Tag: Travel Planning

Good travel doesn’t happen by accident. These posts dive into the practical side of nomadic life—from choosing destinations to managing logistics to making the most of limited time in incredible places. I share what I’ve learned about traveling thoughtfully, sustainably, and with purpose.

  • In Tirana, a Journey from Mongolia

    After a few traffic jams, a perpetual skyline hazy with pollution, and a rather large power plant out the window spouting billows of fumes into the sky, we arrived. After handing over our 25,000 Tugrik we were on our way out of Mongolia, bound for Tirana.

    The Ulanbataar airport is as easy as they come. Very few people, infrequent flights, and a short list of operating airlines. This means that the queues are short, the security is thorough and the customs officer friendly – all things I appreciate in an airport.

    Mongolia to Albania – The Road Less Travelled

    We split a rather uneventful chicken sandwich and a sticky honey & sour cream cake with coffee before boarding a flight bound for Tirana.

    If you are under the impression that Ulan Bataar to Albania is an unusual flight route, you are not wrong. It involved a Full day of travel. Watching out the window fascinating countries that I would rather be traversing overland than cruising in the air above.

    Flying over the Urumqi mountain ranges, pointing toward Yining. To the south of here lies India, to the North the far reaches of Russia. I’m spoilt with views across mountains of intricate origami folds and dusted with confectioners sugar. Of ore-red valleys and rivers snaking through the ancient landscapes. I feel a strong pull back to earth, to explore lands that so far only exist as myths and fairy tales in my mind.

    Views out the window of a plane across Central Asia

    Ancient and Mythical Lands Underfoot

    We pass across the patchwork fields and frozen lakes of far west Mongolia, and coast overtop the expanses of Kazakhstan and the Caspian Sea.

    Deserts, hillsides, mountains and frozen lakes monopolise the view. The lines of unpaved roads are stitched into the ground and incite unexpected longings for road trips through foreign lands. Watching such a spectacular view of such empty scenery, for such a long time leaves me in awe of those who traded on the treacherous Silk Road all those years ago.

    The kaleidoscopic colours of Iran, with its ancient city of Persepolis, the nomads of the Zagros Mountains. How I wished to descend right this moment to explore the delights of ancient Persia. Perhaps the incredible architecture of Uzbekistan, the infamous hospitality of Kygerstan, the bizarre political history of Turkmenistan, or the natural beauty of Georgia. The Latter which is said to be so remarkable as to be one of the most beautiful countries on earth (and of course, the birthplace of wine)

    Alas, no. I was to daydream from my perch, high into the sky as we flew overhead bound for Albania.

    A Quick Stop in Istanbul

    Our final flight of the day departed out of Istanbul at sunset. The marvellous mosques glinting under a mauve sky. My desire to remain with a foot firmly on the ground only intensifying with each passing moment. Expanses of northern Greece gave way to darkness, as we entered the final stretch of flight.

    Tirana was nothing more than a tiny cluster of lights on our evening descent, giving very little away about our impending destination. Belonging to a country most commonly associated with mafia and crime, dictatorships and oppression. I was greatly looking forward to experiencing it for myself, and being able to see Albania in a more favourable light.

    A Glorious Arrival into Tirana

    I awoke from a long, jet-lagged sleep on the second floor of a charming guesthouse in the centre of town. Large wooden window frames looked out to a treelined street, a warm springtime day with a gentle breeze. Strikingly European, Tirana was, in almost every imaginable way, the yin to Mongolia’s yang.

    Streetside vendors peddled fresh fruit, and the city was a haven of bakeries and French cafes. The atmosphere felt like a cleaner, less crowded version of the Parisian neighbourhood of Montmartre.

    Diverse and gorgeous, flourishing with planters of geraniums and the wafts of espresso.

    Tirana has endured a fascinating cultural history, becoming an integral part of the Roman empire for a number of years. Because of this, many of the older generations of Albania speak Italian. It also ensures that in any given moment, you are never far from a delicious pizza, gelato, or espresso.

    A Country with a Troubled Past.

    Besides the distinctly Mediterranean feel, the fascist regime of Benito Mussolini and the communist regime have left a mark on the architecture. This provides a multifaceted city, shaped by both victory and tragedy.

    I had intended to bring a more positive light to Albania amongst my friends and family, but I had never realized it would be quite this easy. I enjoyed many sunny days admiring the gorgeous streets, leafy parks, and lakes that make up the Albanian capital.

    Cuisine with Influencers all Around

    The food is like that of neighbouring Greece, as well as the other Balkans countries to the north and west. Typical Albanian cuisine starts with fresh bread, oil and vinegar, with a local red wine which, despite the initial surprise, grows on the taste buds. To follow come endless plates of grilled meats and vegetables, each one more delicious than the last. Halved chickens and lamb koftas, spicy sausages and grilled aubergine. Everything arrives with a side of tzatziki and dessert of sweet fruits drizzled in honey.

    Of course, no Albanian meal would be complete without a serving of Rakia to finish. A locally produced fruit brandy served in a shot glass. It is of exceptional strength and is most often produced by the restaurant owner themselves from grapes or plums, and in some cases mulberries. Initially reminiscent of paint thinner, it is one of those things with time and patience, becomes delicious.

    Leaving Tirana is another matter altogether. With no centralized bus station, it took half a day to chase clues around the city to our departure point. Luckily for us, in the end, we found it and boarded a bus bound for the Southern end of the Albanian Riviera. Tirana leaving a delightful impression in its wake.

  • 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.

    Mytilene harbour, Lesvos

    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…

  • 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.

    Where is Lesvos on a map

    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.

    The refugee route in Europe 2018
    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.

  • 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.

  • On the Road to the Golden City of Jaisalmer

    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.