Every journey deserves to be remembered, and photography has become my way of capturing not just what places look like, but how they feel. From the golden light over Mongolian gers to the vibrant colors of Caribbean markets, these posts pair stories with the images that help me remember why travel moves me so deeply.
Georgetown is a scorching hot mishmash of cultures, flavours, smells and architecture. The place where a British colonial past meets traditional Malay, Muslim, Indian and Hokkien. A big, busy city on the tiny, tropical island of Penang. Or, as more people know it, the food capital of Southeast Asia.
Penang Harbour Views
Coming to Georgetown was like coming home for me. It was exactly 2 years since I had list visited, and back then I had opted to live in a cabin on the side of the hill, surrounded by pristine jungle and within the open arms of the local Buddhist sanctuary. The place is heaven on an island, and it was the first (but certainly not the last) time I fell in love with Malaysia.
It was a short and scenic train trip from Taiping to Butterworth, the mainland component of the area known as Penang. The palms swayed gently and people were out in the fields tending to their crops, livestock and rice. The train pulled into Butterworth, and we were to follow a series of corridors, stairways and signposted walkways until we found ourselves at the ferry dock. The lines were long but the fare equates to less than a dollar, and the journey via sea is faster and considerably more pleasant than taking a bus over the long, traffic jammed bridge.
Hokkien Coffee Shop in George Town, Penang
Our ferry was a moderate sized barge-like creature that held a few cars and a hoard of mostly standing passengers. The far corner housed a makeshift convenience store peddling snacks and fresh fruits. We jostled for a position on the edges, the place to get a good view, and I tucked into a small bag of cubed watermelon with a toothpick as we pulled out from the dock, cheeks pink from the rush of air as we picked up speed along the way. Various recreational and fishing boats are dotted around the outskirts of Georgetown port, and as you pull in closer you can see the multitude of clan jetties jutting out.
With my Brother at Penang Botanical Gardens
The February weather was pleasant and unusually tolerable for mid
afternoon George Town. We quickly made our way from the ferry terminal
over to the neighboring bus station and hopped aboard the 101 bus, bound
for the resort towns and fishing villages north of the city, leaving
via Jalan Burma in the central city where we would be disembarking. Our
bus ambled through traffic past tremendous Indian restaurants, mosques,
Hindu temples and the derelict colonial buildings with iconic street art
slathered across.
Ocean views from Padang Kota Lama Food CourtEating Tamil Banana Leaf in a typical Malay food court
Pleased to be back in one of my many adopted hometowns, the rest of our time in Penang felt a little like a dream vacation. Penang is a foodies dream and we enjoyed trips out to eat at some of my favourite stops from when I used to live here: Fatty Boy chicken rice – savouring the rich nutty rice and just the right ratio of sesame oil to soy sauce to Hainanese chicken, Sri Ananda Bahwan for the best banana leaf, and numerous hawker stalls for roti canai, fresh fruit, and delicious noodles . Afternoons were spent meandering my beloved botanical gardens watching tai chi and monkeys, exploring the hidden gardens where turtles paddled about lazily and plump blue dragonflies flitted about our heads.
Train trip from Taiping to Penang with my brother
Bidding my brother farewell in the early hours of the morning was undoubtedly the most difficult part – he had only limited time off from work and had to catch an early flight back to Melbourne. It had been a joy to introduce him to such wonderful destinations, and show him what a life of travel was really like. As we bid him farewell, we began planning ourselves to fly across to Thailand in the coming days.
Grief is a funny thing. One minute it’s all-encompassing, in other moments it slips away into the ether. At first, it is inescapable. A heavyweight crushing the air out of your lungs, a vicious black wolf always one step behind in the shadows.
And then, as time passes on, grief becomes more integrated into the daily life. We learn to love again, to live with the grief in our hearts and we move on. But, I know in my culture at least, celebrating the lives of those lost is rarely a regular component of bereavement.
A Special Time to Celebrate the Lost
El Dia de Muertos has always fascinated me, but after the death of my father, the intrigue of this Mexican celebration deepened. Each year instead of mourning helplessly, people from all across Mexico and other Latin American countries gather to sing, dance, feast, and celebrate nights spent reuniting with their lost loves.
I wondered how people might still feel joy after a loss, how they may celebrate what in my culture is considered such a sombre occasion. In some ways, I wanted to face my own sense of loss through the ceremonies of others. I read voraciously, yet needed so desperately to experience it for myself.
The opportunity came through the decision to spend 6 months living in Oaxaca, Southern Mexico. One of the most important spots to observe Dia de Muertos, people book their flights and accommodations up to a year in advance to attend. Already living in the oldest neighbourhood of Oaxaca, moments away from the most important central cemetery and a quick stroll down to the city centre provided us with the perfect spot to immerse into the local celebrations.
The Origins of Dia de Muertos
The origins date back many hundreds of year to indigenous observances, one of which was the Aztec festival dedicated to the goddess Mictecacihuatl, the queen of the dead in Aztec mythology. She has a defleshed body, and a wide, agape jaw designed to swallow the daytime stars. Mictecacihuatl watches over the bones of the dead and oversees the ancient festivals of the dead. She played an important role to the Aztecs and was an influence of the modern Day of the Dead.
It all kicked off in the ninth month of the Aztec calendar, an entire month of celebration dedicated to the goddess of the dead. What began as an August tribute to Mictecacihuatl transformed into a November honouring of the La Calavera Catrina instead.
In fact, Dia de Muertes wasn’t even celebrated outside of Southern Mexico, nor was it considered a national holiday until the 20th century. Before then it was contained to the Southern states of Mexico where the Mesoamerican influence was prevalent. Further to the north, it was rejected by the people and the church. Instead, they held a traditional All Saints’ Day now, like the other Christians in the world. Over time, the south came to embrace Dia de Muertos, and the Dia de Muertos dates were shifted back in line with All Saints Day.
Marigolds and Anticipation
But yet, here we were. In the midst of a celebration that has since spread across the rest of Mexico, and the world.
As the days drew near, the streets were pregnant with marigold stalls. A Dia de Muertes market popped up in the entrance to the central city, and the once quiet streets of Oaxaca began heaving with tourists. The local shops around us began to close up for the week, as it became a time for family above all else. Pan de Muerto was being baked. Flores de Muerto was being strung into garlands. The few restaurants left open were offering a particularly special comida Dia de Muertos. A meal composed of a particular mole reserved only for this time of year, served with chocolate, bread, and a hot spiced fruit punch.
The evenings were alive with people beginning their week-long holiday period. Neighbourhood alters appeared, catrinas and skeletons began popping up on houses and storefronts across town. It is the tradition that each home, each store, even the kindergarten and the government offices, creates a shrine. A tribute to all who’ve passed on so that they will never be forgotten.
For once a soul is no longer remembered, they can no longer pass into the realm of the living on this special night to drink mezcal and dance until the sunrise. Instead they fade away into the land of the forgotten.
The Three Days of Muertos
Each of the three days brings its own meaning. The very first, Día de Los Angelitos translates to the day of the little angels. This is a special day for those who’ve lost children. The family create alters out of toys, games, balloons, footballs, along with more traditional offerings. This happens a day before the Dia de Muertos, because the spirits of the children run ahead of the adults, so keen to arrive and visit with their beloved families.
On the second day, we made our way in the evening toward the Xoxocotlan & Atzompa. Xoxocotlan is one of the most famed cemeteries to visit in all Mexico in these days, and so it was in our best interest to get there earlier, before the endless crowds gathering through the night make it difficult to navigate.
A Visit to Xoxocotlan
We arrived in the Xoxocotlan cemetery at the same time as a Mexican fairground was setting up around the edges. Carnival games and food trucks, loud music and sweets provided a stark contrast to the candlelit vigils within the walls. Dia de Muertos is a complete holiday here, a week-long party of fiestas and feasts, family and fairgrounds.
Beyond the glittering border, the atmosphere changed in an instead. Small families gathered around tombstones, fixing up elaborate flower displays and alters of their loved ones most loved foods and drinks. The air was heavy with the intoxicating fragrance of no less than a million marigolds.
With so few people around it felt voyeuristic and uncomfortable to spectate. This felt such a private time, my presence felt an invasion. Across the cemetery I tiptoed, treading carefully between the tombstones, hoping I might somehow become invisible.
An Intimate Time for Families
Tears pricked into my eyes witnessing the most intimate altars, a simple photograph lit by flickering candles, sugar skulls, tamales and a bottle of Tecate. A sole woman sat by the grave of a son. Next up, a family of four serenading a grandmother with voice and song, canción de Amor.
The beauty and the detail in which the average Oaxaca person remembered their beloveds was at once heartwarming and breathtaking. Many days of preparations led to the most elaborate of gravesites, decorated with coloured sands, flowers, sculptures.
As the night closed in toward midnight, Xoxocotlan began to become suffocatingly busy. A party, a spectacle. Families staying through the night to party and dance with the dead. The atmosphere shifted from sombre to celebratory, and the party began to kick off.
Atzompa, a Smaller Cemetery on the Outskirts of Oaxaca
And such was our cue, it was time to move on to Atzompa. A smaller and more local event, fewer tourists and a small collection of humble graves without so much fanfare.
The feeling here was soothing. Less of a party and the fairground limited to a few wayward stalls. Atzompa sat on a gentle slope, with vistas out over the Oaxacan valleys. The air was alive with a sense of spirituality, of love, of honour. Graves here ranged from the tiniest of babies through to the elderly, each decorated with tea lights and marigolds. The perfume was intoxicating, and it was impossible to walk without my eyes brimming in tears.
People ate the traditional tamales and sipped on hot chocolate, singing songs and ensuring their beloveds would never slip into the land of the forgotten. I began to reflect on my own loss, on the importance of keeping him alive in my memory and heart. Whilst the Die de Muertos continued on for more days filled with feasting, dancing and parading in the streets, it was this moment, here at Atzompa that resonates the most with me. Despite the tears, I walked away with an open heart and an overwhelming sense of joy and comfort.
The Dia de Muertos is more than just the Halloween party portrayed outside of Mexico. It is an important time for family, to celebrate, to remember in joy, and most importantly to never let those we love drift away into the forgotten.
I like the way his whole face smiles, beginning in his shining eyes and bursting out across his tiny cheeks as he dangles his mothers handbag from a nearby stick. His bigger brother pulls it off to the ground, they collapse into giggles and he tries again. I shuffle around in my sodden trousers, finding a comfortable spot in the dirt and exchanging smiles with the cheeky little boys. “Are you scared?” my friend asks me.
“Yeah.. terrified”
I pause for a moment, catching my breath on the cooling air “hey, do you think those are rubber bullets or real ones?”A redundant question, I already knew the answer.
Poorly translated maps and instructions had been distributed the day before, sharing a new way to cross the border. A hole in the fence just five kilometres away, was what I heard, although I didn’t know for sure.
Rumour was quickly spreading of an exodus of Idomeni camp the following morning, the more people who walk together the less the police will do about it.. right? I tossed and turned through the night. We often receive information about upcoming plans, movements and demonstrations that never eventuate, this somehow felt more real. Nobody was entirely sure what to prepare for, something was going to happen. I wanted to position our medical volunteers strategically, to prepare for anything that might come up, but it was hard to figure out with so much conflicting information.
I still don’t completely understand how I got involved. “Don’t go with children” we pleaded, “They will beat you, they will use tear gas, this is too dangerous.. please go back”. Our cries fell on deaf ears, just as most were convinced to stop, one would start walking again and the rest would follow. People didn’t believe in a hell worse than they already lived, even death wouldn’t deter them.
“If I die on the way, so be it. It is better than what we have here” his eyes told me he meant every word.
We walked up through the muddy trails leaving the tiny Idomeni village back in the distance. The fledgling bazaar and campfire smoke grew smaller behind us.
Snaking up through the hills and the forest, muddy sneakers and blankets were discarded in the mud. We were barely a short way into this journey and the signs of the peoples weariness lay entrenched on the side of the trails. We trudged on through the mud, urging and sharing the little information we already had. Eventually we clambered into a four wheel drive as our trail intercepted the road and went in search of the river. Driving through swarms of exhausted people, begging for shoes, for water, is heart wrenching. The helplessness of never having enough to give, of being on an information gathering mission rather than a distribution one, left us feeling impotent. Once we find the river, we decided, then we can alert others to the location to set up food and water distribution. We can try to stop them before they cross from Greece. We had a goal in mind, and a large number of people in need of supplies.
We approached the river through the crowds. It ran turbulently, bisecting the large group into the wet and the dry. Volunteers stood in the icy water up to their thighs, a human chain to help the people across. Three had already died in these waters this morning, two adults and a 10 month old baby. Nobody could bare the thought of any more drownings, so here they all stood in their hi-vis vests, shivering and wet taking hand by hand by hand. I jumped out of the car for a better look. I had heard about this river already, but I didn’t understand the lay of the land. Where was the border? The hole we had been told about?
Everything made less and less sense, I thought, as I began to unlace my shoes and roll up my trousers.
I felt the cold rush up my legs and soak right through me as I scrambled up the muddy banks on the other side. The currents were strong and I immediately understood how people had died and drowned here earlier. I could picture many more deaths if there hadn’t been anyone to help. It became more and more apparent that these people were going to keep walking, no matter what got in their way. This is where I hit that moment, the one where my heart took over my rational thought and led me up those banks and off into the next field. Ankle deep in mud and surrounded by lush green crops and rolling hills, I carried on.
As we walked on through, I felt secure in the knowledge we were still in Greece, and for a change felt comforted by the razor wired border fences sat to my right. Perhaps they are just walking with no idea, maybe they don’t know. Maybe they will walk indefinitely to the markings of a fake map. We need to find out where they are gathering, we should get a location so we can get help to them.
“Those shoes, they are just like the ones my mother wears”, my friend commented of the lady in front. I stifled my tears as I watched her paper-thin skin slip out the back of her worn leather loafers. Her tiny, elderly frame visibly struggling from a six kilometer trek. How does she keep going, I wonder.
“Hey, where did the fence go?”
My thoughts were interrupted. There was definitely a border over there last time I looked. We had been walking for a long time now and somewhere along the way the fence had slipped off into the distance.
The ominous sound of many people shouting emanated through the hills like a chant. What are they yelling? Surely this must be the border we were looking for. Refugees vs Military. It felt like a scene from a film, with so many unreal sounds and sights. Down and around we stepped for a better look, then there they were.
I never took the time to see or understand the piece of paper that sent so many marching, the one refugees were told to destroy after reading. If I had, I would’ve realised that we weren’t looking for a hole in the border at all. We were seeking a different beast all together – the place where the border fence ceases to exist. It quickly became apparent we had found this place, and the welcoming committee were adorned with a selection of weapons and camouflage print. No time was wasted as the segregation process began.
Most of my small group were herded off to the side of the trail by a small number of agitated officers. Macedonian military, as it turns out. We had crossed the border, that invisible line in the sand had slipped under our feet unnoticed. We had suddenly become illegal border-crossing criminals.
My journey was to take a different twist now, as my attempts to join the crowd of volunteers were thwarted by shouting ‘keep walking, keep walking that way, now!’. Two of us had been mistaken for refugees, a fair call when making snap judgments, especially since I was walking with a Kurdish friend and helping carry a legless Syrian refugee. When faced with this many guns and hostility, all there is left to do is just keep walking.
So here I sit. The small boy jostles his brother and gets back to work precariously balancing the purple leather bag once again. They stumble over each other to smile and wave at me. I wave back, forcing myself to ignore the man vomiting into the ditch behind me. Out the corner of my eye I spot flecks of blood as he grasps on to the slippery edges of the trench and his friend holds him steady. Despite my instincts, moving to help him isn’t an option. In fact, moving anywhere is out of the question right now. We’ve been gathered into small groups in a field, the sun is sinking behind the hills and the cold is starting to bite at my face. More and more military guards move in alongside riot police and armed vehicles. Anybody trying to move is greeting with shouts of ‘SIT DOWN‘ to the barrel of a gun.
Guards stand all around, arms sternly folded but occasionally loosening to fidget with their guns. They look concerned, now that they have everybody in manageable sizes, what will they do with them?
It takes around an hour but we convince the new guard that despite my lack of passport or papers to prove it, I am not actually a refugee. He is new around here, been on the job less than a week. “I don’t know why I am here, what am I doing, this is a terrible situation” he tells me, shoulders dropping as he places his emphasis on the don’t knows, and quietens for the final few words. His heartfelt naivety provides a needed dose of humanity to this situation.
The more senior officer leads my friend, while I trail behind with the young guard. He must be only about 19 and nods compassionately as I explain that we crossed into his country accidentally. We are soon introduced to a police chief who reminds us that this will be a ‘big problem’, common terminology around here. He searches our pockets and tells us to remove our shoes, soon bringing us towels for our wet feet and offering us his bread to eat.
Before I get a chance to put my shoes back on, an old Macedonian woman rushes hurriedly out of her nearby house with an armful of shoes for us. ‘No, no – the refugees need these more than us!’ we remind her, not entirely sure she hasn’t also mistaken us. After many hugs and assurances that we will be fine with the shoes we have, she scurries away again and we are taken by police car to the station.
I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t a relief to see so many familiar faces at the police station, it felt like a reunion of comrades. At least 50 volunteers, journalists and reporters were already at the station by the time I arrived. It was a difficult night and we were held for the better part of 10 hours before release – a small price to pay compared to the three days they had originally intended.
There were tears shed and many people pacing around the cold, concrete floors in frustration. I had to have my passport brought over from Greece and we were all slapped with a large fine. There were some sweet moments, of course. Cuddling up in a pile under a big blanket, or being allowed to order pizza in late into the night. But, overall we felt a potent cocktail of exhausted, bewildered and overwhelmed. We didn’t expect this, and the news of all the refugees being returned to Idomeni after walking so far broke our hearts. The processing was time consuming and inconsistent, and various groups, embassies and media came in causing a stir. But, eventually we were released with a 6 month ban.
As our taxi lumbered in across the border and through the hoards of exhausted people stumbling back in the darkness, my heart aches. I feel tremendous guilt for my ability to cross borders, my lack of broken bones. I keep my eye out for the two little boys, or perhaps just for that purple handbag, dropped along the way.
Valentines day was spent on a road trip across northern Greece, transporting our team of 4 volunteers, a donated Swedish ambulance and a stockpile of medical supplies almost 1000km northwest of Lesvos.
At the other end of the world from this escalating assault on Syria, my hometown was once again rocked by a large earthquake. In the quiet moments, in the middle of the night when everything is still, I can’t help but wonder how much more this world can take.
Polykastro lies in a region of northern Greece known as Macedonia. This is different from the country that begins 15km away, known now as the former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia, or FYROM for short. Vistas of an unusual landscape littered with UNHCR tents and supplies, occupying the backyard of a petrol station greet you as you turn off from the highway.
This makeshift transit camp is a grey zone any way you look at it.
Johnny Cash emanates from our portable speaker, another round of cards are dealt as we macerate in campfire smoke. Under our small gazebo we can comfortably fit 3 park benches placarded with UNHCR badges, a large plastic bin filled with donated jackets moonlights as a coffee table.
Throughout the night the number of volunteers sitting on night dwindles from eight, closely packed in and sharing war stories, down to one solo lookout taking shifts – huddled in a sleeping bag by the fire whilst everyone else naps.
Pikpa was the upcyled summer camp. Moria, the post apocolyptic music festival. Now welcome to Eko – a surreal take on camping.
The situation at Eko gas station changes daily and dramatically. In one moment it might be a desolate wasteland. Later as many as 5000 refugees materialise, although only 2500 will squeeze into the tents.
Whether they stay for 30 minutes or 5 days depends on the situation at the border, the refugees don’t know any more than the volunteers. Everyone is at mercy of the bus drivers, who turn on their engines and rally their passengers once they get the call that it’s time to go.
Such is life in a transit camp.
These tents popped up into the world as a direct response to bus drivers leaving refugees here, instructing them to walk the final 15km up to Idomeni camp and the FYROM border.
After up to 20 hours spent in a bus trying to leave Athens amidst farmers’ taxi strikes and tractor road blocks, days of sleep deprivation and long ferry rides, arriving refugees began sleeping here in the dirt next to the Eko petrol station.
Sick, cold and hungry, there was a need. And so sprung up this small camp, almost overnight. That was 7 months ago. Now the busses stick around and take them the full way… eventually.
The wait time between arriving at Eko and getting the signal that the border is open can take almost a week sometimes. So this is where they will live for a short part of the long journey. 24 hours a day a small team of independent volunteers, supported by the occasional NGO, camp out and wait with food, water, shelter and medical care to greet them.
This valentines I will happily take a rain check on the flowers and candy. I will settle in to my gasoline wasteland, playing cards with my comrades until the busses inevitably roll in. There is more love here than any valentines date anyhow.
I know the contours of these mountain ranges like the lines of my palms. Turkey mesmerises me as I gaze into it’s coastlines each morning watching for boats, the faintest white flash somewhere between here and there.
Mobile phones beaming light out to the unknown shores, their light reaching us up on our cliff-top lookout as we flash back our headlights to bring them to safety.
The modern-day SOS meets our mobile lighthouses.
Some days as the sun creeps upwards, a giant orange ball of fire spectacularly casting hues from red to pink across the Aegean sea, it’s hard to imagine that in between that paradise and this one, that so many are struggling in between.
That people are shipwrecking, drowning and shivering. That in this tiny stretch of water that so much could be going wrong. That fake boats powered by recycled single-use motors on their second round are carrying fake life jackets, wrapping up real humans that are hoping against all odds to survive this. That this long, perilous journey beats life where they came from.
That in some twisted way, this is safer.
Some mornings my heart breaks over and over, as I realise the enormity this situation. That it’s not ending any time soon, that a boat full of living humans is a victory, but only a drop in the ocean as far as this crisis is concerned.
The stories stop feeling like news, there are just so many it’s hard to keep track.
I will always remember the face of the little boy hugging the teddy bear we gave him.
The ambulance full of kids we kept warm who asked to learn my name just so they could say ‘I love you Anna’ in their newly acquired language.
The quiet, floppy baby I carried for 10 minutes down the rocky coastline, hoping with every piece of me to feel a breath through the layers, for a happy-ending as I slipped and slid across slippery rocks and discarded life jackets and pieces of boats.
That time was a miraculously happy ending, but under these conditions, they can’t all be.
People travel for new experiences, and those I’ve had many. I now understand the weight of a tiny baby soaked in ice cold sea water. I’ve known the relief of hearing a baby crying, to know it’s breathing and alive. I’ve witnessed the courage of countless people bringing their families to a better life. The terror of a mother who arrives on dry land not knowing if her children made it off the boat alive too.
So many heroes that I loose count. The courage here floors me.
Each day I spend here, life means more to me. I open a little more, I soften. I try to return to the ‘real’ world from time to time, to work, to communicate, but somehow that world feels so much less real than this. Like something far away, that I left far behind. Lesvos feels more real than anything I’ve felt before.
I stare so intently, so frequently at this coastline yet I know nothing about what rests on the other side.
Questions come to my mind about Turkey – what is it like?
Stories circulate. Accounts of late night missions through the forest to private beaches, held at gun point, forced into a tiny boat. For each story I hear, the people smugglers form takes more that of a demon. Each life has a dollar sign, slightly less if they go for the ‘bad weather’ discount.
Feeding off of the desperation, recycling boats that were only ever meant to work once. If this is what a better life is like, I hate to imagine the hell they have fled. This island is a paradise strewn with those unfortunate enough to be born on the wrong side of an imaginary line.
Whilst emotionally preparing for this trip I expected intense feelings to come up in me, however it’s the anger that surprises me. Anger at the world for turning a blind eye to this, this unsustainable and unbelievable situation that has been going on for years now, and show no signs of slowing. Anger at the volunteers who turn up only in the light to get their token photo putting a hat on a shivering child, yet are nowhere to be found when people are washing up sick and desperate in the middle of the night. Anger at the world for being so fascist, so racist, so unjust.
Yet, amongst the anger and sadness that wells up in me each day, I feel so much love. I fall in love here every day and for that I am truly blessed. Love for people who take this courageous journey, love for volunteers who travel from across the world to give themselves for this cause. Love for the moments where I am sitting and laughing with my new friends here, and the moments of sheer relief when a boat comes in and everyone is dry and smiling, thankful to be here. Each day my capacity to love increases, and when I tell those kids I love them back, I really mean it.
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.
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.
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.
When dusk took hold we were barreling out through the outskirts of New Delhi slums. The evening breeze streaming through the windows cooled the muggy carriage air. I had no idea yet I was bound for Jaisalmer, it was a mere inkling of a future plan
An elderly lady began reading over my shoulder, Young men were playing card games on the higher berths, leaning overhead to pass playing cards to one another. High-school kids jostled to take photographs with me on their mobile phones.
As the night sets in, elaborate meals unfurl out of silver tiffin boxes and families sit around the carriage tables tucking into dhal, their fingers scooping mounds of rice.
Escape from Dehli
Delhi had been a bit of a blur. A sludge of memories – honking cars, stinking heat, sweet roadside chai, hazy jetlagged sleeping, a sprawling megacity. By the time my senses began to return, it already felt like time to get out.
I was on my way to the desert city of Jaisalmer, departing from the hectic Old Delhi train station. Families laid sleeping across sheets of newspaper on the floor, a distinct aroma of spices and retched urine wafted through. A decrepit fan whirled lazily in the corner, providing a hint of a breeze through the otherwise stagnant air.
The standby train ticket I had hoped for was full, so instead, I opted to reserve a seat on the evening carriage to Jaipur. Beginning an unplanned journey to a pink Rajasthan city 300km Southwest of Delhi, on the route toward Jaisalmer.
Many more passengers crowded into the carriage. By the time the locomotive groaned and creaked into Jaipur, I had befriended a carriage full of old, curious, ladies. They asked why I would choose the third class carriage without air conditioning, but were more perplexed about why I travelled without a husband.
The night passed quickly in this manner, and before I knew it we were pulling into Jaipur.
I stumbled out into the warm night air, immediately surrounded by hoards of tuk-tuk drivers. I was questioning my decision to arrive into a new city, alone, at such a late hour.
First, my arrival into the Pink City of Jaipur
Over the coming days I wandered the old bazaars of Jaipur’s pink city with fervour. Stopping to chat with many people and to drink in as much from each moment as I could. With time, I came to understand more of this incredible culture, the one my grandmother left behind in the forties when she migrated to New Zealand. The land she never stopped talking about.
I was surrounded by the intoxicating perfume of thousands of roses and marigolds woven into garlands. I stopped to check out a selection of flower oils in beautiful glass perfume decanters. The shop owner invited me to sit and drink chai with him as an old man did the rounds with an old copper teapot. We talked of religion and India and his perfume shop, a small, portable steel cabinet which was passed through his family for generations. The older man sitting beside was lacing roses onto threads. He stopped to drink tea with us and gave me a fragrant rose as a parting gift.
Wandering the bazaars is one of the true delights of visiting India.
Aromatic spices mingle with the stench of sewers and sizzling street food as you narrowly dodge roaming cows and eye up glittering saris, all through the choking heat of exhaust fumes. Nothing in the world will give you such an assault on all your senses at once, but it’s a worthy pursuit and an incredible adventure.
Jaipur is also home to some of the most fascinating architecture, that draws crowds from all around India and beyond. The majestic Amber Fort, the Albert Hall, Hawa Mahal (Palace of the Winds) all call Jaipur home.
Railway Journey Through the Thar Desert bound for Jaisalmer.
“Ma’am, ma’am – come quickly, visit my shop. Very good price for a very good friend. Where are you from? I have very nice trousers, just for you…”.
The endless attention-seeking tactics are prolific in Jaipur, fed by the constant stream of tourists into the Golden Triangle. My patience wore thin, and my exhaustion from the busy city bustle won me over. I booked a ticket to Jaisalmer, a mystical sandstone city in the heart of the Thar desert.
By the time the sun rose out the window of my breezy, dusty sleeper carriage, it was sand for miles out every window. We were well and truly in the midst of the Great Indian Desert. Looking over a mind-boggling 200,000 km2 of desert that spill out over across the border into Pakistan. Watching the cityscape of Jaisalmer appear out my window, I felt as though I’d awoke mid-dream in a far-off mythical land of sandcastles, date palms and camels. Wondering if perhaps I’d awoken in the narrative of Aladdin, and any appearance of Arabian princesses or flying carpets wouldn’t have felt at all out of place.
Here we are, in the Golden City of Jaisalmer
It was a new day, and I’d found myself in a fairytale city crafted almost entirely out of sandstone. A magical wonderland of ornate palaces and golden buildings as far as the eye can see.
I was excited visit the palaces and wonders of this incredible golden city – the Rajmahal, Jaisalmer Fort, Parsvanath Jain Temple, Chandraprabhu Temple, the Patwonji ki Haveli and the Salim Singh-ki Haveli were all carefully circled on my map.
I pushed my way through another sea of touts, tuk-tuk drivers, and camel-tour salesmen. I was looking for my driver, who would take me to reunite with an old friend of mine from back home. A familiar face who was also backpacking around the Indian subcontinent. He would be joining me for a few days of rooftop sleeping and fort exploring.
Despite being the hottest place during the day, the rooftops of Jaisalmer transform into the most pleasant by night. This is especially true if a breeze happens to blow through. There’s something magical about sleeping under the stars in the desert, hearing the world go by around you and peeking out over the edges to see sleeping strewn across the nearby building tops, and cows nuzzling through trash piles for a midnight feast.
Porridge was to be found everywhere, a rare treat that was most likely brought over by the British and stuck around even after they left. Each morning we would wander over to our new favourite cafe, where the owner would usher us into his special air-conditioned office to eat. He would lead us past the scattered diners, and though to a solitary table, away from the stinking heat of the day. My daily lassi and banana porridge supplemented with electrolyte sachets, a daily necessity in this desert heat.
Time to Move On
Yet, despite my exuberant use of oral rehydration sachets, the heat began to wilt my brain, and I began to understand how mirages of oasis form in one’s mind. Work became more and more difficult, but none the less, I adored this city. It felt plucked straight out of Arabian nights, and each moment of wandering the golden streets, exploring the expansive fort, and listening to the dusk call to prayer over the mosque loudspeakers was magical.
Money was running thin, and I needed somewhere cooler to focus on my work, and a job opportunity awaited me further north in Rishikesh – so , I departed sooner than I’d hoped.
Descending into Mexico City for the first time was one of the most surreal moments of my life at that time. It made impressions that would change the course of my life in profound ways.
Oaxaca, Love at First Taste
At just 26 years old, despite working as a flight attendant, I had never strayed beyond the South Pacific.
I sat spellbound, watching the streetlights out of the plane window as they sprawled out further than I could imagine. Living in a small city on the other side of the world, where a drive across the full expanse of the city took under an hour, provided a sharp contrast.
Mexico had captivated me for the longest time – the colours, the sounds, the smells, and the music, but most importantly was always the food. I dreamed of sinking my teeth into fresh tortillas and devouring bright, unusually shaped fruit. I yearned to discover the delights of Mole pooling over black beans seasoned with avocado leaf.
One day, my Mexican dreams came true.
First Stop – Mexico City
Jolted from my slumber by the sound of Spanish chatter out in the corridor, I awoke in my small, central-city hotel room that first morning. I had arrived late the night before, muddling through broken Spanish with my taxi driver as we navigated the streets of Mexico City’s Distrito federal – DF to the locals. Despite being late, the streets were buzzing with life, and here I was, wide-eyed and fizzing. I had finally arrived in one of the most interesting & celebrated culinary destinations in the world.
A twist of fate and a last-minute competition entry is what first flung me into Mexico, I was joining as a part of a flagship food tour. The four of us set off, guided by a Mexican local who enraptured me with tales and mythology. She provided welcome glimpses into the past and present realities of Mexican life, language, love, and the culture of a country I’d long been in love with, yet never set foot on.
Each day brought new and delicious possibilities. With each tortilla, each pozole, each margarita, even each tiptoe into the unchartered territories of crunchy chapulines, I fell more and more in love. I found my nights spent plotting and scheming to move here, to live out my days in the colourful streets of Southern Mexico. Days spent eating endless configurations of maize off a smokey comal, evenings passed exploring the mezcalerias.
A Dream to Return, Realised.
On my return to New Zealand, days, months, and eventually years passed. The dream of living in Mexico still a tiny spark in an overcrowded mind. I often found my mind wandering back to the sounds, aromas, and vibrancy of Latin America. I had left the continent assuring those who would listen that I would be back to live here. No matter what it took, I’d find a way. There was no doubt in my mind.
The collectivo ride from Xoxocotlán airport sparked nostalgia in me, as well as an unsettling churning in my belly. Would it live up to my expectations? Had my nostalgia warped and moulded Mexico into an unattainable dreamland?
In many ways this city had barely shifted over the past five years I’d been away. The wide road in from the city lined with cantinas and taco trucks, taxis honked on the highway and the outskirts of the city dotted with derelict auto shops, and billboards promoting everything from corona through to lucha libre.
We wove through into the Centro Historico where wide boulevards gave way to cobbled roads and cacti, blue buildings with striking orange doorways, storefronts of every colour with rooftops of terracotta potted plants.
A Land of Many Cultures & Traditions
Oaxaca is a cultural, artisanal, and gastronomic heart of Mexico. The region brings together sixteen indigenous cultures, the remains of an ancient civilization, and the many languages, foods, traditions that come along with that.
The historic footprint here is enormous. The cultures here have survived better than most in Mexico, bringing an incredible richness. However, not without their own hardships too. Oaxaca is one of the poorest states in the country, and many live meagre lives dotted around the sierras. Lives that have suffered considerably at the hands of natural disasters, poverty, and discrimination.
It is the cultural diversity of Oaxaca that makes this mountain town quite so special.
Settling into Oaxacan Life
I transitioned from a starry-eyed tourist to a temporary local, savouring chocolate de agua and Quesadillas de Flor de Calabaza for breakfast each morning at a small local restaurant. The crumbling exterior and plastic chairs gave no sign to the delights it held inside.
The fridge was stocked with second-hand soda bottles full of homemade aqua frescas in every exotic flavour. To the right of the counter, an old lady perched in the wide open entrance sits curled over a large, round comal.
The fragrance of cooking tortillas was inescapable. I relished every moment spent watching the frothy cacao whipped into the steaming water. I sat tearing into quesadillas, with the queso Oaxaca stretched between my fingers, revealing the zucchini flower inside.
A Beautiful Home in Xochimilco
We moved into a two-storied bungalow, set in the most traditional of gorgeous Mexican neighbourhoods. Cobbled streets and colourful facades built up along the edge of a river accentuated the neighbourhood’s beauty. In the morning you could hear the clack-clack of the weavers crafting rugs amidst the call of elote vendors peddling hot corn from their handcarts. I was in paradise.
My return was everything I had hoped, and then a whole lot more. We rediscovered all my favourite spots – the carne hall lined with dangling meats served with piles of tortillas, salsas, herbs, and lime. The Zocalo, Oaxaca’s eternally alive town square. Punctuated by a spired cathedral, and flanked by restaurants serving margaritas to outdoor tables. The perfect spot for people watching, complete with live mariachi and pick-pocketing children selling chewing gum.
So much was the same it barely felt five years had passed in my absence. Still a haven of delicious flavours, an explosion of sounds, parades and fireworks. Still a small city filled with sweet, generous people. I left the first time suspecting six days wasn’t enough time for somewhere so wonderful, and I left the second knowing that neither was six months.
