I left too much and nothing at the same time. By “too much”, I mean almost all of my material possessions (except my laptop and some pieces of clothing), all the things and places I was attached to. By “nothing”, I mean that somehow I could detach myself from the things and places I loved.
The most disturbing thing about the train, is that it exists. That hundreds of Mauritanian workers and freelance merchants have to take it on a regular basis, like this, covered in dust and dirt. What for me was a one-off adventure, stuff to write stories about, for Mohamed and his family was just another commute to work.
I don’t know what bothers me more: the fact that more than half of these people, who navigate across the bay daily in decrepit wooden boats, cannot actually swim, or that I just saw a godzilla-sized rat lurking between the rocks by the water.
Assane and his two travel companions are driving an old pickup truck from Spain to Senegal. It is a lucrative business, for those who like extended road trips and do not mind a bit of bureaucratic hassle here and there. The pickup is loaded with all sorts of stuff, but they find space for my backpack on the top, and squeeze me in on the back seat.
There is a place in Istanbul where all lost and forgotten things find their ultimate abode.
Of all shades on the cold side of the spectre, Faroe islands prefer gray. Foggy gray clouds descending into the valley, creamy gray mist rising from the hills, steamy gray snakes of smoke streaming from chimneys, azure gray rocky coastline, greenish gray curvy mountain pastures, dark gray roads after the rain, silvery gray ocean at sunset.
Shimmering crystals of ice that grow from the rooftop are molded into silver earrings, mossy twigs from the forest are turned into twisting silver necklaces, and the dim circle of winter sun splits into dozens of droplets of traditional Sámi brooches.
Fjordbyen can be described as a work of opportunistic art, a surreal suburban fairytale, or a mildly psychedelic trailer park.
One might call it a cave, others say – ‘underground chambers’. Around 500 euro and 5 months of digging – that’s what it takes to get yourself a habitable cave these days.
After the blog about travelling on a third world passport I got a lot of interesting feedback from people who try exploring the world on passports from Iran, Pakistan, and African countries. One of the most discouraging stories came from my good friend whom I met in Islamabad. It is bad enough to have a…