River Life

It was love at first sight. I had already met her parents and seen both where she was conceived and born; I had stalked her relentlessly for more than 1,800km, following her shapely curves from nearby, though she remained oblivious to my presence. Now, we were finally about to consummate our relationship in the most intimate of manners. At nearly 6,900km in length, the river Nile is not only the world's longest waterway, but its most alluring. Having visited the two lakes in Uganda and Ethiopia from which its White and Blue tributaries originate, and observed their underwhelming confluence in Khartoum, the river has been a defining geographical feature of the last third of my journey. Now in Lower Egypt, where it begins its voyage towards the Mediterranean, I was finally seeing it in all its majesty from the only vantage point to do its beauty true justice: sailing by wind and current on a felucca from Aswan to Luxor.

With the Egyptian tourist industry decimated by years of political unrest and all too recent terrorist attacks, my travel buddy Patrick and I had the pick of the dozen or so feluccas moored riverside in central Aswan's Corniche-an-Nil. As touts vied for our business, the only trade currently in town, we inspected vessels for seaworthiness and vetted skippers for compatibility. In the end, it wasn't the captain's uncanny resemblance with Rimmer from sci-fi comedy Red Dwarf, or even the spotless and spacious nature of his felucca that seduced us into committing to three days of river life, but its name: we would be sailing on a felucca named Bob. On a pier awash with corny African Queens and pretentious Nefertitis, the good ship Bob stood out like a beacon of down-to-earth reliability and unassuming modesty. Bobs don't sink or run aground, Bobs get you to where you want to go to, with minimum fuss and maximum enjoyment.

Equipped with the universally recognised maritime survival essentials of 2kg of fresh fruit, 6 litres of water and 24 bottles of local lager, we tacked slowly out of Aswan harbour shortly after lunchtime. With a total distance of under 70km in a little over two days and with the substantial deck space covered in comfortable mattresses and cushions, it became immediately clear that this was my golden opportunity to do something that had hitherto proven impossible on this trip: sweet nothing at all. As the real reason for our vessel's christening became apparent, with a Jamaican flag hoisted up the mast, the opening bars of I Shot The Sheriff playing on a small set of speakers and Captain Mostafa lighting up a cheroot of herbal relaxation the length of the ship's hull, I lay down and let the world go by in the most complete tranquility.

As minutes, hours and eventually two entire days passed by in a satisfying repetitive panorama of ochre sand dunes occasionally poking their rounded peaks above the riverside fringe of irregularly linear palm trees and attractive whitewashed village houses, I could have been forgiven for focusing my reverie on the shore. But the penultimate leg of the entire voyage was only ever about the river; gone was the uninspiring murkiness of Khartoum's urban river junction, this was an intense dark blue with an almost viscous and impossibly still sheen, one that demanded and obtained attention with the reflections of the rising and setting sun, and every moment in between.

An unfortunate direct comparison with my erstwhile daily commute on South West Trains notwithstanding - I also wanted to throw myself from that method of transport - this was the routine travellers' dreams were made of: drifting in and out of sun-kissed consciousness in between leisurely meals shared with the crew; feeding bonfires of crackling dried palm fronds on shore at nightfall; going through morning ablutions waist-high in crystal waters. All this whilst gazing lazily at the most beautiful fluvial expanse I had ever seen with a crisp lager within arm's reach: life was simple, life was good.

If the multiple interminable motorised journeys throughout Africa had thrown up a number of unexpectedly profound musings on life (what am I really to do with it?) and miniature epiphanies (preferably lie in a hammock with a continuous flow of piña coladas, forever), then the soothing flapping of sails and seemingly aimless drifting achieved quite the opposite. For forty-eight abnormally peaceful hours, I thought of absolutely nothing as body and brain worked together in unaccustomed partnership, understanding and appreciating the importance of the context. I lay on my back, again, with a mind as empty as I had ever known it, its only preoccupation trying to remember to sip my cold beer every so often. How beautiful denial was.

Sail away, sail away, sail away...

The real Nile blue

The struggle is real

 Well played Nile, well played...

Not Upper Halliford station

Bob - a boat you can trust

Mood song: Could You Be Loved - Bob Marley
Mood food: Mussad's stew, pasta and salad

Jewel On The Nile

Salvation came in the shape of a cattle truck today. I had just gone over the critical half an hour mark with my thumb in the air standing by the roadside in the middle of the Nubian Desert, the point when frustration at not having been granted immediate deliverance slowly turns into disillusion and doubt. Most of the vehicles that had gone past were either buses that were full, private cars with female passengers or heavy goods vehicles with multiple trailers thundering past. It was 11:30am and although my water supply was ample, the sun was almost directly above me and my legs were no longer being offered respite from the 40c+ temperature by the shadow of my upright backpack.

 Yes, here will do, please drop me off in the middle of the desert...

Just me, my backpack and some pyramids lost in the sand

 As the cattle truck approached, I changed tactics and joined my hands in silent and desperate supplication. To my great surprise, the ploy worked and the truck stopped alongside me. As the driver moved to the back, ostensibly to fold down the tailgate and allow me into the straw-floored enclosure, he looked at me and scolded me in a mildly reproachful tone: "The desert is a dangerous place, you know. Here, have a cold bottle of water." I smiled in agreement and jumped into the back with all my luggage. I don't even know why I was surprised, this was the Sudan, after all.

The real cattle class...

Despite only staying in the country for seven days, I have lost count of the number of random acts of generosity I have been fortunate to experience in this wonderful country: bus fares paid for me by complete strangers unable even to understand my thank you of appreciation; bottles of water, fruit and sweets offered to me by street sellers and market traders; even the omnipresent security police smile when returning my passport and wish me a pleasant stay, after ascertaining that my travel permit is in order, of course. If Ethiopia has the favourite country accolade nailed on, then the Sudanese are making a late, great bid for the friendliest people in Africa.

In an all too rare but wonderfully welcome change to stereotypical global perceptions, it helps to be British in this country. The majority of Sudan's industrial infrastructure was conceived and implemented by colonial Blighty, including the entire railway network; the tax and salary systems are of the same origin, although they apparently work in Sudan; even the country's largest market and source of employment for thousands, Omdurman Souq, was built by Great Britain. As news filters down the market aisles that one of Queenie's subjects is in the 'hood, I am treated to the fruit and vegetable world's equivalent of a tickertape open top bus cup-winning parade. As each successive stallholder waves hello or shakes my hand, I can only offer a regal wave in return and comment on the superior quality of British girders and rivets.

For all the kindness of the Sudanese people, though, the country's travel conditions are unforgivingly brutal. Long gone are the pleasantly sunny days and cool nights of the Ethiopian highlands, it seems I have now taken temporary residence in the world's largest live-in incinerator. With all the country's ancient historic sites situated slap bang in the middle of hostile desert wilderness  and only seven days to play with until the weekly ferry across Lake Nasser to Abu Simbel in Egypt, I must move fast, far and ridiculously early every day if I want to see everything this country has to offer.

With mid-morning temperatures already exceeding 40c in May, only a dawn wake-up call will allow two hours of archaeological exploration in mild overheated discomfort rather than feeling like a walking funeral pyre. To add to the fun, single night stays in each locality mean that backpack, daypack and kit bag must accompany me everywhere - across desert flats and up, down and around every single scorching dune. Once my daily two hour dose of self-imposed Marathon Des Sables is over, I am able to spend the rest of the day on public transport reflecting on my decision to take five black t-shirts out of a packing quota of seven, and to second-guess what Rorschach patterns their salt stains will deliver each evening.

Is it a duck or an ice cream cone?

The reward for my masochistic endeavours and near-certain death by perspiration comes in having an entire country's 4,000 years of history all to myself. Even as I laboured across the two kilometres of desert from the road where my bus had dropped me off to the incredible site of Meroitic tombs at Bejriwaya, over sand and stone, and under the relentless desert sun; even as I cursed myself, every Nubian and Egyptian god, and even the poor camel skeleton I nearly tripped over; even then my smile and enthusiasm did not waver, for I could see the perfect soft apricot-coloured dunes a short distance away, indented into a misshapen Toblerone bar silhouette by one hundred majestic pyramids sprouting into the sky. Waiting for me to take temporary but exclusive ownership. How could I possibly get annoyed or frustrated in this wonderfully unexpected jewel of a country? Especially when you can be sure that salvation is just around the next bend.

 Those Meroites were certainly very handy with trowel and plaster...

How fertile is the Nile?

Mine, all mine...

Ruin with a view...

Mood song: A Horse With No Name - America
Mood food: falafel and fuul

Bufala Soldier

Lady Luck has many ways of manifesting her formidable presence. For some, it is an unexpected slice of chance that occurs following a somewhat obscure series of events mostly of one's own doing - this is self-made luck; for others, it is a simple set of numbers that tumble into sequence against the most improbable of mathematical odds, often a literal lottery - this is blind luck; the ultimate manifestation, however, is when an opportunity presents itself on a silver platter in a perfectly crosshaired alignment of the space/time continuum, in other words being in the right place at the right time - this is the luck of the lucky bastard.

Walking out of my hostel on the evening of my first full day in Khartoum to head to a restaurant recommended to me only that afternoon, I followed Google Maps down a road that curved around an enormous walled compound when I suddenly but unmistakably heard the opening bars of Italian 1980s crooner Toto Cotugno's cheesy nationalistic classic 'L'Italiano' being covered by a live band. In Khartoum, Sudan. Confused and amused, I recognised the omen of impending good fortune and walked quickly around the wall to the main driveway. As I had hoped and suspected, the familiar tricolore and national coat of arms confirmed that this was indeed the Italian Embassy. All right, ragazzo, I thought, how are you going to play this one?

"Buona sera!"Casual, confident and looking directly at the two uniformed guards manning the gate as I walked towards them. "Buona sera, prego Signore..." they replied, motioning me inside, into the gardens of what appeared immediately to be a luxurious estate far removed from my own $3.50/night lodgings. As I ambled towards the source of what was clearly merriment of Italian volume, I was stopped dead in my tracks by the sight of a dozen or so people in black tie dress code. Quickly assessing my flip-flop, punk band t-shirt and safari shorts ensemble as perhaps not reaching the necessary sartorial standard, I made to turn back towards the gate only to bump into a jovial looking gentleman in tweed jacket and jeans. Having been staying in the right part of town, on the right day, and left to go to dinner at the right time, I then met exactly the right person for the mission to be successful.

As I explained my travelling background and fortuitous timing with an inhibition very unbecoming of a supposed conman backpacker attempting to blag a free feed, Taha El-Roubi, owner and head DJ of Khartoum's only exclusively western radio station, looked at me very simply. "Are you Italian?" he asked. "Yes, I am", I replied, telling only three quarters of a lie (bless my Sicilian grandmother, how she would have loved this). "In that case, you are home. Come inside." Inside turned out to be a stunning two storey villa with underlit pool, marquee bar and gala dinner outside table setting with bandstand stage and dance floor, and this was a charity event for the Sudanese Diabetic Society hosted by His Excellency, the Ambassador of Italy, and sponsored by an Italian pasta producer - naturally - who had flown both food and celebrity chef over for the occasion.

It seemed as though Taha was well connected, judging by the number of people who came to greet him enthusiastically, and it wasn't long before most of the gathering had the story of the wandering Italian hobo who had chanced his luck and crashed the party, so much did Taha enjoy telling it. "How perfectly Italian!", he would repeat with great gusto. "Ey, izza watta we do!" I would reply in my Ferrero Rocher advert faux-Italian English. Just as I was about to excuse myself in an attempt to get out of the spotlight (and head to the bar), he delivered the cherry on the torta. "Fabrizio, Fabrizio! Come, there is someone I want you to meet!" As a suave and clearly Italian gentleman came over smiling, as if used to Taha's theatrical geniality, it was clear to me where this was going.

"Gianmarco, this is Fabrizio, the Italian Ambassador in Sudan. Fabrizio, this is Gianmarco, an Italian who just gatecrashed your party." As the story was recounted for the fiftieth time, a smile spread across the Ambassador's face. He made polite conversation, assured me I was more than welcome, and invited me to the Italian national celebrations on June 2nd, before shaking my hand warmly. "A pleasure to meet you Gianmarco, enjoy the rest of your travels. And enjoy the food here tonight." "Grazie mille!" I responded automatically, without immediately understanding the true implication of his sentence. Enjoy the food. The food? I had forgotten all about the Italian food!!!

As I turned to discover the buffet for the first time, there it was staring at me: an oasis of some of the world's finest cuisine after a desert of African backpacker culinary poverty. Fearing a mirage, I pinched myself with the tiramisù tongs before ploughing giddily into too much goodness to even attempt to list, for the following two hours. "Have another Chianti!" Taha would say whenever we bumped into each other. "Va bene, Taha, iffa you saya so!" And so I ate for all the hungry backpackers in Africa, and drank for all the thirsty ex-pats in teetotal Sudan. It was the least I could do: one must share one's good fortune, after all.





My buddy Fabrizio the Ambassador bottom right...

 Helloooo buffet!

Free bar by a pool? Yes please...

You're really spoiling us, Mr. Ambassador...

More Chianti and vitello tonnato?



Mood song: L'Italiano - Toto Cotugno
Mood food: all of it, the entire bloody buffet porca troia!

The Great Depression

The natural born pyromaniac in me edges closer still, despite the increasingly unbearable heat emanating from the pit directly in front of me. If it feels as though I am a willing co-voyager on Jules Verne's Journey To The Centre Of The Earth, about to descend deep into the earth's bowels, then it is probably because I am as close to experiencing life in the planet's core as I ever will be. I am standing on the very edge of the world's longest-existing permanent lava lake, drawn like a moth to an incandescent pool of bubbling magma. An unwitting smile spreads across my face as my immediate unconscious reaction is to think of the first company to offer me gainful employment: once a lava lover, always a lava lover.

 The Danakil Depression in Ethiopia's northern Afar province contains some of the most inhospitable terrain on the planet and justifiably earns the accolade of hottest place on earth, but it is also home to two of its most astonishing geological features: Erta' Ale volcano and the Dallol sulphur springs. In a mixed eight vehicle convoy of intrepid adventurers, experienced guides and armed guards to deter potential bandit attacks near the disputed Eritrean border, I set out to visit what every single backpacker encountered in this stupendous country has enthusiastically and convincingly described as the highlight of their Ethiopian trip. They were not wrong.

Given the somewhat unconventional nature of our destination and the potential security hazards involved (hello voided travel insurance policy!), it is no surprise to note that the vast majority of the group are fellow battle-hardened travel veterans: a French couple in their sixties whose first trip in 1971 was to drive a 2CV from Paris to Afghanistan; a German retiree who set off for Africa from Munich in his Landrover four years ago and is still bouncing around the continent after thirty-five countries and sixteen broken gearboxes; a veritable plethora of long-term round-the-world backpackers; and yours truly, the self-styled lucky bastard escaping the clutches of the real world for as long as possible. The four hour nightfall hike to the volcano summit passes by in a flurry of excitable exchanges of travel anecdotes, but as a subtle orange glow finally comes into view in the dark somewhere in front and slightly above us, so does the conversation fade into an expectant hush.

Whilst there are a number of active volcanoes globally plying their molten trade, Erta' Ale is the only active lava lake this ridiculously accessible. Cresting the ridge in what is now full darkness, we pause to catch our breath and allow the stragglers to catch up and anticipate what we are about to witness. If the lookout above the crater plane with a glowing lake in its centre were in the United Kingdom, this is where we would remain: behind a barrier one hundred and fifty metres from the bubbling crater and with only a faint glow and barely discernible eruptions to appreciate. With Ethiopian health and safety regulations being as non-existent as its reliable WiFi, we descend into the pit and walk the short distance across the Quaver-like crunchy texture of a fresh lava field to the very edge of the volcano.

As the amateur and professional photographers within the group prepare tripods and time-lapse settings, we mere mortals stare disbelievingly at a scene we are unlikely to ever see again. Random pockets of angry red cracks split through the soft black caldera surface and burst into spectacular sporadic eruptions of lava. It is as mesmerising as it is cauldron-hot, as beautiful as it is unpredictable. Every so often, a particularly violent spit of liquid fire casts furious embers close to the circle of excited onlookers, pushing us back temporarily in a burst of fireworks worthy of the 4th of July. But we quickly return, aware of the limited time we have here. When we are finally gently cajoled away from the spectacle by our patient guide, back towards our mattresses under the stars not one hundred metres away, it is only with great reluctance that we consent.

The following morning, we return to see the sun rise over the volcano pool. The ever-brightening dawn light brings new contrasts and photographic angles, but the same cooings of delight. Again the temperature is skin-crispingly intense, a wall of searing heat of such proximity that it defies and fries the senses. With the stellar combined travel CV of our group, it is testimony to what we are witnessing that we are all in agreement: this is awe-inspiring in the most literal sense of the meaning. Rising in the sky with a hint of potential jealousy, the desert sun quickly reminds us of its own potency and it is time for the long walk back down the volcano, but with more than one last longing look over our shoulders.

Let the show begin...

Just wow...

As spectacular a sunrise as one can get...

Not where lava lamps come from...

Feeling the heat...

Mood song: Ring Of Fire - Johnny Cash
Mood food: boiled rice with peas and pineapple, midnight volcano summit camping fare

Screw The Destination, Give Me The Journey...

I may be a little odd. You see, I really rather enjoy spending upwards of twelve hours at a time going nowhere fast in cramped, hot and often unhygienic conditions on third world public transport systems. Sometimes I even wonder if I don't actually prefer it to reaching the destination itself. Despite knowing that I will be visiting awe-inspiring wonders of both human and natural making on my longitudinal schlep across the African continent, the reality is that my primary source of enjoyment was always going to come from the travelling itself.

It wasn't always this way. There was a time when the mere thought of spending more than a couple of idle hours on a plane, train or automobile would fill me with a dread that often bordered on anguish and despair. My great Australasian trip of 2000-2001 was filled with never-ending journeys, veritable beasts of double digit hourage that I struggled to endure despite the spectacular scenery that unfurled itself before me. I particularly remember a thirty-seven hour bus journey in Western Australia that left me so horrifically scarred for a number of days that I briefly considered... Never. Travelling. Again. How the thought makes me chuckle today.

Looking back, I can actually recall the exact moment I made my peace with, and embraced wholeheartedly a universe that is totally unavoidable when one is infected with terminal wanderlust. The great Trans-Siberian adventure of 2007 went a long way towards curing me of my transportation neurosis, as it proved once and for all that onward motion and personal enjoyment were not mutually exclusive. It wasn't until the Balkan escapade of summer 2008, however, and a seemingly innocuous Albanian minivan journey from Tirana to the Ottoman town of Berat that I conquered my fears and learned to master the art of travel.

I was feeling the habitual tedium and annoyance at another frustratingly arduous plod over unsealed roads in rural backwaters when I happened to look out of the window and actually comprehend what I was seeing: idyllic mountain countryside in stunning summer weather, there simply waiting for me to appreciate. At that very moment, a song played on my iPod that made the moment perfect. I felt a weight lift off my shoulders and enjoyed the following two hours as I had never done before. This was my travel epiphany. For a person as impatient as I am, and with nervous energy as potent as my attention span is short, I had finally found my inner sanctum of peace and serenity. I have not looked back since and and can now only ever look forward to the next interminable journey witnessing breathtaking scenery with unbridled delight.

And nowhere has this masochistic love of long-distance commuting and infinite rolling landscape been better requited than here, in Ethiopia. Despite my original excitement for the country having been tempered by an unexpectedly lengthy stay in the capital, it only takes two hours of mountainous country roads and the jaw-droppingly winding descent into the Blue Nile Gorge to rekindle the bonfire of expectation: this is the big country of endless skies and wide open spaces that I have been waiting for on this entire trip.

With each successive journey superseding the previous, I realise that I am running out of Thesaurus-sourced superlatives to describe what I am witnessing: if the Grand Canyon were a country, this would be it. The landscape is so scandalously dramatic that all other countries should throw in the towel, immediately, and it is all I can do stop myself from blaspheming, swearing and even drooling at the window as we wind up, around and down bucolic mountain villages with children in traditional Amhara dress waving us by. Never before have I looked forward to leaving a place as soon as I have arrived, only to be able to keep on feeding my senses with a panoramic drama mini-series on a seemingly continuous loop.

The clear and definite reality of the situation, whatever day or location it happens to fall on, is that I can commit these snapshots of aesthetic perfection to my physical memory only, rather than digital. It is a relief, and perhaps the explanation for my pure, unadulterated enjoyment of these prolonged labours of love, that all I can do is immerse myself in the moment, for hours on end. I had been concerned about the time spent travelling between each Ethiopian point of interest, but I needn't have worried: this is a land that is made to be travelled overland, not despite but because of the vast distances. A land made for me.

Addis Ababa - Bahir Dar, up in the clouds... 

 Bahir Dar - Gashena

 Lalibela - Woldia

Sugar cane: the messiest travel snack in town...

 Blue Nile Gorge*

Blue Nile Gorge*

Mood song: Wide Open Space - Mansun
Mood food: fresh, hot broad beans and sugar cane sticks

* Images 'borrowed' online as mine do the subject no justice

Capital Punishment

One of the absolute privileges of travelling in Europe is discovering its majestic capital cities. London, Paris, Rome, Athens, Berlin, to name but a few, are all names that evoke enchanting days spent admiring superlative architecture and immersing oneself in millennia of history and culture. In Africa, the complete opposite holds true: after three months of travel, I am yet to find a single capital that warrants more than 48 hours' stay. Whilst Dar es Salaam, Nairobi and Windhoek may all sound wonderfully exotic, the harsh reality is that these urban centres of congestion chaos and pollution serve principally as unavoidable transport hubs and a quick fix of modern amenities after many weeks of backwater travel.

Having looked forward to exploring Ethiopia's historic mountain sites perhaps more than any other destination on this trip, it was with great dismay that I discovered that a combination of the vagaries of the country's bizarre calendar and the Great Sudanese Visa Quest meant that I would have to spend six nights in Addis Ababa. Bloody annoyed but unbowed, I decided to dedicate this time to finding two of life's great pleasures that had proven so elusive in the rest of the continent: good cuisine and even better coffee. With a comprehensive list of my target eateries and coffee houses in my pocket and a contrived enthusiasm for exploring a city imposed on me, I set out to conquer the capital of Africa's only country to escape full colonisation.

A seemingly fortuitous but potentially premeditated encounter with two English-speaking students led to an enquiry regarding my plans for the day and an offer of a guided tour of the city. Conscious of the numerous global city scams involving tours, tea ceremonies and unexpectedly costly dance shows, I made it clear that I would not be releasing any funds for the tour, but that they were welcome to accompany me should they wish to continue our Premier League conversation.

They followed me to Menelik's Palace; to the Holy Trinity Cathedral, where the local faithful were celebrating Easter en masse in the beautiful gardens; to the famous old railway station; and finally to the statue of the Lion of Judah - emblem of the country's illustrious royal dynasties. Their contextual information had been very helpful, and their company and conversation enjoyable; so when asked whether I wanted to try some of their mother's home cooking and some other Ethiopian traditions - at a cost clearly to be defined and approved - I accepted and followed them into a maze of ramshackle huts reminiscent of Africa's poorest townships.

After negotiating several open sewer alleyways that would not have been out of place in Soweto's worst slum, we entered the corrugated iron hut that was to be my home for the next four hours. At no more than 8' x 5' and with two low cloth-covered benches either side of a small cooking area, and a floor covered in green straw, this clearly wasn't the Sheraton. Only three posters of Cristiano Ronaldo, Angel di Maria and Steven Gerrard added a touch of colour to an otherwise drab interior. If this was a scam, it wasn't upmarket. My fears were quickly allayed, however, as the first waft of injera and wat reached my excited nostrils: this is what I had been waiting for since the day I had booked my flight to Cape Town.

As the large round dish appeared from behind a curtain, my holy culinary trinity of eyes, taste buds and stomach did a collective somersault of delight: my first taste of Ethiopia's national dish looked sensational; a steaming mound of spicy mincemeat lay atop the injera, a giant edible tablecloth of sour-fermented pancake dough. It was almost with childlike excitement and no small amount of uncoordination that I attempted to pincer dough and meat together with my right hand only -  the food tasted as good as it looked. When asked whether I wanted to witness a coffee ceremony after the food, I nearly lifted the roof off the hut with my yelping acquiescence. Seeing raw coffee beans roasted in an iron bowl before being ground by hand and transformed into the blackest liquid pleasure I had had for more than three months continued the foodie ecstasy.

After my fifth coffee, a further group of friends arrived bearing plastic bags filled with what appeared to be twigs of garden shrubbery. From my guide book, I knew what was coming: it was time to chat. The leaves of Catha Edulis, a plant endemic to the Horn of Africa and known commonly as chat or khat, induce mild euphoria and excitement when chewed slowly between gum and cheek, and render any user more talkative. Good luck guys, I thought, as I was asked what my all-time all-star football starting eleven was. As each successive bushel was dispatched by the six human ruminants, so the conversation increased in intensity. How could I not include Messi? Who the hell was Paul McGrath? And why was I wearing flip-flops in the middle of the Ethiopian rainy season?

When the moment came to ask for the bill, I braced myself for the worst and received an itemised list in what even to my untrained eye appeared to be appalling Amharic handwriting. At a grand total of $30, my suspicions of a subtle low-level scam were partly confirmed, but the reality was that the cost of feeding three stomachs and frying six brains for more than four hours was decidedly respectable, particularly when factoring in a three hour walking tour. I shook hands warmly, thanked sincerely, and bade them farewell. Beginning the long walk home to my hostel with a spring in my step and a warm fuzzy glow in my mind, I attempted to decide whether the latter was due to the coffee, chat or the warm authentic experience I had just enjoyed. Either way, I didn't really care. Well played Addis Ababa, well played.

 Praying on Good Friday

 The Lion of Judah - symbol of Rastafarianism

Come to papa, sweet injera... 

Chewing the chat...

Mood song: Buffalo Soldier - Bob Marley

Mood food: injera, injera, injera...

Backpacker Life [ii] - The Accommodation

Hostel Life:
If the backpack is the raison d'être of the budget traveller, then the backpacker hostel is his/her lifeblood. It is both the glue the binds a sequence of travel experiences and the source of social interaction that can often help to define an entire trip. The hostel's primary function, as indicated by its very name, is to provide a safe haven to recover from interminable bus journeys or day-long hikes, a welcoming oasis of warmth and comfort to be appreciated after the rigours of third world travel. Once this function has been fulfilled, however, it progresses to its secondary and more complex role: providing the opportunities for social stimulation.

Social Interaction:
Simply put, anything goes in the melting pot of international culture that is the modern-day backpacker hostel. Doors to myriad social adventures are opened at the drop of a simple "Hello..." and any sentiment of social inadequacy goes out of the window in this most unforgiving of environments. Introverts, extroverts, party animals, loners and sociopaths are thrown together to create a heady cocktail of contrasting personalities in the already intense context of shoestring travel. Connections are made and discarded in an instant, based on immediate like or dislike. Encounters are paradoxically superficial and profound, the brevity of any relationship being offset by its intensity. Just as I will probably never see Nick and Vivian again, neither will I ever forget the disarming candour with which we spoke of our life hopes and experiences on the rooftop of the Hilton in Windhoek - an evening that would categorically not have happened had we not exchanged the briefest of dormitory greetings.

Amenities & Facilities:
The three most important things to consider when rating a hostel are WiFi, WiFi and WiFi; closely followed by the quality of the free breakfast. The walls could be covered in bloodstains and the shower smell like an open sewer in Mumbai, but if a backpacker can stream Season 6 of Game of Thrones and make uninterrupted WhatsApp calls on reliable 4G bandwidth, and have three types of fruit jam, the hostel is a winner. Despite its traditional image as a low budget form of travelling for poor students and permahippies, backpacking is a big and profitable business: the more ways a hostel has to make a backpacker part with his/her cash, the more lucrative the stay. Bar, kitchen, tour desk, laundry, taxi service - these are all services a backpacker will use if available, particularly if the outside world is out of bounds after dark. My dormitory bed may have only been $12 a night, but my total bill for a recent three night stay came to $150 (Editor's note: not all at the bar). Multiply that by eight beds and you have a highly profitable room.

Resident Hierarchy:
Social ranking in the backpacking world is based on occupancy duration, with stays of one or two nights rarely eliciting more than the customary politeness reserved for paying guests. For longer or more memorable stays, a hostel can start to acquire the lofty status of home away from home. Thus, at the Fat Cat in Kampala, I am bestowed senior status on day three and am always greeted by name by owner, receptionist and cleaner. On the morning I am due to leave after a five day residency, I am handsomely rewarded for the longevity of my service by being exempt the $0,50 towel charge and the allocation of an extra pancake at breakfast. This is the backpacker world equivalent of elevation to silver status on British Airways' Executive Club.

Backpacker Nirvana:
Every so often, the right mixture of all of the above elements will combine to create a hostel experience that is so close to perfection that it is admitted to the pantheon of phenomenal travel memories. With its beautiful pool and siesta-inducing cabanas, vibrant bar and surprisingly good kitchen, and most importantly a perfect combination of fantastic staff and fellow travellers, South Coast Backpackers in Kenya has ensured that I will be the first person to visit Diani Beach for three days without actually ever seeing the beach. Esther, Ali and Paul's supreme standards of hospitality coupled with the midnight psychoanalysis sessions of the newly formed Failed Romance Club and a fantastic night pool party mean that my only experience of Kenya on this occasion will not involve animals or national parks but the gated compound of the best backpacker hostel of the trip.

And the winner is...

South Coast Backpackers, Diani Beach

Its beautiful swimming pool...

Its cosy cabana nests...

 Its deep and meaningful conversations...

Its not so deep and meaningful behaviour...

Mood song: Good Vibrations - Beach Boys

Mood food: Chef's remarkably good spaghetti carbonara