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Overnighting at the Olive Grove, Moria.

I’m sitting shoulder to shoulder in a crowded bar, smoke wafts and a Grecian vocalist belts out a blues rendition the Red Hot Chilli Peppers alongside a double-bass. The crowd is singing amongst shouts of Yamas and clinks of raki glasses. Less than 48 hours ago I was standing on the side of the road ushering sleepy refugees into the backs of private cars, dodging raging taxi drivers who were supposed to be on strike. As I’ve mentioned, no two days are the same.

Let’s rewind a little here.

It’s a Wednesday night, the waterfront restaurants are bustling with Mytilini locals. We are standing on the corner out front of the main stretch, the cold wind at our cheeks with a handful of future friends.

This is the unofficial meetup point for the Moria nightshift.

People with cars collect those without, and we all head inland for 8 and a half hours of the unknown. I don’t yet know these people, but I know by the time we watch tomorrows sun rise over the wasteland of tents and olive groves we will be comrades.

Welcome to Moria, Prison turned Camp

If I had to summarise the differences between here and there in one sentence, it would be this: Pikpa was once a summer camp, Moria designed as a prison. Razor wire tops high fences that loom menacingly. Much like its former prison existence, this camp is a controlled area. Only certain organisations are allowed in, alongside only certain nationality of refugee. This ‘hot-spot’ sits atop a hill and at times has been referred to by some as ‘the worst refugee camp in the world’. Things have picked up recently and the conditions aren’t nearly as bad as they used to be, however, it’s certainly no island paradise up here.

As certain migrants were refused entrance, they began to give up hope. Despondent shells of humans began to sleep in the mud under the olive trees dotted down the slopes outside Moria. A need became apparent, volunteers began to create a makeshift camp. Providing food and water to those living on the hill, Better days for Moria began to take shape. Now it’s a community of volunteers supported by cooks, medical teams and distribution tents.

It’s not pretty, but it’s making a difference every day.

Known by some as ‘Afghan Hill’, to others ‘The Olive Grove’; this patch of hillside houses those that won’t be accepted anywhere else. It’s the steep, muddy, purgatory of those who aren’t deemed enough (of what? I frequently ask to myself) to gain entrance to the real camp. This is where I will be spending my night.

A Nationwide Taxi Strike

We meet up in the reception tent at one in the morning, a small group about to face one big problem: a country wide general strike.

The daily ferry that we rely on to move refugees on to Athens will be out of action for four days. Add to this the inability to buy supplies or petrol and we potentially have a difficult few days ahead of us.

The solution? Getting as many refugees out of here and onto a last minute refugee only ferry leaving at 7am.

The catch? They can’t buy tickets until 5am, they don’t yet know about it, there’s 900 of them and taxis are on strike.

So begins operation ‘wake up 900 humans at 4am, mobilise every volunteer car we can find, and get them to the port.’

What could possibly go wrong?

Dazed and dreamy people stumble out of the main gates of the compound into the freezing winter night, where we are armed with mittens and huge vats of hot chocolate.

Volunteers from across the island line up down the road, they have responded to our whatsapp group call for help. So far, so good. We wait patiently for hoards of refugees, but they dribble out slowly.

We fit oversized mittens onto tiny hands and scoop out ladles of sweet hot chocolate into paper cups.

A yellow taxi pulls up, then another. Clearly the taxi strike is going well. I’m warned by longer-term volunteers that tension here with the taxi drivers is not a new phenomenon. They want business, they need money to support their families during these tough economic times, some are happy to throw punches to make a point.

We try to ensure the taxis are filled before any private vehicles. More and more taxis arrive, agitated that the families who don’t want to be split up are being taken by private vans. Voices raised are raised.

No Greek translation is needed to understand how hostile this situation is getting.

A Long Morning Ahead

This is a tough situation for all involved. We spend the rest of the morning shepherding refugees into orderly lines, keeping them off the road and out of the way of furious taxi drivers accelerating dangerously hard around the hilly roads.

Trying to keep the peace.

Racing against a deadline.

Eventually, it’s over.

Those still left at Moria will be spending another 4 days. The rest, I hear, are facing pandemonium at the port where cold weather and a delayed ferry has lured a different team of volunteers down to hand out more food and blankets. Either way, tickets are sold out and at some point in the morning our guests will be departing for the shores of Athens.

Morning in the Olive Grove

Day breaks to a desolate panorama of tents and trash strewn amongst the olive trees. Two refugees gather around a fire billowing smoke out of a steel drum, a single volunteer joins them.

For whatever reason, they didn’t make it on this ferry; perhaps they didn’t have enough money. The muddy slopes around Moria will remain home. I stumble down the hillside to join them – I’ve been awake now for 24 hours, not that I’m counting.

A moments tranquility and a fragrant paper cup of masala chai from the tea tent is interrupted by a distressed African man. ‘Somalians are still humans’ he wails. He lifts his jumper to reveal his teeshirt soaked in blood flecked vomit. ‘I’m sick, look.’

Are we not all humans?

life here is hard, even harder when you can’t get registration. He is inconsolable as a patient volunteer tries to resolve the situation. This man is claiming that his registration papers were torn up by officials as they deemed him to be Kenyan, rather than Somalian. We’re living in a world where the words on the front of your passport mean everything. When you have no passport, it becomes almost impossible.

I watch him leave, escorted by a volunteer and trailed by his family, we will make up a tent for them in the meantime. Who knows how long this will take to be resolved. My heart aches.

The end of a long night

Hunched over a soup in the skipchen food rescue tent, home time is feeling within reach. It’s been a long night, and I still have lots to do over the course of the morning before I will finally make my way to bed. By the time my head hits the pillow I’ve been awake 36 hours, sleep feels like a luxury, I indulge myself.

I reflect amidst the vivacious energy of Bobiras, a popular volunteer hangout in the centre of Mytelini. A rare evening off, a time to share war stories with my fellow comrades. To drinl bottomless rakia, talk about our plans and say hello’s and goodbye’s to the never-ending revolving door of short term volunteers passing through the island.

Like a half-drunk UN, I wouldn’t be surprised if we spanned all corners of the globe from this packed in little night spot. It’s been an interesting week of re-finding my groove now that there’s no boats to be rescued, but each day I find new ways to fit myself in to this surreal little island.

October 18, 2018
A Rainy Sunday in Panagiouda

Gulls swoop and dive, riding the currents of the stormy air, oblivious to the tumultuous conditions south down the shore line. Weather conditions have been dire overnight and the ferry to Athens never left.

For a change of circumstance I am feeling cosy and well rested, having to put myself first after picking up a nasty cold. A much needed day off in the gorgeous small Grecian fishing village of Panagiouda, where alternating rain, hail, and on occasion snow, bounces of the picturesque cobblestones that line the promenade at oceans edge.

But there is no respite from the situation here on Lesvos. Within moments of awakening I was already reading and catching up on the events that took place overnight. I wonder, as I sit here and watch the rain fall over the eucalyptus trees, what will today bring?

A Night Without Ferries

The current setback in the ongoing saga of disaster is that the ferry to Athens never left last night, Leaving many displaced refugees around the port area and an urgent call for volunteer help to distribute food, water and blankets. I’m yet to understand the real impact of this, or know anything other than second hand information.

For many, it has been an exceptionally long and hard night on the island.

The ferry does eventually leave for Athens, a nine hour journey with around 2600 damp, cold and sick refugees who have spent over 24 hours seeking shelter around the dock, many refusing to return to the camps out of fear they will miss the boat and be required to pay for a new ticket.

A Cold, Snowy Winter

In part, a day of respite catching up on work and drinking coffee whilst my cold recovers and my voice returns feels luxurious. But really it is a necessary preparation for receiving the large numbers of boats that will arrive once the weather clears. At the Turkish end of the ocean, the boats hold off departing during such dire conditions, leading to a congestion and backlog of boats ready to cross once conditions become safer.

Unfortunately even under the best weather conditions, it is a dangerous trip and the nights are expected to plunge well below zero, with snow expected tomorrow. Hardly ideal conditions for anybody packed into a dangerous and overcrowded vessel in the middle of the night.

According to todays UNCHR daily report, we have received 18,106 arrivals this year already. That’s a daily average of 1,132 people, so it’s easy to imagine how quickly a few days of holding off sending boats can pile up and accumulate, leaving the volunteers at this end with some very busy, and exceptionally cold, nights ahead of us.

A Change of Scenery

As of last night, I am now based in Panagiouda (??????????). A small fishing village 6km north of Mytilene where I was before. Perhaps a new home for a while, or maybe just a brief change of scenery. I am now on the doorstep of Moria the largest refugee camp on the island of Lesvos. This is where most refugees go to get processed, and end up staying for periods of time. Although I will not be allowed inside Moria itself, only certain NGO’s and authorised personelle are permitted in, there is a massive overflow of refugees creating a secondary camp on the outskirts of the premises.

I plan to spread my time over the coming month between Pikpa, Moria and the night shift/boat arrivals. It’s a continual process of finding where you can be most useful and provide the best use of my skills. Pikpa is beginning to feel familiar and I very much enjoy the team based there. It also has room for me to get involved with the night shift, and I feel passionately about getting involved with various changes that can be made to streamline and improve the entire process. However, I am also acutely aware that meeting refugees on the beach is only a tiny part of the process. It is at the Moria camp where I will get an understanding of the true scope of this enormous crisis.

Onto my second thick and strong Greek coffee and the rain pelts down onto the cobblestoned esplanade outside, I now contemplate the week ahead. Each day brings new challenges and adventures and there’s no way of knowing what is right around the corner.

October 18, 2018
The Evolution of an Island

Like a small child, I eagerly gather around the storytellers of Lesvos. The old-timers who were here before the media circus arrived. Helpers who roamed the island a year ago, but you could be forgiven for thinking I’m talking in decades. Things move quickly, this is not the same crisis it was a week ago, let alone a year. The stories they tell talk of desperation, lack of infrastructure. Packs of two or three rescuers hauling in boat after boat unaided. Missions waist-deep in silt handing out 100 meals to 10 times the number of begging, faceless arms reaching up from swamps of mud. Each day brings a new way to experience hell.

I’ve landed here at a pivotal point in the evolution of this refugee hot spot. A time when the media attention brings volunteers by the boatload, where NGO’s meet and plan and structure things on a daily basis. Every moment I exist here I see new signs of organisation taking hold, things beginning to integrate.

But they are still dying. Drowning at the hands of the Turkish coastguards by the boatload. No amount of organisation or NGO integration on this side is going to change what is happening on the other side of that invisible line dotted through the Aegean.

This morning Lilian shared:

“33 people drowned tonight. You probably won’t hear of their deaths. 3 boats left Turkey yesterday evening and only 1 made it to Lesvos. The other 2 were intercepted by the Turkish police who slashed the boats with knives and used a hose to fill them with water. Everyone drowned.

Apparently this is normal.

The EU is investing €3billion for Turkey to “close its border” with Greece. I now realise what that really means. Borders don’t physically exist.

A man broke down crying in the medical tent a short while ago, he was on the boat that made it across. He watched the other boats sink. He begged for this information to be passed on to the rest of the world. He begged for the lives of those lost to be counted.”

Border control takes on a different meaning in my life these days.

My own story of Lezvos tells another tale of evolving tragedies. I’ve been observing through endless coordination meetings how the landscape of a disaster changes through NGO integration and appearances. Once a week, often more than that, I find myself perched around a boardroom table. Official representatives of the UNHCR control powerpoint slides on the second floor of a rather official hotel. My first visit to this meeting began with directions to find the large hotel with the flags outside, follow down the side, past the pool then up the spiral staircase. A different world from muddy camping spots and half-sunk rubber boats.

These meetings are part of the reason that the outlook is slowly shifting at this end. Things are changing, people are integrating. The days of too many volunteers running around the shorelines like headless chickens, desperate to adorn baby’s shivering toes with tiny socks, is coming to an end. Some order is being restored to the chaos on Lezvos.

Over the summer a call was put out. HELP. We need volunteers, this is too much. So they came, in droves. A new problem emerged, we had too many people in some places, at some times, but still a deficit in others. With so many different organisations mixed with large handfuls of independent volunteers, there was no central system to tell people where to go or what to do. Distribution of people was unbalanced, things have needed to change. Now the challenge is to organise these helpers from around the world into a structure that is not only useful, but balanced.

Newcomers are pulled to the drama of the shorefront, the feel-good experience of pulling babies out of sinking boats, and it has become everyones job to highlight the importance of other operations. How desperately we need to clean up the beaches, wash the clothes and sort the donations. The coast guard are taking care of the boats for now, but whilst you stand staring at an empty horizon rising over the sea, we have hungry mouths to feed back at the camps.

The SOS is shifting to the other side. Questions are coming up around how to educate refugees before they leave Turkey. So many are naive, being sold extravagant stories by slimy people smugglers. Promised nice boats, safe travel…

just hand over all your money.

There are small things that could make a big difference if only they knew what they were getting into. “Please, people – wear emergency blankets under your clothing” I want to run over there and shout in the streets. “The life jackets – they aren’t real!” they need to know. However, with the strong hold that the smugglers have over that community, it is risky business and a message that is going to be difficult to pass on.

A friend of mine, Vanda Smrkovski recently explored Izmir, confirming all my fears about uneducated refugees just beginning their jouney

“I ask the waiter for a small plastic bag. I take off my right boot, slip the bag over my sock, and show the Iraqi guys. “Please, find some plastic bags, cover your socks. It will keep your feet dry when your shoes get wet,” I say with urgency. They seem surprised that their feet could ever get wet.”

As always, life here on Lezbos continues to pass by in a series of soul crushing vignettes.

October 18, 2018
Meeting refugee boats on the South coast of Lesvos

I watched the sun rise over the Turkish Izmir coast this morning. The mountain ranges cast watercolour silhouettes across the sky, the mandarin sun crept up through the horizon. It had been a quiet first night on the night shift, watching for tiny boats out on the horizon.

We met in the deserted town square at four AM. The air was biting cold, and I had barely twenty minutes of restless sleep beforehand. This all left me extrodainarily nervous about what the morning might bring.

Within 15 minutes of being on the road we arrived at a boat landing site with the refugees already on the shore, accompanied by many different groups of volunteers from organisations and NGO’s based in the South part of the island. It was a gentle introduction to the world of meeting boats and I spent most of the time hovering around the edges attempting to figure out how to be useful.

By the end of the morning it became natural to just jump in and do what’s needed, but for most of the morning I found it a hectic and somewhat confronting environment, it was challenging figuring out how to be of help.

After the first initial rush of arriving at a boat landing, our patch of the island south of Mytilini quietened down. We retreated to our cars to cruise up and down the coastal stretch of road, listening for updates and scanning the horizon for boats. Memories of overnight ambulance shifts flooded back as we patrolled around the area waiting for some news.

It was during a moment of tranquility, watching the clear night sky give way to a gentle sunrise across the water that an SOS light signal was spotted far off in the distance by a keen eye, soon confirmed with a pair of binoculars.

This was to be the first of a string of three consecutive boat arrivals on the same stretch of beach over the next hour.

The process of guiding arriving boats to shore involves a squawking and emotional chaos of torch flashing, waving, flares and finally people wading out into the ocean in wetsuits to meet & pull the frightened and sodden humans from their terrifying excuse for a boat.

It can take close to an hour after first spotting a boat for it to arrive, and to guide it in toward a safe landing destination, as free as possible from the rocky outcrops that frequent this coastline.

Due to the landscape, poor quality rubber boats and the oppressive darkness, the risk of drowning is high.

Even once the boat has arrived to land, it is not yet safe.

People smugglers overcrowd boats, fitting as many as 50 into rubber boats designed for just a dozen. This overloading, combined with the anxiety and excitement of arriving, can often lead to boats overturning at the last minute. A situation that sounds manageable, but results in large numbers of cold wet people and a significant increase in the risks of severe hypothermia.

It is at this crucial ‘docking’ stage where volunteers and coastguards step in, jumping often knee deep into the ocean to grab hold and pull the boat into safety. Once secured, people are helped out one by one. Babies are handed out to the outstretched arms of waiting volunteers and the passengers drenched baggage is piled up on the beach.

Dazed and confused people are helped out onto the sand where they often collapse from shock, hypothermia or just emotional overwhelm.

This is the most chaotic part of arrival, yet everyone manages falls into sync. Whilst doctors attend to the serious cases and ambulances are called, we all get in and do whatever is needed. Cold wet feet are dried with towels and babies are quickly changed into warm & dry clothing. Boxes of donated items sorted by type are laid out on the beach, and the mission is to get everyone changed into dry clothes and shoes before hypothermia has a chance to take hold.

Emergency foil blankets are wrapped over-skin of the particularly wet or cold, covered by clothing and blankets. Those who arrive in a good state are free to take the clothes they need to change into, whilst the young, old and sick are attended to by volunteers. Items being handed out include everything ranging from sweets and chocolate to perk up the kids, bottles of water and bananas to stabilise blood sugar levels and disposable cups of warm tea to help in the relentless battle against hypothermia.

Once the UNCHR buses arrive, ready to transport the refugees to the largest camp for processing, it becomes a rush to get everyone on board as soon as possible – allowing us enough time to clean up the beach and organise our resources in time for the next arriving boat. Then, with barely a moment to catch a breath, we do it all over again.

My day ended almost 11 hours after it began. Feeling bewildered and overwhelmed, touched by so many stories and faces, I made my way groggily back to camp. There wasn’t much that needed doing, and to be honest I wasn’t much use in my present state.

So I headed back towards Myteline for some rest, walking along the coastline to clear my mind. The sticky scent of pine needles wafted from the forest on my left, and I could hear the frothy waves snapping at the shores to my right.

The orange skies of dawn had transformed to a brilliant blue, reflected in the crystal clear ocean. I picked up a smooth, polished rock and skipped it back out into the water. If it weren’t for the reflective orange catching my eye from a wayward lifejacket bobbing in the surf, or the ominous black shadows of deflated rubber boats sitting on the sea floor, I could have almost pretended this was a holiday.

October 18, 2018
Evelyn Cafe, a Story of Knitting in Solidarity

Stepping into this cozy little local cafe, it’s only the tittering and laughter emanating down through the stairway that gives the party away. For almost a month now, Mytilini resident Evelyn has been hosting knitting evenings in the upstairs dining room of her self-named cafe.

Local Greeks flock to Evelyn Cafe every Sunday evening to meet, laugh, drink coffee and most importantly knit in Solidarity. Hats, gloves and mittens of all shapes, sizes and colours are crafted with love to pass on to the cold refugees that arrive daily onto the Island. Other craft nights and book clubs meet up in this charismatic cafe, but it is Sunday nights that have the island talking.

Nestled in the heart of Sapphos square, Evelyn cafe is almost as gorgeous and welcoming as Evelyn herself. In my short time spent here, I felt like family. I was readily welcomed upstairs to join the group and served plates of galaktoboureko, a Greek traditional creamy custard pie, to celebrate the arrival of a new grandchild born to a member of the group.

Evelyn diligently ferried trays packed full of coffee and teacups up and down the stairwell all the time enquiring about our time as volunteers. ‘Does Pikpa need woollen hats for children?’ we were asked, as one woman attempted to decide carefully where each package of donations was most needed. These people really care, a lot. So much in fact, that before they began knitting in solidarity in Mytilini, many of these volunteers were responsible for collecting clothes and goods from all around Greece and delivering them to Lesvos refugee camps.

It is heart warming to so frequently encounter all these sub groups of do-gooders nestled amongst all the larger NGO’s and UNCHR-affiliated organisations. A constant reminder that it only takes one person to start a revolution, to bring change to the world. Charity really does begin at home, and it doesn’t matter whether the change you bring comes in the form of pulling people off boats, handing out hot cups of tea in the middle of the night or hand knitting a tiny pair of mittens – all help is meaningful, and really does make a difference over here.

The joy is infectious, and despite the upstairs space being packed full of knitters, we were ushered inside and informed of a Greek proverb “there is room for all the good ones” she said, ” so we will find somewhere!”. The warmth is abundant and the enthusiasm flows. After days of mostly meeting a combination of refugees and international volunteers, this evening has been my first real introduction to local Greek hospitality, and my, what a beautiful introduction it has been.

October 18, 2018
The Donation Warehouse and my First Day Volunteering

Today I held the tiniest little jumper I have ever seen. That’s when it hit me: this mountain (and I mean serious mountain) of donated clothes piled up in a hilltop warehouse was all destined to be worn by real people. Wet, cold, exhausted and often sick people. People who risk their lives to seek asylum. Even tiny little people, like the baby who will someday soon be tucked into this exact jumper.

A jumper that will be pulled out of a night-shift car and wrapped around to keep her warm on her way from the cold, wet beach over to one of the island’s refugee camps. Perhaps held by her parents, perhaps separated from her family on the way, or perhaps even orphaned.

A day spent in the donation warehouse

The warehouses here bulge full of donated goods. The state of most is so abundant that Lesvos tends to be in much greater need of people to sort and organise the donations than of the donated goods themselves. There are, of course, things still greatly needed. Shoes are in high demand, as are tracksuit trousers that are easy to get on to a cold and wet arriving refugee. As it turns out, other types of trousers aren’t easy to slip onto a cold and drenched person – practical considerations that aren’t often thought of when people are gathering clothes and donations to send over.

Spending a day in a warehouse sorting donations is a great way to get a feel for the enormity of it all. I organised an endless supply warm and practical clothes – many designer labels, some brand new, into boxes.

I felt anger well up at how many people see refugees coming and judge them on their fashionable clothes, assuming they are abusing the system What possible hardship could they be suffering? If they are, then Why don’t they buy cheaper clothes and spend their money on their suffering families? Questions I have heard before, in one form or another, and never fail to stir me into anger at the ignorance of much of the world.

A world full of fake life jackets

I spent part of today cutting open life jackets as part of a project to salvage the parts. The beaches of the island are littered with them, as so many more people arrive by boat with each coming day.

Some very resourceful and creative people are using the stuffing as insulation for camp tents, the straps to hold structural frames together and the fabric is being sewn into bags.

They were all fakes.

Life jackets stuffed with packing foam that actually absorbs water – made and sold cheaply to refugees who’ve often never seen water in their lives, let alone learnt to swim.

The contrast was apparent between the ingenuity of the project with the wretchedness of knowing how intentionally people were providing these unseaworthy jackets.

The landscape of Lesvos, A night on the beach

Driving down the main coastal road from Mytilini you get an incredible view of the mountainous Turkish coastline where the refugees are departing from. It’s so close. Only 10km away, yet it takes up to 10 hours for refugees to cross due to bad weather, dodgy engines, not enough fuel or overcrowded boats capsizing midway. The people who do finally make it across are wet, frightened and often separated from their families.

In the early hours of tomorrow morning, 4am to be precise, I will go out to the beach to meet arriving boats for the first time as part of a medics team. I am expecting something quite extraordinarily different from my current warehouse work – a long night, with my shift finishing at 10 in the morning.

I have been told to expect to get wet & end up somewhat in the ocean, to expect large numbers of hypothermic cases and completely overwhelmed and exhausted people arriving. I am also expecting a large number of boats to arrive tonight due to previous nights bad weather. I am feeling both excited to help and nervous about how much help I will be.

I’m certainly pleased to get out on the front line, back under pressure where I am in my element, although nervous around the unexpected. I’m sure once the first night is through and I am into the swing of things the nerves will disappear.

October 18, 2018
Arriving into Mytilene, Lesvos

After a long, sleepless, overnight ferry, I have arrived into the port of Mytilene, windswept and dark-eyed but with unyielding enthusiasm.

I will be based for at least the next few days. I will spend my first few days on the ground working at a warehouse and assisting to sort donations before heading out to volunteer with other organisations, in different capacities. It is a bit of a rite of passage and general requirement that all volunteers arriving on the island spend at least their first two days like this before branching out and moving on to where they plan to work.

First impressions of Mytilene

This evening was spent wandering around the harbourfront of Mytilene, taking in the delicious sunset over the water, spotting rainbows and trying out local Greek cuisine. Walking down past the ferry dock brought on waves of emotion and heartache, being surrounded by an air of displacement and energy of people wandering lost.

Spotting the camp issued/donated orange backpacks dotted around and busses packed full of refugees being brought over for their next long journey out to Athens by sea nearly brought me to tears, and had my stomach in knots. The reality and hugeness of the situation finally settling in. I got a very brief glimpse into this world I’m about to throw myself into – head first. It feels right to be here. Expansive and heart opening. But at the same time I am aware of emotional sensitivity building up in me, a strong push to be here for as long as I can, to do as much as is needed for these people.

I am house sharing a sweet little apartment with colourful walls and orange trees outside the window for a few nights with two other volunteers that I shared the ferry journey with. Once I have spent a few days talking with others and clarifying which part of the island I plan to root myself in I will look for more long term accommodation.

A Terrible Crisis on a Beautiful Island

The city of Mytilene is absolutely stunning. Breathtaking vistas across the semi-circled harbour, hills of pine hang over the gently sloping hills of picturesque housing with sailboats bobbing in front. Thanks to both the economic and refugee crises, tourism in Mytilene will be down as much as 80%-90% this summer, which is absolutely devastating for local business owners.

It is still a wonderful destination with so much beauty to see, and Greek culture to experience, that a big part of helping the island stabilise and hold all these refugees is by helping to promote tourism on the island, and show people that it really still is a wonderful place to visit. The weather was beautiful in Athens, and remained clear in Mytilene other than a brief period of showers and claps of thunder.

No refugee boats arrived yesterday due to such dangerous conditions out on the sea brought by storms, this means that more and more refugees will be collecting over at the Turkish coast and we will be expecting a massive influx to arrive over the next few days. Life is about to get interesting I am sure.

So for now I have an evening to relax into the calm before the storm, everything will begin tomorrow…

October 18, 2018
Stepping Into Lesvos – The Journey Begins

I have been transitioning between two polarities this weekend, via a few days to settle and re-balance myself in London. From a safe bubble-like space of meditation, structure, schedules and safety-nets to a completely different world – one where I will be responsible for my own time management, schedules, finances as well as providing (rather than receiving) support and care to numerous others.

From a large, cozy house in the Dorset countryside to the unknown. A Greek Island off the coast of Turkey, steeped in mythology and history yet drowned in souls seeking asylum. New faces and experiences await me, that I am sure.

Having come from a space of self development and personal growth, London was a series of welcome overwhelms. Sitting on the subway I noticed I was the only person in the carriage not on a phone, the only person sitting in awareness. I wondered if perhaps I was the only one to really smell the orange being carelessly peeled by the passenger next to me. Learning mindfulness at even the most mundane times has become a gift in my life, something I have honed further the past few months and that I hope will serve me well in the more difficult landscape of Lesvos.

Preparing for the journey

I have spent the last few weeks preparing. Just as much a mental & emotional preparation as a practical one. The more I read, the more I learn about where I am heading the stronger the pull feels to get there. So much is happening in each moment, and this situation has been escalating for a long time now. As over a thousand refugees land on Lesvos each day, I am looking forward to joining them soon and providing whatever help and support I can.

Part of my mission into Greece is to help build some awareness across the globe. So many people have no idea how significant this crisis is, how huge and consuming, not to mention how long it’s been going on. As well as providing real help & support on the ground, I also have a passion to share the experience, place and people with the world.

A 10 hour ferry from Athens to Lesvos

As I write this I am sitting on a rather large ferry, somewhere in the middle of the Aegean sea and it’s the middle of the night. Once the sun begins to rise, I will be nearing my final destination of Lesvos and coming to the end of my roughly 10 hours journey via sea. The first hour made me a tad nervous as sea sickness kicked in. 10 hours, I imagine, is a rather long time to be seasick. Luckily with time it subsided and I am feeling good now, albeit rather alert for 1am thanks to massive over indulgence in delicious Greek coffees back in Athens today.

Greece, so far, has made a good impression. Athens is stunning and the weather has been surprisingly warm and sunny for January. Wondering through Athens you wouldn’t realise there is such a massive refugee crisis happening so close by, let alone a massive economic crisis too. The people are friendly, business is running as usual and first impressions are good. There is a large volunteer effort happening down at Piraeus port, however it is in the arrivals part and despite receiving contact information to go and meet the volunteers there, my visit through Athens was brief and I didn’t get a chance to stop by, so my impressions of Athens are brief and very limited by my own rushed visit.

Image source: UNHCR Northern Europe

So, what do I know heading into this?

As winter really kicks in here in the northern hemisphere, the numbers of refugees arriving in Lesvos by boat are still exceeding 1000 per day, often as many as 2000 or more. These asylum seekers are coming from mainland turkey, arriving in over-crowded and often dangerous rubber boats, sometimes requiring towing in to land, and in extreme cases capsizing before reaching the island.

A Turkish factory has been caught producing and selling non-bouyant life jackets. A sad and horrific addition to an already disastrous situation.

Speaking of life jackets, there are a number of controversies on Lesvos around the unimaginably large numbers of discarded life jackets leftover, what to do with them, and who is allowed access to them. A small number of volunteers were recently detained by the local authorities over taking life jackets off what they considered to be private property.

The information surrounding this is rather blurry, and it is hard to understand or know the details and motivations. On a lighter note, there are some great initiatives of people doing some fantastic things with old life jackets, such as using the straps to reinforce tent frames, using them to create bedding, padding and flooring, and even reconstructing them into carry bags and satchels, both for refugees as well as for sale (with all funds going back into the organisations and donations)

A formidable task ahead

Although the forecast this week is for good temperatures, there have recently been storms causing problems for people at sea, and temperatures are due to drop next week to overnight lows below zero degrees celsius most nights.

Lesvos is a large island, and the numbers of refugees arriving at different ends vary from day to day – I will need to be flexible in my location and help I provide in order to be of the most assistance over there.

Things have been shaken up over at the Turkey side with an explosion, thought to be an ISIS suicide bomber, killing and injuring tourists over in Istanbul. It’s a volatile time to enter into this corner of the world.

I believe things will make more sense after I have properly settled in and had a look around, for now I am going entirely on a combination of news reports, volunteer communication groups online and talking with people. My journey continues.

October 18, 2018
Mongolia in the early spring, Life in a Ger Camp
Ever since I can remember I’ve found myself enamoured with far-off lands. Jungle explorations, desert treks through the Sahara, far away Nepalese mountain ranges and small Himalayan villages. So it comes as no real surprise when I locked eyes with the possibility of Mongolia, and even less unusual that I found a Ger to sleep in.

Attracted to the remoteness of it all, a long journey by rail into the heart of one of our world’s most unforgiving landscapes. To cap off the tail end of an emotional overland Journey across Asia, from Malaysia up to Beijing, it made sense to continue on northward, and make our way into the centre of Mongolia.

Gorkhi Terelj National Park

We arrived into the steppe in the morning from Ulan Bataar, the capital city of Mongolia and home to almost half of Mongolia’s total population. This was a trip into Gorkhi Terelj, A National park that despite its proximity to the city, still feels a million miles away. Mongolia is a land unknown to many, and even in the modern day, around 30% of the population is still nomadic, or semi-nomadic.

These lands have passed hands many a time, the area of what we now call Mongolia has been ruled by various nomadic empires such as Xiongnu, Turkic Khaganate, Rouran, and the Xianbei.

On our arrival, ravens were perched about the place, as shiny as an oil slick. The air smells of coal fires and a sub-arctic wind whipped through the vast, dusty plains. A glacial valley slopes down the hill with a cluster of bare birch, mostly hacked down for firewood.

Enormous, Vast Landscapes dotted with Gers

Shaggy cows and yaks nibbled upon whatever sprouts they could find, and occasionally, a solitary purple flower burst from the most unexpected of places. The land was unimaginably vast, I’ve never felt so remote.

Towering rock formations gaped at the edges, and small slushes of snow still decorated parts of the hillside. This was the very beginning of spring, and the day our ger camp was due to switch on it’s running water wasn’t until tomorrow. Winters are brutal in the Mongolian steppes, and the luxuries of plumbing are not practical whilst it is so cold.

The land around us was lumpy and laden with marmot holes, and the lolopping silhouettes of the creatures bounding across the hillside provided an unexpected novelty. Small, round Gers dotted the landscapes, reigned in by the bordering fences that designated each small camp.

Lands Beyond the Gobi, Life in Gers

If you are not already familiar with Mongolian vernacular, and let’s face it, who is? Then you might have heard of the Gobi desert, of the Mongolian steps, of frozen tundras. All vasty far away and hostile destinations. But the name ‘Gobi’ is actually a Mongol term for a desert steppe of a very particular kind. One with enough vegetation to support the life of a camel, yet not enough for that of a Marmot.

Judging by the prolific existence of marmots, I expect we were beyond the Gobi and now into something more life-sustaining. Not that you’d know by looking around at this vast and inhospitable landscape.
A Changing Way of Life

Mongolia is the worlds most sparsely populated country after Greenland. Up until recently, a majority of the inhabitants lived nomadic lives, existing off their herds who live off the land. Following them around the country in tune with the seasons. Yet, the country is now in a period of rapid urbanization. More and more people are seeking out a permanent base in the capital city in the name of education and professional careers.

This exodus into the unfolding comparative metropolis of Ulan Bataar is leaving those back in the countryside with fewer people to do the work required of them, making things more difficult for the hundreds of thousands of Mongolians choosing to preserve the nomadic way of life, one that spans back at least a millennium.

Mongolians share a close relationship with the land and the creatures that inhabit it. Depending on the region, all manners of farming, hunting, and hoarding can be found. Here in the steppes of central Mongolia, the nomads raise horses, yaks, sheep, goats, and camels. If you traverse far toward the northwestern border of Mongolia and Siberia, you will find the Tsaatan people who raise reindeers. Further afield, thousands of kilometres in the far western Bayan-Ölgii Province, the Kazakh community of eagle hunters live.
Life inside a Ger

Inside our Ger is spacious and colourful, the walls decorated with blue, satin fabric and painted orange supporting beams. The many small poles that lead up to the highest point are hand-painted with bright, traditional patterns. The centre-piece of our living space is a small coal stove with a chimney reaching out beyond our ceiling.

Our host would silently enter through the day and night, sometimes with a small, playful boy in tow, and top up our fire with more wood and coal. This was protection from the springtime air which hovered around -8C throughout the night.

The walls of our sanctuary are flanked with 3, large, single beds made up with soft blankets and pillows filled like beanbags. A table sat between the beds and the fire, above knee-height with three tiny stools, one painted orange to match the beams. Over the days, we would come to appreciate those quiet, cool moments before the fire was once again re-stocked with blazing hot coals, bringing our small space back up to roasting temperatures.

Living a Nomadic Life in Mongolia

These Ger’s are designed to be moved frequently. Four times a year is normal in most parts of Mongolia, although only twice in this park. Traditionally the Ger’s are packed down and shifted by horses, cows or camels. Nowadays, with cars – regardless, a home can be re-assembled in just one hour – the sheer act leaves my mind boggling.

Gers resemble quarantine huts, bizarre alien formations dotted across an already alien landscape. The food choices were limited but freshly prepared and delicious. The main restaurant was closed, as were the shower blocks. Although this camp often caters to tour groups, we were the only guests so they would make up a table for us in the kitchen next to the warm, wood-fire stove. In this manner, we felt a more a part of the local landscape than part of a group. The season was still far too early, and cold, to welcome the larger groups of visitors.

Adventures in Mongolian Cuisine

Traditional Mongolian food is mostly meat based. Wherever you go, you’ll find meat-filled Buuz and delicious Khuushuur, a deep-fried meat pie, along with soupy noodles,. One particularly savoured delicacy is whole marmots roasted from the inside-out with hot stones. And let’s not forget Airag, the traditional drink made of fermented mares milk. I grew up in a land of British influenced foods. A cuisine mostly devoid of strong flavours, and without the organs of animals or anything too unusual. It wasn’t until I stepped out into the world, wanting to sample it all, that I realized I can struggle when it comes to the world of wild foods.

Each meal, a table would be set with napkins, a large flask of hot water, and facilities for tea and coffee. The food we ordered was always beef (or, perhaps yak). Tough but tasty and cooked into our choice of goulash or casserole. It would be served with two scoops of sticky rice and a small bowl of shredded carrots and beetroots in a creamy dressing. For breakfast, plates of sliced salami, cucumber, quartered fresh tomatoes and a fried egg, with a basket of bread on the side.

Our meals were far more Westernized than what true nomadic families live off during the wintertime. The cuisine is rooted in nomadic history, with a heavy focus on meat and dairy. They frequently leave out vegetables due to their difficulty to grow and preserve in such an unforgiving climate. I suspect we were particularly fortunate to be served up a side of salad, and fresh wedges of tomato with our meals.

Return to Ulan Bataar

The days passed by at a crawl, between our roasting hot get and the biting cold outside. Each day we would go for a few short walks, bundled up in all our layers. Our schedule revolved around mealtimes. As a visitor, I had the luxury of chewing through a new novel each day. Although, I’m certain for those who live here the daylight hours are precious and there is little time for leisure.

By the time I finished my fourth book, departure day was upon us. A young, English speaking host arrived as if from nowhere in a modern SUV to pick us up and drive us back to the city.

As we pulled out back toward the real world, people began to appear once again. Weary travelling animal keepers displayed giant eagles and camels on the side of the road. The frozen river began to thaw as it snaked through tiny villages of gers. After some more time driving, the few colourful buildings gave way to a McDonalds. The landscape returned to Soviet-style office blocks, a train station, and an abandoned fairground. It quickly became evident that we were back in Ulaanbaatar.
October 17, 2018
Colours of the Azores
The Azores resemble very little of the mainland Europe I left lying off in the horizon. Earthy, damp and though the clouds are low and the rain frequent, you get the impression that it never gets too cold.

What is it that pulls me closer and closer to these places? The ones that provide such a visceral peek down into the centre of the earth? And how is it I keep finding myself lost in obscure, narrow, cobbled European streets – this time in a truck about the width of a whale?

The Azores, a First Impression

I keep finding myself drawn to the most geologically active spots in the world and into challenging driving situations while I’m at it.

After a few weeks travelling mainland Portugal, a last minute change of plans and a sprinkling of fate lead me here. One-third of the way to the United States, to a small archipelago of volcanic, Azorian islands.

The Azores are found at latitude 37.7412° N. New Zealand at 40.9006° S and can be reached easily by plane from the Beautiful Portuguese capital of Lisbon, as well as a number of other Portuguese & European cities.

This means the archipelago sits almost exactly the same distance North of the equator as New Zealand is South. It is this geographic location, combined with the island nature and volcanic geography that explains why this small, Portuguese inhabited island feels like home.
Wildflowers, Whales, and Volcanos

It’s the sub-tropical laurel laurisilva forests and damp, fern-clad forests found across these latitudes that give this volcanic cluster a similar landscape to New Zealand. Providing me with the occasional pangs of homesickness, a reminder of just how long I’ve been away. Yet, the lashings of lilies, smatterings of waist height wildflowers and the walls of blue hydrangeas that give this place the name A Ilha Azul (the blue island) set it apart, and give frequent nudges to remind us we are still in Europe. If only just.

The nine volcanic islands that make up the Azores all have their own unique flavour. Subtle differences in culture, dialect and micro-climate make each island unique. Way back when the islands were first settled, people arrived from across Europe – not just Portugal. This leaves some of the islands with distinctly Flemish, French or Scandinavian undertones.

“The man that had the idea to border the road with these plants should have a statue on the island. In no other place, do they prosper better: they need a covering of light, humidity and heat…they are in their place. Their blue, is the blue that adorns the Azores on lipid days…this is a blue that is even more blue, the bunches of flowers of a colour more intense and more fresh. They are in every direction: rising along the roads and the fields forming hedges; they serve to divide the parcels and to cover the peaceful animals.” — Raul Brandão, As Ilhas Desconhecidas (1926), p.33

Faial, the Blue Island

The island I’m on? Faial, the blue island. A popular stopover for trans-Atlantic sailors. Those who have made it two-thirds of the way across, generally not having set foot on land in three thousand miles. I’m here on a solo excursion to care for a herd of horses and turn thirty, in no particular order.

I spend my early mornings baling hay, with views down across the harbour and out Pico, with a trusty canine compadre at my ankles.

Four hungry, horsey, mouths nuzzle at my feet, awaiting an after breakfast snack. A fifth – a small, rescued foal, whinnies from her separate paddock across the other end of the arena.

A traditional way of life is still popular with many. Some of the local Azorians still use a horse-pulled plough to tend to the fields, and the community windmill to grind their grain.
As Ilhas Desconhecidas

Besides to the blue island of Faial, so named for the beech-trees (faias), but nicknamed because of the brilliant blue hydrangeas, there are 8 more islands that make up the Azores. Raul Brandão, poet and impressionist painter who visited the archipelago in 1924, christened Faial the Iha Azul, or the blue island, and dished out his own colour palette of nicknames, waiving his paintbrush across the Ilhas of the Azores.

From the glorious Ilha das Flores is named for its flowers, penned as the llha Amarelo Torrado, yellow island, due to the goldenrod flowers that cover the island with fierce yellow blooms. to the tiny Ilha do Corvo, which translates to Island of the Crow the smallest inhabited island in Portugal, but also an international bird sanctuary known as the black island, There’s a nickname for every island in the Archipelago. There’s Graciosa, which means enchanting and is known as the white island. Terceira is nicknamed the lilac island, São Jorge the red island, São Miguel the green island, and Santa Maria was gifted the nickname lha do Sol, or the island of the sun for it’s white, sandy beaches and dry, warm weather.
Pico, the Little Peak of the Azores

And last but not least, the one I can see as I pack the mornings hay into twine bags. Pico, meaning peak and referring to the towering, conical, volcanic peak that you can see all the way from here in Faial. It’s the largest mountain in all Portugal, and Raul Brandão bestowed upon it the Back Island, due to its black volcanic earth. Famous for vineyards grown in a labyrinth of basalts walls, rich in volcanic minerals which absorb & give back heat, lending extra sweetness to the plump Azorian grapes the island has become famous for.

Horta is famous with sailors making the ambitious trans Atlantic crossing. Down at the harbour, tiles adorned with paintings, names and signatures lines the access way to the water. Leaving your mark in Horta is a right of passage for sailors making the long and often arduous Atlantic crossing.

Each morning I awake to the cone of Pico towering over the ocean, 7 kilometres away from these shores. I switch on the coffee maker and pull on my rubber boots, heading outside to feed the horses before they grow too impatient with me. I take a trip into the narrow Portuguese cobbled roads of the island’s main town, and some days explore the perimeter of the island and up to the heights of the volcano. Each evening before the sun returns to from where it came, I head out to the horses again, dog in tow, to feed the horses and bag some more hay.

As far as places to turn 30 go, this one is pretty alright.
October 7, 2018