poured me some tea and fed me some homemade cake (no, not that type), and we sang some songs together with my ukulele.  I had a feeling that I met them for a reason.  They made me happy after my stressful day; they were there to remind me of the faith that I have in humanity.

I got on the bus that night.  Maybe it was a stupid decision.  Yes, actually, it was.  It was such a big risk to take and I know that my family and friends would suffer much more than myself if something bad happened to me.  I convinced myself that if I cannot face this fear then how would I ever achieve anything in the future?  I tell everyone I want to make a difference in the world, so giving up when faced with a fear of a possibility is cowardly.

I was frightened for the whole bus journey; I wore my loose traditional shirt and a scarf around my face showing only my eyes.  We arrived at the border and had to wait four hours for it to open.  A man put me in a Berber tent, complete with a small mattress and pillow, where I desperately got some sleep.

The plan was to pay a lot of money for a taxi all the way to the capital Nouakchott where it was apparently safer than the rest of the country.  Upon seeing the mass of cars and trucks lined up at the border at 9am, we decided to ask a few people which way they were going.  One question later we were in a truck which was heading all the way to Senegal.



Mauritania is the real desert.  Rolling sand dunes fill the skyline, the mirage of water touches the road ahead, and herds of camels roam the land.  One thing I never expected was the number of goats; every so often there would be a small group of them, or one alone up-side-down and dead from thirst.  These were special goats though; it seemed they were bred with Dalmatian dogs.  Maybe that it natures way of adding life to the Sahara.





 I kept my hiding-clothes and headscarf on for the whole journey.  Good decision; a pick-up truck filled with wrapped up men with rifles and machine guns passed us in a hurry.  My heart almost jumped out of my mouth.  My disguise fooled them.  Either that or they just didn't feel like kidnapping a British girl that day.







Abdililah, our driver, saw my face for the first time when we stopped along the route for some food.  He knew I was scared, so went to the shop alone to collect some supplies.  He made a big tuna salad that the three of us shared.  We had some time in the sun taking in the scenery, staying on the non-person-filled side of the truck.  The desert smelled sweet, flies touched your skin every second, the sun baked my body under my thick layering of clothes.




We arrived in Nouakchott in the dark evening, where Wojtek left us, for he needed to apply for a visa for Senegal whereas I can enter freely.  The traffic in Nouakchott is the worst I've ever seen.  Two lanes were occupied by four or five invented lines of vehicles.  You want to turn left... it's ok if you are in the right-most lane.  Roundabouts serve no purpose but to confuse people.  A concrete curb was what caught Abdililah out, as he was forced to drive along it, scraping the bottom of the vehicle until grinding to a stop.


We escaped the chaos of the city, took a short break for a hot meal, then arrived in the border town of Rosso to catch some sleep in the truck before crossing to Senegal the following morning.


UPDATE: Hundreds of people were kidnapped and around 40 foreigners were killed in north-western Africa over five days after the French military first entered Mali. They were all innocent victims and did not deserve this. My happy, fortunate story is dedicated to the victims, and their friends and families.

Upon arrival in Guinea's capital city Conakry, my truck friend Jalou [link] took me to his family home.  It wasn't so dismal; they had walls, a couch in their living room, beds in their bedrooms.  We went out to meet a friend of his and passed the local market.  A large, steaming rubbish tip sat beside it whilst the flavourful smoke mixed with the people and produce.  Fishes gathered flies as they lay waiting to be sold on the uncleaned mats on the floor, sharing the same space as fruit and vegetables which were fingered by the owners hands which had been licked clean after eating a plate of rice and sauce prepared in somewhat unsanitary conditions.  Piles of used clothes were thrown around by searching customers landing on the sandy ground or on neighbouring food stalls.  People walked or jumped across stalls in the shoes they had walked across city grounds and garbage in.  There really was no order.  But how can there be order when there is no money to support it?  These were normal people trying to make a living with the little produce they had; they couldn't afford to set up a shop or even make a stall off the ground.  All they have is the mat they brought from home which the kids probably sleep on.  Besides, all this lack of cleanliness would only affect a weak Westerner like me - Africans like this are born with stronger stomachs which become even stronger with age.

I bought a bag of water (drinking water comes in bags here, not bottles) for both me and Jalou as we sat waiting for his friend to finish work.  Some kids close by were staring silently at me.  I said 'Bonjour', waved and smiled, but they continued to stare.  Then it clicked in my head that they were thirsty.  I extended my arm towards them and it took less than one second for them to grab the water bag.  'Merci!' they shouted as they shared it between the three of them.

Later, I saw a woman with sheets of material for sale and, interested in buying some, I asked her how much they cost.  French numbers confuse me sometimes, especially anything past thirty-something... plus this had a thousand at the end (one thousand Guinean Franc is approximately one euro), so I asked her to write it down on a small piece of paper I had.  When she finished I stared down at the shaky scribbles on the paper.  This wasn't just bad handwriting; she actually couldn't write.

Another instance of meeting completely unschooled people was later on in my time in Guinea when I asked for a number of oranges, for example.  Because of my bad French accent, I would hold up three fingers to assure understanding.  More than often I would be met with a confused expression, then given the wrong number of oranges.  It took some thinking, but I finally realised that three fingers means nothing to these people; if you have had no schooling then you can't necessarily count.  How can you count three fingers to know that means three oranges?

Back at Jalou's place, in the evening I was introduced to his family who had just returned from work and school.  They were all very excited to have a white person staying in their house.  One of his younger sisters was disabled; she couldn't speak, she couldn't understand everything her family were saying to her, and she had saliva dribbling down her chin soaking her chest and t-shirt.  Jalou and the rest of the family treated her so well, giving her attention and always hugging and holding her.  They told me that there is a special hospital in Paris which could help her, but they couldn't afford to send her.  She started to dance in front of me with a huge smile on her face.  For the first time on my trip through Africa, tears filled my eyes and the lump in my throat was unbearable.  I knew that they will probably live their entire lives in hope of sending her to Europe, without it ever materialising.

Conakry is for sure the poorest place I've ever been to, the combination of the squalor of the marketplace to the complete lack of education for the poor.  It's so shocking to see that it even puts me, the most stupidly idealistic positive person in the world, in a pessimistic state of mind.  How could this ever change?  It seems impossible.  I began to forget what the West is really like after that.  Look around you... what do you have?  Poverty and the imbalance of wealth in the world is just incredible.

I met my travel partner for the next part of my trip; Wojtek from Poland who I met through Couchsurfing.  We met up in Agadir, collected some supplies for our trip, got some extra rest to prepare, and I finally threw out many things from my backpack to minimise the size.

8am Sunday morning we began.  Two minutes later we were stopped in our tracks by a homeless man who wanted Wojtek to buy him a coffee.  After a short bustle, we managed to get away and make it to the road heading south.

A Senegalese man stopped for us, even though he was almost home, and took us to our hitching spot, not before laughing surprisingly at our plans to hitch through the desert as well as giving us the address of his parents and thirty-seven siblings in Senegal.

Minutes later, a man in a very expensive suit took us further on.  We didn't talk much.  He was scary because he was important.  He worked at the airport, possibly the manager, but I'm not sure.  It did feel like he took it all very seriously, as if stopping to pick up foreigners and chauffeur them around was part of his job.

All of this luck meant we had no time to stop to eat our breakfast.  So we found a spot, put our backpacks down, got our food out... BEEEEEP "Where are you going?!"  Luckily, before starvation set in, this guy let us eat in his car.  He was French (and friendly) and owned a spa business.  That's about it really.  Oh, and he told us about the terrorists currently taking over the desert towards Mauritania.  Little side note.

We waited a little longer for the next ride, and somehow ended up in a taxi.  For free.  He took us through a few towns before finding paying passengers and dropping us off.


Whilst Moroccan music blasted from the stereo, the driver danced with such enthusiasm that he didn't always have time to hold the steering wheel. [See video]

The journey continued into the night; the over sized truck drove on the narrow road with only two dim headlights leading the way in the darkest sky in the world.  To add to the darkness was the slow, bass-ridden Moroccan music now playing. [See video]

We arrived at a truck park on the outskirts of a town called Laayoune and after the drivers washed their feet and prayed, we all sat around sharing a dinner of traditional Moroccan tajine.  Wojtek and I set up the tent in a corner where the truck would shield us from the wind, and before sleeping, reflected on the incredible day we just had and were filled with excitable laughter for what tomorrow would bring.

We awoke in the morning to say goodbye to our truck friends then an easy ten metre walk took us to the road we would continue on.  Not entirely sure where we actually were meant that we took a chance on a man who said he could take us to a better spot.  He gave Wojtek a cigarette and had one himself, a beer each was next, then a block of hashish was offered.  It finally clicked that he was stupidly drunk when we arrived in the next town;
"I take you to beach. Beach is here."
We explained that we had no time and needed to go south, not to the beach, so naturally he drove us into a port filled with shipping material and armed guards.  A few handshakes and salutes explained to us that he was some type of official; a high ranking one who was obviously above the rules of drink- and drug-driving.  After a few hours of weirdness, we finally managed to convince him to drop us at the side of the road to look for our next ride.

The lack of traffic meant we waited for around an hour in the blistering wind; our eyes, ears, noses, mouths, hair, pockets, and shoes were dotted with sand that would stay with us for the rest of the day.  A car eventually stopped, driving it was a man dressed in traditional desert clothing, a full headscarf, and equipped with a long straggling beard.  With only his local Berber language to go by, I somehow managed to communicate that we were hitchhikers and where we wanted to go.  Once inside the car, our stereotypes got the better of us;
"We've been kidnapped, definitely" we thought.
He stopped in the next town and picked up a man who had lots of bicycles, then bought us a sandwich each.
"This is just too strange.  Has he kidnapped us or what?"
The police checkpoints put us straight.  Giving his identification and explaining everything to them for us, we knew that we had not in fact been kidnapped, but instead hit the jackpot with the kindest taxi driver the Sahara has to offer. [See video]

When we reached Dakhla, 540km later, he dropped off the other four men he had picked up (seven people to a four seater car) then insisted on finding a hotel for us.  They were all full, except the one nobody wanted to stay in.  We guessed that the bedsheets were changed every ten customers, and we were probably the fifth or sixth this round.  The following morning we were awoken by the gruesome sound of a man in the neighbouring bathroom snorting and spitting the snot which he had recently gathered from his own journey through the desert.  He left it all there for us to see when we used the bathroom later.



We spent the rest of the day getting informed and incredibly worried about the current situation of the terrorists who were spreading from Mali to neighbouring countries, including Mauritania - where we were heading to the next day...

[Click here to view my full album of photos for Sierra Leone]

"Hey! How di body?"
"Di body good man!"
I learnt these phrases in Krio, Sierra Leone's half English language spoken by 97% of the population, pretty quickly. In fact, my body was getting much better, I was recovering from the malaria at a surprising rate. Wojtek and I made it to Freetown only a few days after my bout in hospital.

We took a shared taxi there; the first time I had used public transportation for a long journey so far on my African trip. Sharing really means sharing when it comes to these taxis. Three people in the boot filled with make-shift seats, four people squashed in the middle section, and two people on the passenger seat up front, one of them sharing the drivers leg-room. The road from Conakry was terrible, but after the border and beyond our spirits were lifted by the chaotic atmosphere created by the people we encountered along the way.

"Maa, I wana chick. Gimme a chick. Yah tha one! Yah give it here!"
A chicken was passed behind us through the window, squawking in Wojtek's ear, flapping it's wings frantically. The woman in the back needed to check out the chicken before she decided on a price to pay.
"Yah ok, gimme two!"
They were tied onto the top of the car.

"I said I wan banan! Woman a ya listenin to me? Ahh dis woman, she no listen! I wan six banan!"

"Eyy white man, you wana banan? Have a banan! Ya wan water?"

"Eyy white woman, lemme give ya a mango and ya be ma friend?"

This is what happened every time the car stopped; sellers throwing and offering goods through the window, men and women in the car asking and squabbling over prices.

Wojtek and I had fallen in love with Sierra Leone in less than an hour.

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We had a Couchsurfing host organised in Freetown; I knew it would be a nice rest from the basic living conditions I had been used to for the past few months. Hamid was his name, I could probably tell you right now that this man is the future president of the country. His one hundred housemates, all of which gave us all the attention we desired, ranged from bankers to economists to social workers to educated unemployed.





We stayed in Freetown for around a week, but I honestly can't come up with many specific stories about our time there. Mostly, everything was just funny:


The man in the tea shop never understanding our order of bread and egg; the only option available. Our English accents obviously weren't... clear enough?

"Hey white man, buy me a football an we can play together here", a child called out to Wojtek one day, pointing towards a flooded football pitch.



We also made a day trip to the famous Number 2 Beach, were disappointed by the amount of tourists, but astounded by the beauty. Lush, forested hills rose up around the pale white sanded beach and reflected in the clear, still water enclosed by a rocky edge.

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Termite mound

Spider bigger than my hand

Spot the monkey!

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guaka: #hitchhiking to #Berlin tomorrow morning! Looking for 1 or 2 #bicycles to #borrow for some days #alsobehappytoseeyou

guaka: #hitchhiking to #Berlin tomorrow morning! Looking for 1 or 2 #bicycles to #borrow for some days #alsobehappytoseeyou

guaka: #hitchhiking to #Berlin tomorrow morning! Looking for 1 or 2 #bicycles to #borrow for some days #alsobehappytoseeyou

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guaka: #hitchhiking to #Berlin tomorrow morning! Looking for 1 or 2 #bicycles to #borrow for some days #alsobehappytoseeyou

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