Backpacker Life [i] - The Equipment

The Backpack:
Quite simply the raison d'être of the backpacker. Its mere ownership qualifies for backpacker status regardless of age, social standing or number of children born since the last expedition. The internal capacity fluctuation challenges all laws of physics through its unexplainable reverse black hole properties: the exact same contents that fit in neatly with room to spare one day would not fit in a 40' Maersk shipping container the next. Often mistakenly assumed to be the backpacker's most important possession (see 'The Daypack'), the backpack will spend much of its travel existence out of its owner's sight - in hostel lockers or storage rooms, on the roof of a combi van or in the hold of a long distance bus - and can therefore not contain any of the backpacker's most precious items. Whilst the loss of the backpack would undoubtedly present a sartorial dilemma, the threat to onward travel would not be significant.

Life in one bag, emergency toilet paper in the other...

The Daypack:
Of all the backpacker's essential items of equipment, the daypack presents the biggest challenge. Whilst the holy trinity of mobile phone, wallet and passport (in ascending order of importance) will almost always be held on the backpacker's person, laptop, iPad, camera and guide book must go in the daypack. And the daypack must therefore accompany the backpacker wherever he/she goes when on the move, inducing a constant state of self-conscious fear known as Daypack Paranoia (DP). It is not uncommon, many years after a particularly acute bout of DP in downtown Managua, for a retired backpacker to wake up in a cold sweat at 3am feeling to the side of the bed for a non-existent daypack. There is no cure for DP, other than booking another trip.

Constant paranoia...

The Combination Padlock:
The unsung hero of the backpacker's defence armoury, the combination padlock provides unjustified peace of mind that all valuables are safe locked within a dormitory made of second hand aluminium foil and decomposed balsa wood. Usage requires a PhD in mechanical engineering and the night vision of a Sierra Madre mountain lynx when returning to a pitch black room after a night out on the coconut brandy. Not to be confused with the common key padlock, unless in possession of a pocket hacksaw when the key cannot be located within any of the 79 backpack zip compartments twenty minutes before the departure of the 2am night bus to Mogadishu.

Ethnic Jewellery:
Permissible materials include leather bracelets taken from endangered species, shark tooth pendants fished unsustainably from within damaged coral reefs, and any ivory. Fairtrade and responsibly sourced materials are frowned upon. Not to be worn for longer than seven days upon returning, unless a return to Africa/SE Asia/Latin America is imminent. The backpacker must be able to relate at least one sentimental story regarding memento provenance, for example a 16 bed dormitory one night stand parting gift, or having haggled an additional 3p from a one-legged Angolan civil war orphan. Not to be confused with seven year old Glastonbury festival wristbands long riddled with fungal subcultures and at least one minor STD.

Peace, man...

The Telecommunications Centre:
Mobile phone, iPad, iPod, camera, portable speaker; each conveniently comes with a different adaptor and plug; and each will be lost at some point during the trip, typically with less than 5% of battery remaining on the device and when camping in the middle of the Central Kalahari Game Reserve. Total expenditure of replacement chargers or USB cables will usually exceed the original cost of the trip, or the GDP of Guinea-Bissau, whichever is greater.

Getting wired

Paper literature:

Modern day usage in its classic sense is almost obsolete, save for a handful of die-hard laptopless anti-Kindle technophobes. Now only for show, strategically positioned in the bus seat back pocket or on the communal breakfast table so as to render the title visible. Extra points are awarded for material in a language other than the backpacker's mother tongue, obscure short collections of 19th century Danish plays, or any self-help topic. 

Je prétends, donc je suis...

Emergency Toilet Roll & Wet Wipes:

Trips to any third world countries as well as provincial France MUST NOT be undertaken without these two items.

Mood song: Vagabond - Beirut
Mood food: sweet chili Fritos

The Fountain Of Flowers

For all my lifelong reluctance to believe in the existence of fate, destiny, kismet and the like, it is sometimes difficult to resist the notion that there are greater forces at work than we imagine. As I arrived at Bloemfontein bus station after the horrors of Lesotho, to be greeted by the twin chimneys of a city centre power station, I briefly wondered whether the bus journey had merely flipped me from the frying pan into the fire. With no accommodation booked and scant knowledge of my surroundings, I did what any self-respecting backpacker would do and headed for the district with the highest concentration of trendy bars on the Lonely Planet city map. Hipsters are conscious of their safety as well as their image, after all.

Further demoralised after four fully booked hotel visits and needing to escape a mercilessly beating midday sun, I headed for shelter, WiFi and a morale-boosting gin and tonic at an inviting eatery. 'Ja friend, you must go to the Hobbit Hotel, it's just two blocks from here.', the barmaid tells me, saving my life for the second time in as many minutes.

As I enter the semi-militarized security gate so normal in South Africa, it is as if I have borrowed C.S. Lewis' wardrobe to enter Tolkien's Middle Earth, if the Gods of mixed fantasy literature metaphors will forgive me. This, I thought, is what a Bedouin nomad must feel like when arriving at a desert oasis after two weeks of wandering the hot Sahara sands. There is no stagnant water here, and no mosquitoes. Only a welcoming smile as I am shown to a delightful suite, complete with Victorian study room and cast iron four poster bed.

Few books marked my childhood as much as The Lord Of The Rings. As I stroll around the charming hotel patio gardens, vivid and fond memories flood back of devouring the 1,000+ pages in a little under four days at my grandparents' house in Switzerland before going on a family holiday to Italy. I can clearly recall being upset as I started reading the final chapter, Grey Havens. I only read the book on that one occasion, but formed such a personal mental impression and image of all the characters that I have been unable to watch any of the multiple award-winning big screen adaptations.

It isn't until I read into the history of my wonderful lodgings, however, and that of the author who inspired them that I realise how much closer to home I really am. J.R.R. Tolkien was born in Bloemfontein in 1892, where he lived until the age of three. His father's death in South Africa when he was on a family visit to England with his mother led to his resettling in Sarehole, a Worcestershire village 16 miles from my home town of Bromsgrove. Unknown to me for all these years, the wonderful scenery depicted in my favourite childhood read was actually inspired by the Clent, Lickey and Malvern Hills that surround our family home. Tolkien's mother is buried in the graveyard of St Peter's Catholic Church, less than one mile from my parents' house.

These are happy memories, and this is a happy travel interval. Just as the book was a temporary escape into a world of fantasy, so the Hobbit Hotel is a fleeting reprieve from the hot and dusty demands of African exploration. The wonderful welcome from Celeste, the owner, and her adorable black labrador Bonnie make the place even more special than it already is. I had not intended to come to Bloemfontein, and certainly not for two nights. But maybe, just maybe, something other than a last minute change of travel plan has brought me to this place.

My very own Bag End

Quainter than quaint

Beautiful Bonnie

Where the magic happens...

Mood song: King and Lionheart - Of Monsters And Men
Mood food: black coffee

Misery in Maseru

Sometimes it just isn't meant to happen.

I had looked forward to visiting Lesotho, with an anticipation I reserve for only the most obscure countries. With the hope of being able to look upon this tiny country landlocked entirely by South Africa with fondness whenever I gazed at a map of the world upon my return - as one of the few in the know. I had wanted to explore the country's central mountain region, to go hiking solo for the first time in Africa and discover Basotho villagers still proudly holding onto their customs; to go for a run in the cooler temperatures of the Kingdom in the Sky; to share an experience with like-minded explorers of the paths less trodden.

Not a chance.

The first thing that hit me at my Maseru hostel, conveniently located next to a swampy abandoned military airbase 3km out of town, was both the stench of stagnant water and the wall of pterodactyl-sized mosquitoes tickertape parading my entrance into the dormitory. With no WiFi, no aircon, zero lighting after nightfall and no other companions other than the French couple in the room next to me celebrating Valentine's Day as though the end of the world was imminent, I attempted knock myself unconscious with my Lonely Planet. How fitting.

The following morning, I headed to the bus station to catch a combi van to Malealea, three hours away in the mountains. At 8am I was the first passenger standing by the bus. At 9am I was still the first passenger standing by the bus. At 10am I was still the first passenger standing by the bus. At 11am I was still the first passenger standing by the bus. Even by African combi standards, this was ridiculous. My mood, already exacerbated by the worst night's sleep of the trip, was grim.

Much of my time at the bus station was spent talking to Sibelo, the 22 year old eldest of three recently orphaned siblings. With a smile as wide and generous as my old Italian grandmother, he instantly put me at ease with a warm welcome to his country and the by now familiar opening volley of questions. As our conversation matured beyond the usual pleasantries, however, the picture he painted of life in his country and his own home was bleaker than anything I had ever heard first hand on my travels. Backpackers frequently and proudly extol the virtues of visiting the most desolate countries, but rarely are they actually exposed to the real extent of poverty.

With unofficial unemployment within the country standing at 70% since the mechanization of the South African mining industry, most landowners being forced to rent out their fields to third parties and a third of the population not having direct access to running water, Lesotho sadly merits its tag of poorest African country. Sibelo ekes out a living hustling passengers into his affiliated combi vans, but of the 1,800 Maloti (£80) he manages to scrape together every month the vast majority goes towards feeding and clothing his 13 year old sister and 16 year old brother, as well as his grandmother. We talked for close to two hours, with his eloquence in English and hope for the future strangely worsening my mood, if this was even possible. If this bright, positive boy is struggling to make ends meet, what hope for the rest?

As my waiting time passed the four hour mark and with still not a single other passenger occupying any of the 22 seats, I took an executive decision that greatly displeased me: I decided to leave Lesotho there and then. The thought of another night at the hostel of doom, with no realistic prospect of logistical success the following day did not even bear considering.

As I crossed Maseru Bridge border back into South Africa barely 22 hours after arriving, I genuinely felt as though I was failing Lesotho personally - something I have never experienced before. But it was the right decision, of this I am positive. For every Namibia, there must be a Lesotho to bring perspective to a global picture. The lows of travel are every bit as enriching as the highs: they provide an insight and understanding that sunny beaches and world wonders cannot. It is just a shame they aren't as much fun.

Maseri North Bus Station - Waterloo it ain't...

Bus station sustenance

Mood song: Tomorrow - James
Mood food: bus station grilled corn

King For A Day

The guy is good, I have to concede. He stalks his prey with a mixture of subtlety and power that has earned him the status and recognition, if not popularity, that his pedigree deserves. But you don't become the Saturday morning champion of Gaborone bus station without having a few tricks of your own.

Money exchanges hands and the game takes on a new importance as the crowds gather. Who is this white boy in flip-flops? This is visceral. There is no chalk, no place to hide in the beating morning sun. Even the Coke lady has suspended her trading to witness the contest: thirst can wait when the stakes are this high. I am an unknown, here, and the betting is mostly on the champion. But two hardy souls believe in me, to the amusement of the rest. 'Kill the killer' one whispers to me both hopefully and confidently. I will not fail you, my friend.

My initial fears are allayed as I take to the table for the first time: the cue is true, as are the cushions. I play. It is a quick game, reminiscent of the first Cold War showdown between Kasparov and Karpov. Pawns fall rhythmically, mistakes are made and the table is emptied without a breath being taken. He takes the lead and it looks as though my fate is sealed as he pots three balls in quick succession. I will be nothing more than a footnote in combi car park history, it seems. But Lady Luck and an uncharacteristic lack of power allow me back in, from the brink. He stares in disbelief. On such margins empires have fallen.

These are the moments you live for: a black into the middle pocket, but with his last stripe hanging over the edge of a precipice that will surely spell my doom. Live or die. Glory or failure. Twenty-eight eyes stare at my right hand, at my tapping fingers. I stop for a second to reflect. If I had not resigned in September, if I had not taken a leap of faith and believed in a different future, and more importantly if I had heard my alarm this morning, I would not be here.

'What is your name?' Suddenly I hesitate. Is this sportsmanship from a man who senses imminent and reputation-shattering defeat or a sincere invitation to Botswana pool posterity? In that moment he reminds me of a black Clint Eastwood, and I understand his game. You see, there are two kinds of people in this world, my friend. Those with loaded guns and those who dig. You dig. I stroke the white ball, gently but firmly, and the black goes in.

A roar. An embrace from my backer. The killer is dead. As he comes over to congratulate me with a smile that reveals only seven teeth, he hands me the 20 Pula that he had already pocketed in his utmost self-confidence, and slaps me on my back. 'Another?' But that is not how it works. I say my goodbyes, saddle up and get on my bus to Johannesburg, on to the next adventure. Goodbye Botswana, you had a tough task after Namibia, but you came good.

 A victor's smile

Open air pressure 

Meanwhile, at the qualifying round of the Mosconi Cup...

Mood song: A Small Victory - Faith No More
Mood food: Wrigley's Spearmint chewing gum stick

Desert Wonderland

Every once in a while, a backpacker's travel stars align so beautifully so as to create an experience that transcends the realms of realistic expectation and enters the pantheon of personal globe-trotting immortality. The mere mention of a city or, even more rarely, an entire country that has merited inclusion into this exclusive group induces a smile of zen-like serenity and a short pause in conversation as the waves of pure memories lap gently on the shores of my travel subconscious. To New Zealand's breath-taking nature, the unconditional hospitality experienced on my Turkish culinary odyssey, and my world-favourite city of Porto, a fourth name must be added: Namibia - the desert wonderland.

Elevation to such exalted status can only be achieved by mixing a perfectly balanced cocktail using every single one of the following ingredients, and in precisely the right measures: exceptional travel companions; natural beauty to repeatedly drop jawbones to the ground; inspirational accommodation and sensational weather; food and drink to match both context and mood; and finally, the little moment-specific je ne sais quoi that can only ever be exclusive to the destination - a night out of legendary proportions, an unexpected explosion of action-related adrenaline or a sprinkling of spontaneous romance, for example.

With only limited time in which to appreciate such a vast country and my usual lack of automotive mobility, I opted to book a six day Safari & Dunes tour with the local backpacker hostel travel company. This may yet turn out to be the best decision of the entire African trip, for a better combination of nationalities and characters will be difficult to find. In Ajay, my fellow Londoner, I feel as though I may have found a future travel buddy as well as a comedy double act partner; Donna and Mark are two Aussies I would go out of my way to visit on my next tour Down Under, if only to relive the entire tour via their 2,563,991 iPad photos; Jonnathan and Julia, our two honeymooning Uruguayans became my de facto back seat beer partners and helped me release my inner latino; our two sweet German girls, Valerie and Julia, provided the youthful exuberance; and Andrea, the feisty Mexican with whom I shared an all too rare instant complicity as well as a real zest for life, travel and white wine.

With a wonderful group dynamic cemented almost immediately, nature, food and drink, and the weather took the baton with great aplomb. We were regaled with a superb mix of roadside picnic lunches amid a backdrop of barren desert landscapes, fine dining in the quirky German Atlantic seaside resort of Swakopmund, clambering through rugged canyons formed by seismic shifts in the regional tectonic plates, braais amongst the animals of Etosha, plodding up and careering down the martian-like sand dunes at Sossusvlei - a sequence of unforgettable activities and moments that combined to create an experience so much greater than the sum of its parts.

The final touch, however, was applied on an exceptional last tour evening at the best accommodation of the trip: sunset beers in the pool and an open air dinner at our beautiful isolated desert lodge, followed by a group celebration of wine drinking worthy of a Beaujolais Nouveau launch party. The last, late night and most indelible moments of the tour were spent gazing in exquisite company at the incredible Namib Desert canopy of constellations, shooting stars and a suitably lacteous Milky Way. Chapeau, Namibia, chapeau.

Even as my last day in Windhoek threatens to descend into post-tour solitude morosity, a chance hostel dormitory encounter leads to an unexpected invitation to the Hilton Sky Bar roof terrace and provides the most fitting finale to an already sublime experience. Over an unbackpackerlike dinner of sushi with champagne, we watch as horizon reds, oranges and yellows turn into city twilight and night stars in a gentle warm breeze. We exchange travel plans, life hopes and loves past, present and future with the openness of strangers who will meet for one evening only.

So as the sun sets over Namibia for one last time, I know that I will never return here in a physical sense. I cannot. In my mind, however, I will forever be revisiting every animal, every dune and every star with a smile. A pure smile.

The dune conquerors, no tourist route for these guys...

Pussy cat pussy cat, where have you been?

Desert picnic stop

 The Dream Team

The tough life of a backpacker...

Mood song: Pure - The Lightning Seeds
Mood food: Christof's evening braai

Safari Time

"Stop! STOP!!! STOOOOOOOOP!!!!!!! Hyenas, mother and cub, 8 o' clock!"

You never forget your first safari sighting. Neither will my nine tour companions, as my shrill, robbery-victim falsetto threatens to shatter every pane of glass in our spotting vehicle. That the animals have not scarpered across the border into Angola is a minor miracle in itself, but I am beaming with pride at being the first to identify this particular beast. And more than a little surprised at my evident excitement.

Of all the activities and sights that the African continent will showcase to me over the coming months, going on safari to view the local fauna in its natural habitat was the one that aroused the least enthusiasm in me. Other than a mild and unashamedly semi-narcissistic obsession with penguins (my own incarnation in the natural world), the most enjoyment I have derived from the animal kingdom has been in a very specific context: medium rare, seared on both sides and on my dinner plate.

The first hour of our first game drive in Etosha NP does little to alter my opinion: whilst the gamboling springbok and oryx entertain initially, I soon lose interest and focus instead on the scenery unfolding before me. The incredibly vast and flat landscape of savanna woodlands is a joy to behold, a spectacular African panorama framed by the biggest expanse of never-ending sky I have ever seen. This is the Africa I have come to discover, the polar opposite of my urban environment of the last eighteen years.

My reverie is interrupted by a shout coming from the front of our truck. Animals ahoy! A magnificent tower of giraffes is munching on thorn trees not 50 metres from us, a mesmerizing sight as their necks rise and fall in blissful metronomic feeding. We have hardly moved on when a dazzle of zebras comes into view, their indecent flaunting of their instruments of procreation impressing the women and depressing the men; wildebeest, hartebeest and jackals soon follow, as does a mighty rhinoceros. Suddenly I can no longer see the sky for all the animals that are now surrounding us. And then my time comes.

"STOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!"

With the hyenas safely under my belt and the pressure on me relieved, I grab the animal spotting sheet and enjoy both the bumpy ride and a crash course in zoology. Another rhino sighting divides the group: is it really white or has its black cousin simply been rolling in the dusty clay? Ostrich, helmeted guineafowl, pale chanting goshawk and black-faced impala are ticked off the list in quick succession, and with great gusto. There are three boxes that I hope remain unchecked, however: the black mamba, Angolan cobra and zebra snake are kindly invited to stay unsighted.

With a fantastic braai dinner at our evening campsite accompanied by a fortunate night sighting of a thirsty rhino drinking at a floodlit watering hole, we go to bed tired and elated. The following morning, we dive straight back into the animal world and it is towards the tail end of our sunrise game drive that the final piece of the puzzle is slotted in. The German girls get the spotting glory this time, but the ecstasy and relief are shared by all we see our first lions. A beautiful pride of four males and females, doing what lions do best in the summer sun: absolutely nothing at all. Never has such sheer laziness been so beautiful.

With the rhinoceros, giraffe, and lion highs behind us, we allow the final game drive to wean us off our animal addiction and prepare us for the rest of Namibia. In a nice touch of appreciation, a white rhino crosses the road in front of us only two miles from the exit gate. We stop to admire its formidable frame amble languidly from one side to the other before leaving Etosha. Only two of the Big Five may have been sighted on this, my first safari; but with the Serengeti and Masai Mara ahead of me and my appetite for animals having been extended to the living variety, it simply means that I have unfinished business to conclude.

My hyenas

Black or white?

 

 Lazy lions

 S'up girls...

Graceful giraffe

Mood song: The Lion Sleeps Tonight - Tight Fit
Mood food: the safari platter - mixed grill of oryx, zebra, kudu, eland & springbok

Click... Off... Gone

I look over to my phone for perhaps the fiftieth time in the last few minutes, but the flashing LED that signals a message notification remains absent. From receiving corporate emails from all longitudes and latitudes, almost twenty-four hours a day for the past fourteen years, I am now a telecommunications pariah - a social status I am embracing with wholehearted delight. My primary objective on this discovery of the African continent, before I even begin to contemplate night safaris, canyon hikes and campfire barbecues, is to disconnect completely.

Back in September 2015, when the idea became reality and I set about the task of considering the logistical permutations of a voyage that was to traverse an entire continent, the only nailed-on certainty was its starting point. For Cape Town is a truly magical city. It has a cosmopolitan aura and vibe that only global cities with a defining geographical location or geological landmark possess. And the Mother City has both: straddling the nautical junction where two oceans meet and with a natural backdrop of such imposing grace as Table Mountain, it is jaw-droppingly beautiful.

From the stunning affluent western beach suburbs of Camps Bay, Clifton and Seapoint to the vibrant city centre, via the pastel-hued houses of Bo-Kaap, the former slave district, the city has enough attractions and culture to keep the freshly unemployed amply interested for four days. Further out of the city, but within easy reach, there are the delights of wine-tasting in Stellenbosch and Fransschoek (check), or a day at Newlands Cricket Stadium with the most incredible background scenery (check).

Most of all, however, I had been looking forward to rediscovering the multitude of cafés, bars and eateries on the three central parallel streets of Long, Loop and Bree. Having spent a glorious two South African winter weeks in Cape Town during the 2010 World Cup, I was most curious to see how this kilometre-long grid of arty boutiques, hipster coffee shops and alternative cocktail bars would coexist in the southern hemisphere summer. The answer is an incredible display of good mood street life, with punters happily spilling onto pavements and intermingling with passers-by and office workers. I have lost count of the number of times I have been accosted by a random reveller asking whether I was having a good time, bru. Capetonians exude a pride for their city that stems from genuine appreciation rather than arrogance, and this is reflected in their everyday positive demeanor.

Today I implemented my meticulously conceived post-employment expedition strategy: waking up to the sound of no alarm clock; going for a run in improbably breath-taking scenery; enjoying a bourgeois seafront salad lunch involving multiple combinations of alfalfa sprouts, pumpkin seeds and rocket; strolling aimlessly and unhurried in the sunshine around whichever neighborhood catches my fancy; drinking coffee whilst attempting to resuscitate my near-defunct writing skills; and enjoying an absurdly affordable evening cocktail at one of the myriad rooftop bars this extraordinary city has to offer. At a quite ridiculous 24Rd to the Great British Pound, I am finding myself settling restaurant bills with an embarrassment only usually associated with stealing candy from children.

I am under no illusion that I have started this journey with the only element of luxury I am likely to encounter until the very end. Not only do the showers in my hostel work, but they are hot and powerful; towels are provided and I am yet to see my first cockroach; my shorts side pocket is yet to be stuffed with emergency toilet roll; and most importantly no animal has tried to kill me yet. This wonderful city has provided me with a soft landing from my former life as well as a warm continental hug in preparation for the rest of Africa. It is the perfect place to disconnect.

Camps Bay 

Cricket at Newlands 

Kleine Zalze winery in Stellenbosch

Mood song: Click... Off... Gone - Sleeper

Mood food: Biltong and boerewors

Goodbye London, hello Africa...

The time draws nigh.

Disappointed by the non-manifestation of my much anticipated midlife crisis one entire year after my 40th birthday, and without the financial or legal means to acquire an appendage-extending Porsche 911, I have decided to take the matter into my own hands. So goodbye job of 14 years, au revoir beloved flat of 7 years and arrivederci London, home for the best part of two decades; the corporate calamine lotion can no longer soothe the travel itch and it is time to hit the road again. Not wanting to undertake too large a challenge at the beginning of my new life, I have decided to travel from the southernmost tip of Africa to its northernmost metropolis: Cape Town to Cairo, travelling through 14 countries. Overland. With a detour via North Korea to run the Pyongyang marathon.

As immense a decision as it may seem to abandon a comfortable existence at the very point in my life when my pace should be slowing down, as I ought to be thinking about padding my nest for the future, this feels absolutely right. The initial clouds of self-doubt and anxiety that surprised me by their intensity have long dissipated and I am now experiencing the familiar euphoria of an impending adventure. The only trepidation that I am feeling concerns the veritable A to Z of exotic-sounding tropical diseases that await me at every turn, hike or splash. Hoorah for Bilharzia! Ding dong dengue!

For all the excitement of the unknown that lies ahead, I will miss London. In fact I miss it already. I have not yet left the country, but I can feel the inexorable pull, the siren's call of the city I called home for 18 years attempting to seduce me into returning and resettling in June. And strong will be the temptation. It is almost unbearable to imagine Monday and Wednesday evenings without my pub quiz team and running club, and to miss Putney riverside in the summer will leave an aching hole in my heart. But I will not go back to London when I return from Africa. Not yet. I need to call another city, another country my home before I can revisit London. Madrid, Buenos Aires or Tokyo - brace yourselves for a new arrival.

But this is no time for the future, the open road is calling now! No sequence of consecutive syllables could possibly sound more exciting or enticing than Kalahari, Serengeti or Kilimanjaro right now. Whether it is Sudan or THE Sudan I am going to, it matters not one bit - only that I make it out of one country in one piece, and into the next. I look forward to locking horns with unscrupulous border guards and negotiating sanitation only otherwise found in France; to reviving my international dormitory snoring ratings scale and thinking I have gone blind from the local cashew wine only to realise that I have fallen asleep with my contact lenses in; to encounter the most fascinating people I have ever met only to go our separate ways the following day.

Most of all, however, I am looking forward to rediscovering the very essence of travel: the journey itself, and all the gloriously diverse forms of transportation that will guide me on my quest. From motorcycle taxis to chicken buses, luxury air-conditioned coachliners or sidecars to suspension-shy pick-up trucks and recalcitrant camels; I will embrace it all. It is in the waves of diesel fumes and moist cosy comfort of a sweaty armpit that I find my true travel zen, and I suspect that Mama Africa will not disappoint me in that respect.

It is soon time to go back to the continent where I was born, but know nothing of. Let the new life begin.

Waka waka, it's time for Africa.

Mood song: Midlife Crisis - Faith No More

Mood food: Mama Knoll's Sunday roast

50 Shades Of Grey

One Lucky Bastard. It is as I finally attempt to dust the cyber-cobwebs of my literary aspirations that I contemplate how frequently the title of this absurdly self-promotional electronic diatribe is actually used to describe me (the adjective, dear Reader, the adjective). Its most common usage invariably refers to the very obvious benefits of the profession that keeps me in bread and water and is generally used by friends, foes and passing acquaintances following one of my gratuitously exhibitionistic social media posts vaunting a particularly succulent sliver of Serrano ham on a Spanish plaza in between business meetings.

But as so many other superficial exhortations of the general populace’s near perfect state of being proclaimed on Facebook, the message delivered conveys only part of the reality. Yes, there are the many luxury lounge champagne interludes, the outstanding culinary experiences and the megatrillions of air miles, loyalty points and hotel vouchers garnered. It’s not easy being me. But at the end of each and every single one, there is the return. The bitter return. The return to headquarters. The return to the – voluntary shiver – office.

And this is where the luck of my job runs out. For all the visual wonder and palate-tantalising fare enjoyed on these jet-set jaunts, there is always an unshakeable sense of futility that defines the temporary escapism I am fortunate to experience. For the world to turn on its axis, equilibrium must be restored: where there is good, there must be evil; where there is light, there must be dark; and where there are the azure waters of coastal Sicily, pastel hues of Vienna’s Hapsburg palaces or granite pink townhouses of Toulouse, there must be the rusting corrugated iron of Goodwins Cash & Carry, sunken ashen skyline of Sunbury Cross roundabout and endless retina-scratching grey concrete of the Dolphin Industrial Estate on Windmill Road West.

To unsuspecting visitors new to our business address, any romantic thoughts of the animal kingdom’s most sentient marine mammal frolicking gaily near a rocky seashore lined with slow-turning windmills are quickly banished as the bridge of despair is crossed and the global epicentre of monochromatic misery first comes into sight. Without warning, a dazzling array of soul-numbing greys hits every sense so simultaneously as to cause the brain to contract to a tiny amorphous blob of grey matter not worthy of the everyday life challenges of the Palaeolithic age. If ugliness is sin, then we are in hell. Or Las Vegas.

There is no escape as multiple infinite rainbows of grey pantone drabness vie for the right to bludgeon my brain’s unexpectedly vulnerable receptors of aesthetic appreciation. To my left, as I descend the stairway to my daytime doom, is a sight that would make Dante’s 9^th circle of hell seem as inviting as an aquapark on the Algarve in mid-July. Brutalist 1960s office concrete to make any soviet architect green with jealousy juts angrily against unsightly angular corrugated iron warehousing. I flinch to the right only to see menacing barbed wire railings and long-redundant faded fencing torn from its concrete pillars welcome me silently to another day in colour-blind paradise. In the distance a flight of pigeons ferries disease unnoticed from grey roof to grey roof via grey skies, utterly camouflaged, the natural world’s true chameleons in this barren environment of industrial wasteland.

 Manhattan Sunbury Cross skyline from the bridge of despair

Goodwins: a good reason to shop online

 The bridge of despair and the stairway of sorrow

Google head office, Sunbury-on-Thames

Three years ago, in a poignant example of nature’s toiling effort to preserve life against all odds, a lone wild tomato plant with one green fruit was spotted sprouting hopefully between two more liberal cracks in the otherwise harsh bitumen. The next day it was gone, crushed under the careless sole of a disillusioned office worker in pre-drudgery autopilot denial. Hope springs eternal, but not from grey asphalt.

And this is now grime prime time. This is October: long after the last hopeful rays of the Indian summer have disappeared; when the skeletal trees’ leaves are but a mushy ratatouille of canine excreta trodden underfoot; long before the reassuringly crisp cold air and ice-blue skies of winter reanimate those buried memories of summers past and future. This is a time of year when wind and rain unite in an unholy alliance to distort their gravity trajectory into the slightest gap between umbrella and bitterly frowning face; when the damp seeps through and beyond skin and bones to permeate one’s very soul.

So carpe colorem is the order of the day on every single escape attempt. To Munich, to Copenhagen, to Nice! To anywhere! I must fill my eyes and memory with enough primary colours to provide the soul energy that will allow me to hibernate through the next age of grey. I must treasure in my impregnable memory vault the rich mosaics of Madrid and green parklands of Paris, the crazily-daubed tower blocks of Tirana and mesmerizingly contrasting colours of the Croatian coastline.

And so it is that as I sit on the tube at the tail end of a sixteen hour round-trip to Vienna for a one hour meeting, far enough in mind and body from the glum humdrum of everyday office existence, I am aglow with the finest travelling vision I can be fortunate to experience: the near-infantile innocent enjoyment of both sunrise and sunset witnessed from the air and high above the clouds, on the very same day. I treasure my in-and-out day trips to Europe's far-flung corners for this very reason; I book my flights accordingly, enduring a needlessly exhausting trip there and back for the simple pleasure of witnessing the changing colours of the sky at sunrise and sunset, from the skies.

The interwoven layers and textures of cloud blankets within a rotating prism of sunset colours interact like a giant kaleidoscope as the plane banks left or right. So many shades of orange, red and blue that I do not know where to look, my only regret that I will not see the darkening shades of the sky as night gradually falls. And as the plane finally dips through the final sheet of cloud cover, revealing a drizzle-heavy English evening on yet another interminable approach into Heathrow, the colours abruptly disappear leaving an indelible memory recognisable only by the smile on my face. I am recharged, and ready for the grey.

The happy place...

Getting High

‘Get ready to enter the history books’, the sign reads.

Of all the implausible scenarios regarding the likely source of the fifteen minutes of fame owed to me by life ever since the day I reluctantly accepted that I would become neither rock star nor professional footballer, this has to be the most left field of all: going down in history as the first person to have his lower intestine, bladder and stomach force their way upwards and out into the evening air via my unsuspecting and open mouth was definitely not part of the plan, but this is exactly what appears to be happening to me.

As the world’s fastest elevator rushes me up to the 124^th floor at a speed of 18m/s, my ears pop once, twice, three times in quick succession but my guts stay put, thankfully. In less than a minute, my temporary co-astronauts and I have reached the outside viewing deck of the Burj Khalifa skyscraper in Dubai at an altitude of 452m. Although this is the tallest building in the world, my initial feeling is that I have been cheated of 376m, for only residents of the corporate suites and executive penthouses have access to the upper reaches of this architectural behemoth that stands 828m tall. As I step onto the platform, however, I soon realise that there can be no better vantage point from which to survey the first city to have entered the 22^nd century.

For there can be no doubt: this is the future. A dusky silhouette of extraordinary construction shapes and an ever-increasing random pattern of giant fairy lights dazzle as far as my stunned eyes can see in the fading evening light. It is truly breath-taking. Staring at the mesmerising sight before me, I very nearly forget that the building that I am halfway up is more than twice as tall as anything that stands within my field of vision. Incredibly, this city of just over two million inhabitants is home to 25 of the world’s 100 tallest buildings, all but 4 of which were only completed in the last three years. In comparison, the entire United States contribute a mere 22 to the list. Europe? Zero…

With each new addition trumping the aesthetic and structural excesses of the previous sprouting giant, this city has become a battleground for excitable, delusional and quite simply disbelieving architects given a blank cheque book and carte blanche to drop jaws. But whilst most of these spectacular skyscrapers would be considered icons of modern design in any European or North American city, there are a great many more that stand incomplete with empty crane cabins hovering hopefully overhead and alongside unjoined steel, glass and concrete. When the global housing market collapsed in 2008, the slow ripple of recession turned tidal wave in the overenthusiastic Emirati construction market, leading to the foreclosure of many dreams and the halting of many new follies mid-girder.

Nowhere is this more visible than at ground level. Where there ought to be parks, pedestrian walkways and office forecourts neatly filling in the space between the forest-like growth of shopping centres and tower blocks, there is nothing but dusty rubble and abandoned construction equipment. As the metro glides down Sheikh Zayed Freeway on its raised track, the scenery unfurling itself beneath me is more post-apocalyptic industrial wasteland than visionary city of the future. I half expect arab zombies to stumble into view, their rotting dishdashas blowing in the warm wind and revealing flaps of undead flesh tucked neatly inside diamante Gucci sandals...

Spot the zombie...