Big In Korea

The whispers began to circulate before the plane had even taken off from Beijing airport, but it was not until dinner on our first night in the Democratic People's Republic of Korea that the rumour was confirmed: for the first time in the history of the event, the 29th edition of the Pyongyang Marathon would not start and finish in the 50,000 capacity Kim Il-Sung Stadium due to renovation, but in the Rungrado 1st of May Stadium. Almost as an afterthought we are also informed that this happens to be the world's largest stadium and that we can expect more than half of its 150,000 capacity to be filled for our guest appearance.

There is more than enough to distract us from any thoughts of impending athletic glory during our visit of the North Korean capital over the following 36 hours, but there is a clearly discernible buzz amongst the runners. Like many of the other sports fanatics who have made the journey to this hermit state, I cannot help but relive one thousand childhood dreams of FA Cup Final appearances or leading any of my many countries of origin out onto the sporting field. And why not? Every dog has his day, after all, though in Korea this is more likely to be in the shape of a gourmet appetiser for a high-ranking military official.

An acclimatisation visit to the 1st of May Stadium on the eve of the race partly confirms some of our hopes and expectations: the stadium is an absolute beast, a colossal internal bowl of 150,000 seats flanked by sixteen stunning magnolia blossom shaped external arches, and for a second I wish I could attend the Mass Games for which the country is famed. It isn't until the following morning, however, when we are led into the athletes' preparation area and field access passage deep within the bowels of this gargantuan sporting arena, that we realise that something very special is about to happen. For once, the light at the end of the tunnel is very much literal rather than figurative, and all eyes and cameras are on the man holding the sign that announces my group as 'Amateur 1'. He is all that stands between us and North Korean stardom.

Then the moment arrives, a few minutes before the opening ceremony is due to start at 9am. Our bannerman moves forward and we walk out of the tunnel semi-darkness and onto an athletics track to the truly unforgettable, once-in-a-lifetime sight of 90,000 North Koreans warmly welcoming us into the world's biggest stadium to a background of rousing marching music. As athletes. The mass anticipation and nervous excitement from the tunnel are immediately replaced by collective shock, awe, disbelief and wonder as our jaws drop in the face of such extraordinary scenes. We gasp, we wave, we photograph. I drink in every single moment, aware as it is happening that I will never experience this feeling again in my lifetime. Words fail me completely and utterly.

We troop slowly around the track and onto the field in carbon copy choreography of an Olympic Games athlete nations' entrance parade, lining up behind our respective banners. To the right of the field, facing the DPRK top government and military officials, are the elite athletes: an Ethiopian, a Kenyan and two Zimbabweans representing the sport's traditional powerhouses; a predictably sizeable contingent from China and Russia; and the remainder and bulk of the professional athletes from the home nation. To the left of the field, theoretically facing the same local hierarchy but too busy committing this astonishing situation to digital posterity: a motley crew of one thousand international amateurs experiencing their fifteen minutes of sporting fame.

In the few moments of reflection that I have while my mind recovers from an unprecented bout of extreme sensory overload and before the race begins, I realise with great delight that these are memories that I will be able to relive and share, unusually. I may have been travelling around Africa by myself, but one of my oldest and dearest friends has flown from London to join me on this short escapade; three of my Antarctic co-adventurers have also made the journey, needing only the vaguest of suggestions on my part to reform our successful partnership. I am already looking forward to revisiting these very special moments at our next encounter, wherever that may be. With the marathon returning to the other stadium next year, we will bask in the knowledge that no other foreign athlete will ever have this experience,  In the meantime, however, the sound of a starter pistol means that I have four hours of running ahead of me...

WATCH: The Guardian's 50 second video of the marathon start

WATCH: My crappy video of our triumphant entrance into the stadium

Well hello, big boy...

Pre-race team photo

Waiting nervously in the tunnel

Waving to our adoring fans...

Lining up next to the elite athletes

4 hours later...

Mood song: Heroes - David Bowie

Mood food: raspberry energy gels

Swiss Timing

The traffic is snarling, that really is the only way to describe this pre-dawn suburban Nairobi logistical catastrophe. Our coach is currently stranded in an ocean of vehicles facing so many different directions as they attempt to find an escape route that it seems as though the world's largest magnet has drawn them unexpectedly to this epicentre of metallic chaos. Both my British queuing sensibilities and my Swiss need for order and punctuality are being stripped from me, layer by layer. We have not moved in ninety minutes and word has just drifted from the carbon monoxide airwaves that a petrol tanker has overturned six kilometres ahead. That the previously uninterrupted cacophony of minibus, boda-boda and car horns has stopped like a mutually agreed ceasefire in the early morning traffic hostilities bodes no better than the fact that most coaches have disgorged their bored passengers onto the fractured asphalt to stretch their weary legs. We are going to be here for a while.

As comfortable as I am initially, safely ensconced in my faux-mahogany and leather VIP class armchair seat and with a combined total of seventeen US TV series seasons on my laptop, my travel-planning muscles nevertheless start to twitch a little as the clock minute hand ticks closer to 5am. If it takes us more than an hour and a half to reach Nairobi central bus station, as there can be no doubt it will, then I will miss my onward connection to Dar es Salaam. As unexcited I am at the prospect of a further eighteen hours on a coach, missing this bus will almost certainly mean missing my flights to Abu Dhabi, Beijing and my final destination of Pyongyang in North Korea. I silently curse myself for making the only rule of this trip that no air travel is permissible within Africa.

Having shared my concern with the three members of the coach crew on two previous occasions, they can almost sense the heightened pitch in my voice even before I speak to them. "Sir, we think you must now take a boda-boda." The solution suggested had been swirling through my mind since the germination of my first seed of worry, but I was supremely reluctant to take my favourite form of East African transport for two very important reasons. Riding pillion on a motorbike with a total stranger, laden with three backpacks and daypacks, might seem a deranged idea at the best of times, but doing so at 4:30am in a city affectionately nicknamed 'Nairobbery' by locals and visitors alike would enter the realms of the terminally insane.

"Sir, come now, we have a boda-boda." He is right, I have no choice. As I step off the bus, I feel as though I should cast a final wave over my shoulder to my fellow passengers. Au revoir mes amis, and into the breach. My spontaneous travel agent has stopped the first motorcyclist riding alone, a young fellow with a face that is neither reassuring nor intimidating. As I move to launch the backpack onto my shoulders in an arc-like motion by now as fluid as a golfer's swing, so rehearsed is it, I am surprised to feel it being grabbed from me. Putting it over his back, the coach driver smiles at me: "No Sir, I cannot let you go alone. I will be your escort, for safety."

And so we drive off on the bumpy hard shoulder, between the never-ending rows of cars and through any gap available: the boda-boda driver with my running kit bag wedged between his thighs; me with my daypack strapped to my chest and a bottle of water in hand; and the coach driver behind me with my backpack on his back - a human double airbag transforming me into a pre-dawn Kenyan motorbike sandwich. Progress is slow initially as we weave in and out of traffic like a motorized ski slope slalom circus act, but once we pass the overturned tanker he opens the throttle and we shoot forward into the new day and Nairobi proper. Any boda-boda ride is an exhilarating affair, an adventure into the unknown, but a boda-boda ride against the clock and in such unconventional circumstances is simply magical.

We make it to the bus station with ten minutes to spare and I high five my crew with sheer, undisguised relief. Only then do I remember the second reason I did not want to resort to this course of action: with both my bank cards having been rejected by the last four ATM machines, I have not a single cent to my name. As the boda-boda driver looks at me expectantly, I take off my watch without hesitation and offer it to him with the gritty but fair stare of a spaghetti western anti-hero. But he is confused and I worry that he will not go for the deal, an outcome that would pose both a real and moral dilemma as I have no intention of parting with iPod, phone or camera - the next upgrades in the bartering order of ascendant value.

Again, the coach driver saves the day. "Swatch?", he asks knowledgeably. I acquiesce. He takes the timepiece from my hand and gives the driver the KYS 500, or $5, that he is owed for his prestation. "I like it." We both smile and shake hands solemnly as I board my next bus. Another day, another adventure.

Mood song: Connection - Elastica
Mood food: roadside stand rich tea biscuits

Saved By The Ball

The rain, when it came, wasn't entirely unpleasant; the relative temperatures of both water and air were more than bearable and the darkening skies made the brooding hills seem even more dramatic. In a remarkably uncharacteristic display of forward planning, I had even thought to bring my backpack's impermeable cover to protect my belongings from the elements. The worst of what was clearly an incoming thunderstorm, as testified by two quick forks of lightning, appeared to be heading east and over the mountains to my left. I wasn't in any immediate danger. Nevertheless, the undeniable fact remained that I was hopelessly lost in a one man kayak somewhere in the middle of Lake Bunyonyi in South West Uganda, two hours from nightfall and with no-one else to be seen in any direction.

Today was exactly the kind of day I had imagined and hoped for when first planning this voyage. For reasons unknown even to myself, my concept of ultimate freedom has always equated to floating on a vast expanse of water with only a thin hull of rotomolded polyethylene separating me from the murky depths lurking beneath. With only two previous outings to my name in forty-one years of existence I can hardly lay claim to kayaking pedigree of Olympic proportions, but the mere thought of dipping paddle into water has always conjured feelings of peace and tranquility. I could barely contain my excitement.

The plan for the day was a straightforward one: I was to launch my flagship vessel into the lake at 10:00 sharp and head for the eco-resort of Byoona Amagara on Itambira Island, where I would have a well-deserved organic lunch of locally-grown produce and an ice cold beer in the sun. My stomach pleasantly sated and muscles reinvigorated, I would gently glide back home along the many inlet indentations of this stunningly picturesque lake, my bronzed seafaring skin glistening in the afternoon sunshine. During the course of the six hours on the water, I would redress my inner disequilibrium, understand the purpose to my life, and find a solution to Fermat's Last Theorem.

The alarm bells might have gone off after needing to ask the sixth canoe taxi for directions to Itambira, for every single inlet and island resembled the previous one. But so childlike and innocent was my joy at finally fulfilling this long-held dream that any concern was consigned overboard. My lunchtime destination was reached in the time frame I had estimated, the avocado salad and fruit platter were as tasty as they were fresh, and the beer coursed cold down my throat with the taste of achievement. Content with the general state of affairs, I pushed off from the island and rediscovered the lake.

With the afternoon rain, however, came the wind. Whilst the waves generated by the passing squall did not genuinely jeopardise my stability, they did disrupt my naval orientation. Further backing my long-held conviction that I would be a liability in charge of any form of transport, I missed a turn and paddled for an hour in the wrong direction before realising my mistake. With dusk but a couple of hours away and no canoe taxi or other lake traffic to be seen, my zen-like tranquility was replaced by growing apprehension until the call came.

"Mzungu! Mzungu!"

Not for the first time did I find myself interrupted mid-reverie by the now familiar East African expression for a white man, although on this occasion I had to concede that I was more than a little relieved to hear it. A group of young children on the shore some distance behind me had understood my predicament and was calling me over - to point me in the right direction, I assumed. As I rotated 180 degrees and made my way towards them, I quickly noticed that the tallest boy was holding a plastic football and nearly capsized out of giddy excitement. Forgetting the primary concern that was finding my way home, I beached the kayak and hopped onto land asking for the ball.

Within seconds, we were engaged in a frenetic game of three-a-side using t-shirts for goal posts, my heart singing with the joys of childhood nostalgia. Tackles flew firmly but fairly, goals were celebrated and congratulated with equal enthusiasm, and sides were changed twice so as to allow all the children to play with the mzungu. That they spoke very little English only served to make the moment even more perfect, and we played with the insouciance of sweet innocence for twenty of the most magical minutes of this trip so far. Exhausted but elated, I shook every single player's hand and returned to the kayak to start my long paddle home. Two of the boys accompanied me in their traditional canoe for about ten minutes, until they were sure that I could not err again. With a final wave, they turned around and left me alone on the lake.

 What could possibly go wrong?

The pole rests at lunchtime

Dusk over the lake

Mood song: Perfect Day - Lou Reed
Mood food: Ugandan Rolex

Tour(ism) Of Duty

Staring out of the window for hours on end during any of the never-ending bus journeys that perversely form the backbone of my travel enjoyment, my mind invariably drifts to some of the most life-affirming experiences I have had on the road: summiting the peak of a volcano after four hours of arduous hiking in damp jungle conditions, to be greeted by a thousand mile view that no words can describe; the undeniably exhilarating blast of adrenaline after surviving yet another hair-raising moto-taxi ride in African rush hour traffic; the impromptu Saigon rooftop cocktail party coordinated in five minutes with absolute strangers plucked off the streets using an oversized inflatable yellow arrow. These are all fabulous moments that have punctuated a lifelong timeline of backpacking addiction, but natural beauty, roller-coaster public transport and wanton hedonism are not the only motivators that can quench my insatiable wanderlust.

Most visitors to Rwanda today come for a brief and close encounter with mountain gorillas in their only remaining natural habitat, an activity that would hold minimal appeal to me even at a fraction of the eye-watering expense of a $750 permit. Instead, my only prior knowledge of a country that has surprised me by its incredible beauty lies in another, more sinister 'g' that will forever remain associated with its history. During a period of just one hundred days in 1994, an estimated 1,000,000 ethnic Tutsi and moderate Hutu were killed in the 20th century's most savagely short genocide.

I remember the story unfolding on the news over the course of the three months of inhuman brutality, and not understanding how it was being allowed to happen without any external intervention. What I do not remember, however, is how quickly the story faded from my memory in favour of the importance of my first year of university life. And why wouldn't it? I had never been to the country, let alone met a Rwandan, after all. Now that I am here, and before I start to sample the local nightlife or plan any mountain excursions, I have an obligation and very real desire to add some historical and social context to my travel ambitions.

Similarly to Cambodia's Killing Fields and Auschwitz-Birkenau in Poland, the Kigali Genocide Museum gives a stark account of the events that unfolded via a series of outstanding chronological audio-visual displays and a memorial garden that is poignant by the virtue of its simplicity. As is usually the case in such recounts of mass human depravity, it is the numbers that do the talking. Aside from the total number of victims and the brevity of the duration, the most chilling statistic of all is that 70% of all Rwandan children witnessed an execution or saw a murder committed in 1994. The confused moto-taxi driver who got me lost three times around the hills of Kigali; the friendly receptionistat my hostel in Kibuye; most of the people I have encountered and those I simply walk past in the street have seen unimaginable horrors. I find this information particularly difficult to digest.

If the museum conveys its historical message with educational efficiency, then the Camp Kigali Memorial where ten Belgian UN Peacekeepers were mercilessly slaughtered in a school building by the Hutu militia does so with bludgeoning brutality. The damaged exterior walls hint at things unspeakable but nothing can prepare me from the horror that lies inside. In the corner of the classroom, an increasingly dense concentration of holes graphically exposes where the cowering men were mown down in a hail of bullets. The image is as indelible as it is harrowing.

By comparison, and in a welcome return to the more upbeat Rwanda of today, the Hôtel des Mille Collines immortalised by Hollywood as Hotel Rwanda is still the capital's leading luxury business hotel. As businessmen, local dignitaries and upmarket holidaymakers relax on their poolside loungers, I wonder how many of them realise that more than one thousand refugees' lives were saved on these very premises. I join the 1% in a gin and tonic, as much for light relief as light refreshment.

Driving around Kigali after having visited the three reminders of the atrocities of 1994, I see the city in a different light. There are more missionary projects, Non-Government Organisations and charity foundations here per capita than in any other African country. The modern downtown architecture and beautifully paved roads have been so successfully financed by the international community's guilt money that it is as though the events of twenty-two years ago have been wiped clean, like my memory a few weeks later. Fortunately the memorials will always be here to remind society of its dark past, just as the stunning natural beauty of the country and its large primates will do for its bright future.

The school building where the Belgian UN Peacekeepers were holed out

No caption required

Hôtel des Mille Collines - a.k.a. Hotel Rwanda

A slightly less crowded pool area 22 years later

Mood song: Million Voices - Wyclef Jean
Mood food: bottled water