Havana was a shock. Coming from a tranquil Cotswold village it was doubly so. I was rudely awakened by a loud noise that in my jet-lagged stupor I feared to be the rumbling of revolutionary tanks once again rolling into the city. The reality was more prosaic – the noise was the thunderous roar of antiquated buses ferrying commuters to work. It was the first of many shocks but thankfully the others were less startling.

In spite of my rude awakening I loved Havana. It beguiles and intrigues like no other city, even if it is one of the most difficult places to explore without bumping into a cliché or tourist, my second shock of the morning. Whilst traipsing around the old town, I was surprised by the number of groups of tourists.

Yet it is easy to see why the tourists come – Havana has one of the coolest, most easily identifiable images of any travel destination: the iconic 1950s cars, the revolutionary bombast of its billboards and the ramshackle charm of the old town. Havana really does live up to its postcard image of rusting balustrades, crumbling colonial houses and exfoliating pastel buildings - Old Havana boasts more colonial buildings than any other city in the New World.

Usually groups of tourists are an anathema to me but Havana’s charms enthralled me to such an extent that I swallowed my traveller’s pride and even signed up to the mandatory stop at a cigar factory. In spite of the brusque and uninterested manner of our young Cuban guide and his American English (a betrayal that revealed that he would rather be somewhere else), I was rather impressed by the tour. Not so much for the disinterested commentary or the building - although I loved the old worn wooden stairs and banisters and the faded hand written signs showing one the way out in an emergency - but in discovering more about the cigar-making process, in particular how they are rolled. I was transported from selection of the tobacco leaves to rolling (the most skilled process in which the 260 workers had to roll 110 cigars a day) to the boxing of the cigars.

Rolling was the most interesting of the processes, the deftness and skill were impressive. Alas they were not rolled on the thighs of a Cuban mulatta but despite this loss of flavour, it was aesthetically pleasing to watch. There was a tactile and sensual pleasure to the process that led to desire. Such craving along with the ubiquitous posters and postcards of Che Guevara puffing on a huge Havana are a seductive combination. So much so that it is easy to see how even tea-total, non-smoking right-wing tourists leave clutching a bottle of Havana Club, a pack of Monte Cohibas and a Che T-shirt.

The other places I enjoyed visiting were the paladares, the uniquely Cuban, privately owned restaurants set up in the homes of ordinary families. The fact that these private enterprises are allowed to exist are symptomatic of the schizoid mix of Cuba. They are allowed yet Fidel has on numerous occasions railed against the riches they have brought for a select few. However given that the likes of Sting and Queen Sophia of Spain have eaten in them they have become a feature of Havana and too famous to close. I revelled in the quirky charm and atmosphere of La Guarida in particular. It was not just the excitement of eating forbidden fruit.

It was certainly a more pleasurable experience than the Tropicana Show. A show of elaborately colourful headdresses, gawdy costumes, booming sound, it was visual and extravagant and appealed to the lowest common denominator of the blue rinse brigade. If you are into bare buttocks then you will be in for a Brucey bonus.

Thankfully the bright glare of tackiness was dulled by the half bottle of rum included in the exorbitant ticket price. Yet despite such pain relief I couldn’t help but feel a little sad and deflated by the show. Saddened by the type of tourist that we are exporting to Cuba, embarrassed by the thought that the Cubans think we enjoy this desperate throwback to the whirl of Cuba in its hedonistic heyday and deflated because Havana is bursting with culture.


Despite its relative isolation over the past 50 years, Havana punches way above its weight in all the arts and, is one of the most important cultural centres in Latin America. If the country's art scene is hot, its music world has been ablaze for years; there are dozens of shows of every type of music on every night in Havana. As a tourist, however, it can be hard to escape the salsa bands playing in the bars of Old Havana and the national cultural institutions that dominate the state-published listings.

Castro has done much for the country. There is a pride to Cubans that they did not have before. They have self respect. Havana is safe. Girls wait at traffic lights to catch lifts – transport is difficult buses being, at best, infrequent – an innocence in stark contrast to other cities around the world.

But such benefits have come at a cost. That cost is stagnation and poverty that has been greatly exacerbated by the collapse of the Soviet Union, who accounted for 80% of Cuba’s trade. Radical change was needed: in 1992 the US$ was legalised and foreign investment encouraged to the extent that there are now some 900 joint ventures. But such foreign investment is limited and strictly controlled thus many have to rely on money remitted from Cuban nationals, friends and family, living abroad as their main source of income.

There is not abject poverty but rather a lack of choice. Not just in terms of freedom of speech but also in the goods that we take for granted on a daily basis – there are few supermarkets and even fewer items on their bare shelves.

The average salary is US$20 a month although this is for the whole country and the figure is low due to the meagre earnings in the countryside. In Havana it is difficult to survive on under US$100 per month. It might not sound like much – it is not too much – but it is worth remembering that Cubans do receive free education and housing and pay a nominal amount for rates. The only private ownership of cars is ones that were owned pre revolution; hence the amount of old cars. There is no housing market, there is a Cuban intranet but access to the internet is restricted, rations exist – five pounds of rice, five pounds of sugar and a couple of pounds of beans being the monthly allowance (It sounds like a skewed amount of sugar but it is hugely popular amongst Cubans and can’t be all bad as the average life expectancy is over seventy-five).

Cuba is the largest island in the Caribbean, being about half the size of the UK, and I felt that I had to go beyond the city to look at the countryside, even if only for a day. I was struck by the emptiness. The sunbleached road was deserted apart from the occasional car and the very occasional cluster of people awaiting a lift. Such is the control that permeates throughout society that a yellow suited man or woman has to organise them and record who is going to where. Everything is controlled – taxis, which all belong to the government, have to record each fare they take.

If Havana lacked signs of the late twentieth century, the countryside was devoid of modernity. Bucolic scenes of horses and cowboy hats, oxen and carts, battered old trucks laden with sugar cane spoke of a bygone era. No machinery, no electricity pylons, nothing to betray the date.

Back in Havana I sat on the rooftop terrace of my hotel watching the sun set over the city. As I savoured the refreshing mintiness of a mojito – another Cuban cliché – I reflected that a mojito, mint coupled with sugar and rum, is a bittersweet metaphor of Cuba. Bitterness is in the control and the lack of choice the sweetness is in the culture, music and people. I had enjoyed the charms, the stereotypes, the quirks but for me the real pleasure came in understanding a little better a way of life that is so very alien to ours. And like my mojito I wanted more.

Seeking to get over my childhood disappointment at always coming second in Monopoly beauty contests, I travelled to Niger. More specifically to Gerewol, the festival of the Wodaabe, who number among the last nomads of Africa.

The landscape the Wodaabe inhabit is a harsh one: in central Niger, between the great Sahara Desert and the grasslands, lies an immense steppe, scattered with scrawny bushes and hardy acacia trees. For nine months of the year hardly a drop of rain falls. The days are torrid, the nights sometimes freezing cold. And the harmattan, the hot wind out of the desert, blows up relentlessly, filling the air with a sandy haze. Across this no-man's land the Wodaabe herd their cattle, migrating north in the rainy season and south again in the dry months and leaving no trace of their travels as they go.

And then, every year, after the rains, the Wodaabe gather for the Gerewol, the highlight of their calendar and a celebration of male beauty, as young men paint their faces, chant, dance, bare their teeth and roll their eyeballs in an attempt to look their best.

I use ‘calendar’ in its loosest sense: being nomadic there is no fixed date to the festival – it is usually in September. Also, worryingly as we drove through the rolling grasslands, there is no fixed location. Goats galloped through the long grasses, camels wallowed imperiously across the horizon, donkeys stared blankly back at us. We stopped to ask young herders, we stopped at Tuareg encampments, little more than animal skins stretched over wooden platforms only a couple of feet high. Each time we were pointed vaguely onwards; each time we were given a different estimate of the time that it would take us to get there. Was that on foot? Did they have an inkling of how long it would take in a vehicle? For nomadic peoples, they were surprisingly vague about the distance but then being continuously on the move their concept of space is very different from ours.

As the light and my hope of finding the festival were fading, the empty expanse of yellowy grasses and acacia thorn bushes gave way to a bustling temporary encampment of fires, tents, laughter and dancing. Groups of people, their pace quickening in anticipation, surge forward and crowd around a dance.

The dancers line up, swaying rhythmically, rising and falling on their toes, arms rising in waves. They sing - a frenzied chanting - accompanied only by handclaps, which rises to a crescendo. They are striking and impressive with necklaces, earrings, plumes of feathers decorating their headdresses and bells on their ankles. Make-up accentuates their long faces and delicate features – red foundation, black charcoal lipstick, eyeliner – as the young men grimace to display the whites of their eyes and their teeth to attract the girls.

For the dancers the prize is to be chosen by a girl and then to pair off, perhaps for marriage, usually just for the night. The bigger prize is the social cohesion of the Wodaabe and the continuation of a way of life: collective ties are re-established; it is a fleeting chance to enjoy the pleasures of camaraderie and company before leaving with their herds.

There are three score men dancing but the numbers watching far greater. Women dressed in their best robs, children running around, The men, armed in swords, some on camels for extra vantage.

The dancing continues long into the night.

The rising sun slowly breathes life into the camp. Fires smoulder, tea is poured ceremoniously from height, women walk into camp in a line, bringing bowls of food, millet and milk, to their menfolk. Bands of men in flowing robes and heads covered in turbans walk quietly from area to area. They crouch down in front of one family and the gentle see-sawing of greetings begins. Respects are paid and they move on.

Later in the day, the heat is intense and sapping of energy. Yet in spite of the sun the dancing continues, the chanting floats in the stifling air. In a line they rise and fall, Crowds gather, a selection of brightly coloured umbrellas vie for position. There is no such let off for the dancers, the scrutiny of both sun and onlooker is relentless. The gerewol is a test of stamina – it goes on for hours in the afternoon despite the gruelling heat.

I, like many, am less energetic and sit watching the comings and goings. Women walk elegantly across the horizon, bowls of food balanced with grace on their heads, to fortify those sitting in the shade. Men, in turbans of white, black, green, red, carry teapots of water, swords rakishly slung across their backs.

Inquisitive children gather around to gawp at the latest spectacle at the festivities – us. The young girls are in black, the borders of which are given character by embroidered colours and a white trimming. Round their necks and wrists are vivid necklaces and bracelets of yellow and red beads.

They stare at the hair on my arms. They gently press the ends of my fingers.

In the late afternoon there is a frenzy of last minute preening. Mirrors are held high, make up inspected, lips puckered, teeth bared. Last minute words of advice are given. Enthusiasm, encouragement and excitement.

In a line with rhythmic chanting they click, hiss and stamp their feet. Rolling their eyes and exposing their white teeth, they try to win approval of the young women of another lineage.

The young woman is nervous, daunted by the choice in front of her. The decision making is made easier by a coven of old women who march up and down the line whittling down a shortlist.

The full moon bathed the scene in a soft dreamlike light. The chanting of the dancers filled the air, plumes of feathers silhouetted in the romantic light, dust rose as their shuffling steps took them anti clockwise.

Women, dressed in black, pressed in on the dancers trying to get a glimpse of a particular beau. An old woman, smiling and welcoming, tugged at my elbow trying to encourage me to dance, wanting me to enjoy. My reluctance was met with friendly laughter.

She genuinely wanted me to join in. She was proud of her festival. It is very much for the Wodaabe, it is their festival and they are happy to share it. It was indeed a privilege to be an onlooker if not a participant. Maybe next year I will put Monopoly beauty contest ghosts to rest.

According to statistics it is the poorest country in the world and the press continually paints a negative picture of the country not least in 2005 when you would have been forgiven for thinking that locusts had destroyed the country’s entire food supply. This begs the question should one go at all? In my view, taking your tourist dollar elsewhere is not the answer and indeed only exacerbates the problem. Moreover, you would be missing out as economic statistics do not take into account the friendliness of its people, in particular that of the Wodaabe, who number among the last nomads of Africa.

The landscape the Wodaabe inhabit is a harsh one: in central Niger, between the Sahara and the grasslands, lies an immense steppe, scattered with scrawny bushes and skeletal trees. For nine months of the year hardly a drop of rain falls. The days are torrid, the nights sometimes freezing cold. And the harmattan, the hot wind out of the desert, blows up relentlessly, filling the air with a sandy haze. Across this no-man's land the Wodaabe herd their cattle, migrating north in the rainy season and south again in the dry months and leaving no trace of their travels as they go.

I went in search of the Wodaabe with photographer Steve Bloom. After a relentless day’s driving we veered off the road and in the warmth of the late afternoon sun, we drove through rolling countryside of yellow and green grasses interspersed with acacia and wild dates. We were quite literally in the middle of nowhere and thus I was a little surprised when we suddenly stopped under a small nondescript acacia tree. My understanding had been that we were going to stay with a Wodaabe family for a couple of days in their camp. There was nobody or no camp within sight.

Somewhat bemused I got out of the 4x4 to stretch my tired and aching legs when a deep stentorian voice grunted a greeting behind me. I spun round. My jaw dropped in surprise. Standing in front of me was a giant of a man, many inches taller than my six foot two, with a most unusual yet eye-catching face. I was not sure what to expect but not a face like this. It felt unreal – I had never before seen such curious features and I was quite simply mesmerised. Indeed I felt as though I had been momentarily transported into a Ryder Haggard novel.

Less striking but more beautiful faces of softer features emerged from the bush. All were unusual, all captivating. I stared unashamedly at their bizarre beauty in particular at one (who I Iater learn is) called Youlandou (meaning ‘late’ i.e. that he was born late after a difficult birth). I want to use the word effeminate to describe his features but there is nothing unmanly about him, in fact, his sword and well honed physique suggest otherwise.

I was saved by the setting sun. The fading light masked their faces and mine in darkness, saving me from further embarrassment at my wide-eyed incredulity.

But in the dark I am equally amazed. This time my surprise is not visual but oral. A short distance away from us the men break into song. They are not singing for our benefit but their own enjoyment. No instruments, only their voices and the occasional rhythmic clapping. What is unexpected is the pitch of their voices. There is not the deep resonant bass of southern Africa but a higher contralto. They sing about universal topics: women and love. Young children scurry towards the singing and sit enthralled at the feet of the singers/dancers. I am amused by their lack of fear of the dark – my daughter would not be so brave – but then the Wodaabe children might well be equally fearful, mutatis mutandis, of the bright lights of our cities.

At dawn we rise to see the women - who are less compelling and who wear their hair bunched up into an Afro quiff as opposed to the men whose hair is plaited and hangs down the side of the face - milking cows, pounding millet, lighting fires, beginning the day’s work. Young boys take the livestock out to pasture. The men ready themselves for the dance. With handheld mirrors they painstakingly apply their make up. They blacken lips, rouge cheeks, apply eyeliner. The dress rehearsal for the Gerewol festival in a few days time.

In the morning, as the heat of the day began to rise, I sat in the shade with some of the men. Tea boiled in a small blue enamel teapot over a small stove. “E-hey, e-hey,” there is much light-hearted banter, nodding of agreement and slapping of hands to reinforce a point. Voices are raised not in argument but playful good humour.

Youlandou pushes back the brim of his Fulani hat, adorned with ostrich feathers, to drink water from a small teapot. He scrubs his teeth with his index finger, spits, bares his teeth in front of a small handheld mirror, satisfied, he resumes his tea-making.

The tea boils and is poured from height into a small glass. It is first offered to me. It is sweet, refreshingly so. I nod my thanks.

Spending time with these friendly jovial people, I feel envious of Thesiger and his time with the Bedouin in the Arabian Sands. But then as another thorn pricks my feet I realise that I have become too accustomed to my creature comforts and soft in my ways. I haven’t the mental or physical toughness of Thesiger to live the hardy nomadic life for months; a few days with bottled water, a tent and gas stove is all that I can manage in such heat.

I turned back in disbelief. Yes, my eyes weren’t deceiving me: it was an open top double-decker bus loudly proclaiming its ‘Hop on, Hop off’ tour of the city. Had my worst fears been realised in the ten years since my last visit? Had Marrakech sold out to the lure of the tourist dollar? Undoubtedly there has been a huge increase in visitors yet I am pleased to say, that in spite of the influx of tourists, Marrakech has managed to maintain much of its character as is still well worth a visit.

Like any self-respecting tourist I headed to the huge square at the heart of town, Djemaa el Fnaa. The origin of its name remains unknown: it means Assembly of the dead in Arabic but as the word djemaa also means mosque in Arabic, it could also mean place of the vanished mosque, in reference to a destroyed Almoravid mosque. Never has a square been so inauspiciously nor inappropriately named.

Today it is a seething frenzy of entertainment, a cacophony of sights and sounds. Water sellers in colourful costumes with traditional leather water-bags and brass cups, Berber dancing boys with spinning hats and clanging cymbals, the rhythmic background beat of drums and blaring pipes of snake charmers trying to coax their cold, and hence unenthusiastic, charges to entertain.

Magicians enthrall bemused audiences, dentists armed with pliers await the unsuspecting, tattooists force obliging tourists to have their hands adorned with henna and peddlers of traditional medicines sit patiently among the ebb and flow. One in particular, his face dark and African, caught my attention. Not so much for his ancient array of exotic remedies – from fried chameleons to hedgehog skins, from everything to nothing – but that amongst this medieval playground he pulls out his mobile phone.

Crowds, largely Moroccan, gather around flamboyant storytellers and listen intently. They ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ at the flights of fantasy and nod their heads knowingly at the denouement. The raconteurs' power is still in evidence and I loiter on the periphery of one particularly engrossed crowd. I strain to make sense of the stream of Berber words, wanting to be part of this old and mysterious world that still holds sway over the modern escapism of television and film. Reluctantly I admit defeat and move off to become consumed by the atmospheric al fresco dining of this vibrant square.

As the sun goes down, the bright white lights of the little open-air food stalls, give a fantastical air to the whole place. Salad, vegetables, spices, flat bread and an assortment of meats lie neatly stacked on each stall. Clouds of white smoke waft up from kebabs and lamb brochettes sizzling on open fires, and the smells that rise with them are irresistible. So too, the incessant and good humoured banter of the stalls, my favourite line being, “Marks and Spencer quality, Asda prices.”

It is said that Djemaa el Fnaa never empties but I retire to save my strength for what lies in wait tomorrow.

The early morning light breathes life into the quiet square, one of many interspersed amongst the souqs of Marrakech that pour through the medina in a maze of narrow streets. Veiled women sit patiently by neatly stacked piles of colourful woollen Berber hats, absentmindedly watching motorbikes putter past. Beslippered old men shuffle and hobble by. Heavily laden carts are pushed through the throng. Tourists strut nonchalantly past, hanging onto their guide’s every word. A scrawny cat rummages hungrily in a pile of rubbish.

I could sit here for hours people watching but I rouse myself from my reverie and enter the foray. In one alley, shafts of sunlight stream through from slats of wood and battered corrugated iron overhead, water is sprinkled by attentive shopkeepers to keep down the dust. Seated outside his stall, an old man murmurs to himself whilst reading from the Koran. A woman passes, dressed in white. She is in mourning and will dress in white for four months and ten days, after which time she will know whether she is pregnant and thus can remarry.

Further along, in contrast to her sorrow and the old man’s murmurings, the souq erupts into a blaze of colour and riot of noise. A kaleidoscopic rainbow of slippers, the glistening black of olives, garish glassware, patterned pottery and a tint of dyes. Here there is bustling life, everyone bargaining among the whining mopeds and handcarts piled high with firewood or goatskins. Wafts of musk, spices and soaps mingle with donkey dung, and every now and again the soaring wail of an amplified muezzin does battle with a braying donkey or the plaintive serenade of ancient ballad.

I swirl through one vortex of salesmanship after another, from the carpet souq through the jewellery souk to the souks of handicrafts and metalware. The banging, clanging, sawing, hammering and polishing produces sparks, shards, chippings and shavings. Everywhere I turn there is industry, skill, craft and ingenuity. And not just in the work. The showman is in his element, desperate to distract, keen to grab the passerby’s attention. Young boys juggle hammers, salesmen perfect their banter.

I am intrigued by one man carving the wooden handle of kebab skewers with his feet whilst his hands spin a rudimentary lathe. His skill and dexterity is captivating. He looks up at me grins and says proudly, “I’m better than Black and Decker.”

Marrakech was once a haven to flee to, an oasis to escape the desert. Not much has changed in this respect.

Flying back from a wedding in Holland, I was given the seventh degree by a Dutch immigration officer at Rotterdam airport.

After much scrutiny of my passport, thumbing through pages, looking at stamps and visas, and thumbing back to previous pages, he asked me what I was doing in Holland. Not satisfied with my answer he tried a more direct line of questioning asking me who I had been seeing. He wanted specifics, to know who, when and where.

Once again my answers did little to reassure him. “Are you in the military?” he blurted out. “No,” was my reply. “Have you ever been in the military?” he tried again only to be met with the same answer. Reluctantly he handed me back my passport and waved me through.

Trying to work out why I had been singled out in such a way, I flicked through my passport to see what might have caught his attention. It was only then that I realised within the last year I have travelled to Libya, Yemen, Sri Lanka, Venezuela, Sudan, Colombia and Mozambique. An occupational hazard of working for Steppes Travel.

PS Mental note: Jason Bourne would not let himself get into such a situation. Must try harder.

Places are like people. You judge them at your peril and first impressions can be deceiving.

Arriving in Ibo – aside from the quaintness of the small brick building standing forlornly alongside the grass airstrip grandiosely declaring itself as ‘Ibo Airport’ – I was underwhelmed.

In the short seven minute put-putting tuk tuk drive from plane to pillow, I was struck by the emptiness of the town, the dilapidation of the buildings, their sorry neglected state and the apparent lack of pristine beaches. I had come to Ibo Island the cultural and historic centre of the Quirimbas Archipelago in Northern Mozambique, touted as the finest beach and marine destination in the world, the latest and hottest buzz words in African travel, and yet I was overwhelmed by a feeling of “Is this it?”

But there is nothing like time – and it did not take long – to shake off the fatigue of air travel and the misgivings of expectation and initial impressions.

The wind rattling the palm fronds, the evocatively jaunty angle of dhow sails, the nostalgic smell of sea air, the expanse of sand left behind by retreating tides were the first step in my rehabilitation and my falling in love with the quiet, delicate, easy-going charms of Ibo.

There is a curious, commonplace and saddening conformity of beach destinations around the world. They are disturbingly one dimensional with little or no geographical, historical or cultural perspective to give your stay any sense of value. Yes they are relaxing and a chance to unwind from the daily stress and rigmarole of our too time-pressured lives. But is it the best antidote to simply forget and turn off? Is that really the best way to recharge your joie de vivre? Is it not better to live and love again?

In that sense there can be few places more therapeutic than Ibo, where the pace of life is languid and the only coming and going is that of the tide. Yet the small island, xxx square kilometres, is steeped in history. The Portuguese first arrived here in the early sixteenth century and established a thriving trading port that was to reach its apogee in the nineteenth century with a population in excess of ten thousand, a tenth of whom would have been colonial Portuguese.

Today the Portuguese have gone leaving behind their buildings whose character speaks eloquently of former glories and prosperity. In spite of their decay and faded grandeur – one, with trees growing within it, reminded me of Ta Phrom, the Angkor temple reclaimed by the jungle – the buildings are romantic and charismatic. Dull ochre colours, blackened walls, delicate pillars, red tiled roofs, ivory patterns inlaid in doors delight me with a haunting sense of the past.

The main square is large, leafy and surrounded by buildings that once had importance: the customs building, the bank, the church and houses of officials. The church is fascinating. An elaborately carved wooden pulpit and stone plagues on the wall are indicative of an active congregation yet fruit bats in what remains of the roof and Catholic curios gathering dust in a forgotten recess bring you back to today. Despite, most probably because, the island’s three and half thousand residents are predominantly Muslim none of the curious icons have been disfigured or plundered.

In the north western corner of the island a small star shaped fort keeps silent sentinel over the seas. The whiteness of its imposing walls betrays a darker secret within, that its dungeons were once used to house slaves prior to their being shipped overseas. The heaviness of the atmosphere and walls is however uplifted by the beauty and delicacy of the oval windows in the chapel.

Within the gatehouse a community of silversmiths ply their age old trade. Methods and skills are handed down orally over the generations, practices little changed over the centuries. The jewellery is Arabic and Indian in influence, the designs intricate.

Working in the gloom of the dungeons is not kind on their sight. Yet what can they do? There is no hospital let alone optician on the island. We hand over a number of old glasses that we had been asked to bring out from the UK. A quiet nodding of heads in appreciation and then expectantly one of the older silversmiths tries on the glasses. In spite of the worrying thickness of the lenses he tries the first pair with a barely discernible shake of the head and they are carefully placed back on the table. The next pair are scrutinised and then carefully placed on his head. This time a quick nod of the head, a thumbs up and a beaming smile are given in thanks and approval.

In keeping with the charms of the island is Ibo Island Lodge which Kevin and Fiona Record have lovingly restored to create a peaceful haven. It is calming and restful. Its décor simple yet soothing; its staff friendly and patient. Lying on my four poster bed I gaze not at the high ceilings above me but rather out through the large wooden doors, curtains billowing idly in the wind, at the late afternoon sun shimmering on the sea. The triangular white of a dhow sail is the only sign of movement in the equatorial haze and torpor.

Kevin and Fiona first arrived here over ten years ago, just after the end of the civil war. They immediately fell in love with the island, its history but above all its people. The geography and history of the island give it substance but its people make it special. Walking around the village with our guide Dollar as he points out birds, plants and the “moss-key” (mosque) I am warmed by the quiet goings on of everyday life: a woman proudly sweeping her yard, girls plaiting each others hair, boys kicking around a homemade football, children carrying water from the well. The toothless watery-eyed grin of an old man, the sing song greetings of children, the shy nodded acknowledgement of young girls and the warm handshakes of the men all made me feel welcome.

Ib's people are a blend of races, its religion a fusion of Islam and island superstitions. The imam and the korandera (witch doctor) live cheek by jowl. The monotonous chanting of children reciting verses from the Koran at the medrasa is in noisy contrast to the lugubrious silence of the next door compound where the sick and unwell are waiting to visit the korandera. We walk past a dirt football field, a few chickens scurrying along eking out their scrawny existence out of the remnants of grass.

“I bet that’s the only fowl play that goes on here,” I quipped sadly.

“Not at all,” Dollar corrected me. “There is a league but the season is over so there are no games at the moment.”

“League? Who do they play against?”

“Well there are two sides here on Ibo – Fleur d’Ibo and Casa Branco – and then they play against the other islands.”

“How do they get around?”

“From Quirimbas, Ibo’s arch-rivals, they walk/wade over at low tide and then walk quickly back when the game is finished. No extra time and no drunken revelry afterwards or they get cut off by the incoming tide. The others get here by dhow. It’s great when there is a game they bring all their supporters in dhows.”

I smile, delighted by imagined scenes that are far more romantic than cheerless coach loads of tribal English football supporters. I have visions of the sea awash with an invasion of white dhow sails. Colourful images of animated supporters spilling out of their dhows with a piratical fanaticism for their team. Flowers not scarves are the badges of loyalty.

If only these were to be the only invaders of Ibo but soon there will be the inevitable influx of tourists to affect the status quo. The corruption of the tourist dollar could well denigrate and desecrate the appeal of this unprepossessing island. I hope not. I also think not. Ibo has been through much, whether the oppression of the colonial Portuguese, the cruelty of slavers or the horrors of the civil war and it has shown a resilience and irrepressible charm that is both disarming and beguiling. Ibo will change but it will still retain the power to change and captivate those who visit.

As our small aircraft taxied to take off on the grass airstrip, I peered out of the plane to find myself charmed right to the very end by Ibo. Framed by the empty window of the ‘terminal’ building were a group of young children, hands on chins, staring starry-eyed at the take off. Every time a plane flies in or out, they run to the airstrip and gaze in awe at the metallic flying bird. They are bewitched by the trappings of the western world yet I have been enchanted by the sleepy spell of Ibo.

“Daddy, where is our small pool?” queried my three and half, going on four, going on fourteen, year old daughter on arrival at the small, charming cottage we had rented for the week in Pembrokeshire.

She was referring to the fact that our villa in the Maldives (our last family holiday) had a small plunge pool. Our house in Wales did not due to geography and climactic differences that, as yet, are a little beyond my daughter.

The next comparison with the Maldives was the fact that the beach in Pembrokeshire was stony and not as soft as the Maldives.

Then of course she commented on how cold the water was….

Notwithstanding the fact that Pembrokeshire is famed for its potatoes, the final straw was when she had the gall to ask, “Daddy can we please have chips like in the Maldives?”

I am painting a horrible and definitely unfair picture of my daughter. She is not spoilt, far from it (the fact that chips are a rare Maldivian treat perhaps backs this up). Rather it serves to illustrate that whilst we had a great time last week in Pembrokeshire it cannot compete in my mind, and certainly that of my daughter’s, to the week we had in the Maldives….

“Say goodbye,” the man in uniform smiled at me.

My heart skipped a beat, stereotypes of Colombia racing through my head, until I realised that the immigration officer was merely being friendly and polite and wishing me a pleasant stay; linguistic shortcomings had confused the issue.

I had allowed prejudice and preconception to get the better of me. Perceptions can linger for many years despite actual circumstances changing. Colombia is a case in point. The reality on the ground is very different from the headlines.

Some facts: Colombia is the size of France and Spain and has a greater variety of birds than North America and Europe combined. Its fauna varies from the keen sighted praying mantis to the rare spectacled bear. It is the only Latin American country with a coastline on two oceans – the Pacific and Atlantic.

Yet all that the majority of us know of Colombia is that it is the world’s largest producer of cocaine and beset by problems that one would associate with such a dubious honour.

It is an image not without justification but one that needs clarification and a little updating. The country and its people are not all about drugs. Yes there are parts of the country - as with many countries around the world, not least our own – that are not safe. But conversely there are many parts – and remember what I said in the previous paragraph in reference to its size – that are safe, friendly and welcoming.

Some of Colombia’s gems include Ciudad Perdida, San Augustin and the country's capital, Bogota, awash with buzzing markets, quality museums, forward-looking locals and visionary architecture. However the jewel in the crown must be Cartagena, arguably the most beautiful city in Latin America.

Cartagena began as a warehouse for gold, silver, emeralds and other local treasures looted from the interior by Spanish colonialists. Unsurprisingly word of Cartagena’s wealth quickly spread attracting legendary pirates such as Hawkins and Drake who attacked and besieged the city. The Spanish response was to build an eleven kilometre wall and the impressive fort of Castillo San Felipe de Barajas on San Lazaro hill. It took nineteen years and 44 million ounces of gold to build the fort and its imposing 150 metre high wall. The fort is masculine and brutish, its steeply angled, ramp-like paths take you up to the top of this bare, brutal edifice from which an outsize Colombian flag billows out. The fortifications now attract rather than repel visitors; but for me the real attraction of Cartagena is the feminine wiles and charms of the old town.

The best way to breathe in the atmosphere of the old town is to walk the massive defensive walls - Las Murallas - which takes a little over an hour. Cannons point out to sea between conical look-out towers. On one side of the walls, waves crash against the beach and palm trees tilt in the wind. On the other quiet, sunlit lanes twist and turn, sometimes opening into handsome plazas lined with mellow-stoned churches and ancient houses painted in soft hues, ochres and yellows, darkened and blackened over time bestowing a dignity of age. Large studded doors conceal charming cool courtyards decorated with ferns, fronds and fountains.

These narrow streets were deliberately laid out crooked to confuse marauding pirates. I wander around in a daze but not of confusion. I am enchanted by the faded facades, the ancient beauty and amble in reverie.

Mime artists with painted faces, horse and carriages, bougainvillea spilling from wooden balconies crowd together to remind me of New Orleans. But Cartagena is not as tacky and touristy. There are tourists but they are on the whole Colombian. There are shops but mainly chic boutique shops – the Colombians are smart, sassy dressers. There is a surprising sophistication to Cartagena.

I find a café in a quiet square and sit lulled by the gentle rhythms of rumba music. Around me, Colombians drink coffee (wow what coffee!), freshly squeezed fruit juices and crisp, clean wines. I sip in the atmosphere.

I force myself to get up and wander around the streets. They are strangely empty. I pass a small church, its doors wide open, fans spinning against the heat, a priest conducting the service and the congregation spilling out onto the street, families standing at the back, children in arms. In a nearby house, a glimpsed glance through an open window reveals an elderly woman rocking gently on her chair watching the world go by. The old city seems lovingly wrapped in a peaceful time warp; it is so unexpected and so enchanting.

I think of Garcia Marquez and his description of Cartagena, his adopted home, in his novel ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’:

“The city, his city, stood unchanging on the edge of time: the same burning dry city of his nocturnal terrors and the solitary pleasures of puberty, where flowers rusted and salt corroded, where nothing had happened for four centuries except a slow ageing among withered laurels ...”

The description largely stands the test of time, just as the city itself does. The bougainvillea tumbling from the balconies in the narrow streets still "rusts", the salt still corrodes, the air is still full of solitary (and not so solitary) pleasures. But nothing happening? Round the next corner Colombian music pumps out from behind a heavy wooden door. I almost bump into a busty young girl with ‘Look, Want, Guess’ emblazoned across her tight t-shirt. There is more to Cartagena than meets the eye.

Cartagena is changing and will undoubtedly change further. Your dilemma is whether you go there and in so doing contribute and hasten that change. Selfishly, the answer has to be yes.

OK it's not the British Museum nor is it the Cairo Museum but it does contain a wealth of ancient treasures that are an unexpected joy to behold. In particular, I was charmed by the delicacy and finery of the pottery, impressed by the intricacy and detail of some of the hieroglyphs and simply taken aback by the beauty of the early Christian frescoes.

The National Museum of Sudan in Khartoum is possibly not top on your list of must-see museums but this is unsurprising when so little is known of the treasures of this remarkable country. Sadly Sudan, or rather its government, is better known for its indefensible policies in Darfur that have led to death and misery for hundreds and thousands. Atrocities in Darfur make any visit to Sudan contentious, an ethical dilemma. In no way wanting to condone the actions of the government I wrestled with this problem long and hard but in the end decided to go - a tourism boycott would in no way effect the government (funded amongst others by China) but rather allow it to pursue its policies in isolation and behind closed doors.

Sudan is a culturally wealthy country. Over a hundred languages are spoken by dozens of different tribes making Sudan as diverse as Africa itself. For many, Sudan's history is best known for Gordon of Khartoum; less often told is the story of Sudan's ancient past. The kingdom of Kush dealt with the pharaohs of Egypt and emperors of Rome as an independent power and left behind a wealth of archaeological treasures.

My appetite whet by the tantalising treasures of the museum, we headed north to Meroe, the old Kushite capital, famed for its pyramids of the Royal Cemetery. Sudan's most popular tourist attraction - receiving only one hundred visitors a month in the cooler 'winter' months - the pyramids of Meroe have long been overshadowed by the headline-grabbing pyramids and treasures of Egypt. But this is part of the joy of Meroe: namely that as it is so little visited you have the pyramids virtually to yourself.

The pyramids are surrounded by the desert, imbuing them with romance and mystery, so much so that I slipped into reverie and imagined myself stumbling across these pyramids for the first time. The site itself is divided into two main clusters: the older and smaller southern cluster and the more impressive, better preserved, northern cluster, which spans the 4th C BC to 3rd C AD and has some 44 pyramids in various states of repair. Many of them contain interesting designs depicting scenes on which the kingdom derived its economic wealth, worship to the gods and the passage of the dead to the afterlife.

Although individually not as grandiose as the Egyptian pyramids, from which they are clearly derived (they are smaller, the tallest being thirty metres, and have a steeper pitch at 70º), the pyramids of Meroe are enchanting and intriguing. If you do visit the pyramids of Meroe, as I sincerely hope you will, then I hope that you behave a little better than the Italian treasure hunter Ferlini who in 1834 literally blew the tops off many of the pyramids.

There are a host of other sites from the Lion Temple and the Temple of Amun at Naqa, which carry some beautiful representations of Apedemak, Horus and Amun. Musawwarat es Sufra is the largest set of Meroitic remains in Sudan and yet its exact purpose is unclear - a metaphor for our incomplete understanding of Meroitic culture. The frequency of carvings of elephants suggests that elephants may have been used or possibly trained here.

The accommodation throughout was much much better than I had expected. In fact I felt spoiled. Meroe tented camp overlooking the pyramids was charming whilst the Nubian Guesthouse in Karima was exquisite and certainly belies its name. I ate dangerously well in both.

I had done a little reading and had learned of the treasures of the Kushite kingdom but I was taken aback by their splendour and I was unprepared for the ethnic diversity of the people but more especially their unfailing hospitality and welcome. Wherever I went I was made to feel at ease with everyone saying 'Marhaba' (you are welcome), some stopping to shake my hand and other demand I take a photograph of them. Given my experiences I totally endorse the line in the Bradt guidebook, "Indeed, it's not uncommon for trans-Africa travellers to commend Sudan as their favourite country in the whole continent."I hope that some of my images convey the beauty and grace of the people.

I leave you with the enchanting early morning scene on my penultimate morning as we were headed back to Khartoum:

We arrived at the Karima ferry as the sun was rising over the east bank of the Nile, silhouetting the palms on the far bank. Its warming rays bathed the waiting crowd in the soft hues of morning light. It was a gentle, timeless scene. The white of the men's gellabeyhs given colourful contrast by the brightness of the women's dresses; the buzz and hum of greetings filled the air; smiles of recognition and welcome. The slapping of shoulders as is the Sudanese way. Some sat on stools for coffee and a chat. The woman of the shack wafted charcoal to speed up the boiling of her battered kettle - the only hint of pace in this unhurried start to the day. With the building of the bridge in the next few years such morning rituals will sadly be lost.

Venezuela is a land of spectacular scenery and many waterfalls. It is thus only fitting that it is home to the highest falls in the world, Angel Falls. Named not after heavenly bodies but more prosaically after the derring-do American aviator, Jimmy Angel, who crash-landed on the summit of Ayuantepui, the tepui from which the waters of Angel Falls cascade nearly a kilometre to their fate below.

Being less adventurous than Angel, I joined a group of Venezuelan tourists and headed upstream on the Caro River in a long wooden dugout. Despite our proximity to the equator we had to huddle low in the dugout, trying in vain, to avoid the penetrating chill of the dawn as we sped over the still waters of the river. The waters were dark enhancing the warming embers of dawn with a perfect and enchanting reflection.

The jungle, a riot of undergrowth, clambered for space at the river’s edge, branches, tree trunks and foliage spilling over into the water. The jungle was unmoving and quiet, the unnatural sound of our motor announcing our arrival and silencing all.

That is except for the birds. The noisy radio squawking overhead of parakeets, toucans glided from perch to perch, swallows fluttered haphazardly and kingfishers darted decisively along the water’s edge.

The river snaked and worked its way around harder rocks in a series of curves and bends. Negotiating small bubbling raids, the bottom of the dugout gently scraping rocks, we made slow progress upriver scanning the banks in vain for signs of animal life.

A tangled, engorged mass of roots covered the jungle floor, frustrating footsteps and making progress difficult. I was relieved to see that no wooden boardwalks or steps had been built to pander to pampered tourists. It added to the drama of the approach. The natural beauty of the sight was also thankfully not denigrated or demeaned by protective railings and signs.

Angel Falls does not need boards or sign to announce its presence. Its grandness, its height, its beauty speaks eloquently enough for itself. As I caught my first glimpse of the Falls I literally did, clichéd as it might sound, gasp in awe.

Nearly one kilometre above me two channels of water spilled over the dramatic edge unaware of the vertiginous drop below. It fell and fell and fell. I tried to follow a drop from the top to the bottom. It was impossible. Before my drop had got even a third of the way down I had lost it in a shower of fine spray. I tried again. Again and again. I gave up and focused on the bottom third, by which time my original drop had possibly only just reached this section. It was mesmerising and I totally lost myself in the fate of all those millions of drops of water in their stomach churning fall.

Then suddenly the clouds rolled in enveloping the summit and rousing me from my reverie. I pinched myself, stunned by the sheerness of the height and drop.

I thought that it was to be my only view of the falls but was unaware that as you fly out of Cainama, the small airstrip that is the gateway to Angel Falls, the pilots indulge in a flyby of the Falls. I was also unaware of the breathtaking beauty of the falls and surrounding scenery from the air.

Once airborne, I was struck by the endless expanse of green that carpeted the land below. It was broken only by the tortuous bends of the Caro River along which we had travelled yesterday. I was intrigued to see from the air just how much the river meandered, winding, bend after bend after bend.

The geographical display that unfolded below and around us – for some minutes we were flying alongside the northern face of Ayuantepui - was quite simply astonishing. I have never seen such majestic scenery. The precipitous face of the tepui and the dramatic falls themselves; the weathered remnants of a ridge writhed in cloud standing in solitary defiance. It was awe inspiring.

The pilot turned casually to me and asked my weight. Unimpressed with both my Spanish and answer, he proceeded to reposition me and my four fellow passengers, taxied onto the small airstrip, took off and promptly began reading the newspaper. His nonchalance belied the extraordinary beauty and scenery of our flight.

Flying south from Ciudad Bolivar on the banks of the Orinoco in the heart of Venezuela we were headed for Santa Elena, the gateway to Mt Roraima and my chance to fulfil a childhood dream of reaching its summit. As a young boy I had been fascinated by the dashing exploits and adventures of Lord John Roxton and co, told so well in Conan Doyle’s, wonderful romp into prehistory, ‘The Lost World’. Now, flying over hundreds of miles of dense green carpet of jungle, I was fortunate enough to be following in their footsteps albeit somewhat more comfortably but certainly no less dramatically.

The geographic smorgasbord that unfolded below and around us – for many minutes we were flying alongside the imposing face of Ayuantepui from which Angel Falls, the highest waterfall in the world, plunges to its fate nearly a kilometre below – was quite simply stunning. I have rarely seen such majestic scenery. The clouds seemed to pour off the striking flat-topped mountains or tepuis as they are locally known. The sheer faces stood, like medieval battlements, towering over the jungle below. The verdant green of the forest broken only by the inky darkness of rivers meandering their way through the entanglement of undergrowth to eventually feed the Orinoco and Amazon.

“Sorry I am late,” Eric apologised.

Eric prided himself on his punctuality and was exasperated that no message had been passed on to us as we were waiting by the airstrip.

“Hey, this is Latin America,” we said unphased by the delay and actually having enjoyed hanging around in the sun, watching the coming and going of this quiet corner of the world and listening to the swing of samba.

Eric needn’t have worried this was the only glitch throughout our whole stay. By way of introduction to the region he took us on a guided tour of Grand Sabana in which Mount Roraima is situated.

We set off across the rolling savannah with Roraima in full view. No dramatic unveiling but rather its full majesty beckoning us forth. We marched eagerly toward it, crossing small streams, up and down over small hills, no sound except the rustling of grasses in the breeze and the occasional metallic clanking of a frog. Inexorably we drew closer to our goal.

We stopped at Rio Tek for a cooling swim beneath a small cascade that was looked upon by the towering presence of Kukenan, the tepui adjacent to Roraima. Afterwards it was heavenly to be lying on the rocks in the sun, feet cleansed and refreshed, a breeze massaging our tired bodies with wafts of the sun’s warm rays. The combination of the gurgling of the stream, the fluttering flight of butterflies and the splendour of Kukenan in the late afternoon sun was soothing and soporific. It was both unexpected and tranquil and as a result has stuck in my memory.

Day two we began climbing imperceptibly to base camp from where everything changed. From there on the climb became steep and unforgiving. Ferns, large fronds and moss-covered rocks replaced the grasses of the savannah. The trail was no longer open but had become hemmed in and surrounded by the entangled undergrowth of the forest, which greedily drank from the waters of Roraima. There was a smell of damp earth and musty, decaying vegetation.

After an hour and a half of trudging steadily upwards with the occasional glimpse through the trees of the plains far below, we eventually emerged onto the summit. We found ourselves in a surreal landscape of weird rock formations weathered by wind and rain over millennia. This island in the sky – Roraima is thirty four square kilometres in area – is one of the last frontiers, an exotic botanical paradise in which fragile plants thrive in the harsh environment.

We pitched our tents on a cliff top under one of the many overhangs. It was a magical spot. From our eyrie in the sky, bathed in the late afternoon sun, it was heavenly to watch the ever-changing weather patterns roll in before our very eyes. In the morning it was glorious and uplifting to peer out of the tent at the splendour of Kukenan and to watch the clouds pouring off its bleak surface onto the plains below.

The next day, we set off for triple point, so called as it is the meeting of three countries: Venezuela, Guyana and Brazil. Each step provided a different angle in which every rock and formation seemed to come alive in the shape of a bizarre caricature. A pig with floppy ears a few steps later becomes frog and in a few more a hippopotamus. This is nothing to do with rarefied air – we are just below three thousand metres – but solely to do with how the surface has been shaped by the elements. Photographs, well mine at least, cannot really do justice to this ethereal summit.

Life on the summit is fragile. The poor soil quality – any nutrients in the soil are quickly leached out by rain water and eroded by flash floods - has meant that the plant life has had to adapt. Most have had to evolve strategies for combating water loss and supplementing their diet, which has led to some becoming carnivorous by trapping and digesting small insects. Another problem is anchoring themselves on the rocky surface; thus in crevices and clefts plants cling precariously to life whilst in more exposed areas tight little cushions of plants huddle together like miniature Japanese gardens.

In this world of fog and rain, little or no insect activity is discernible, but given a moment’s sunshine, black butterflies start to flutter around and black dragonflies hawk back and forth through gullies in search of prey. Black is the colour of Roraima. Many of the animals are melanistic – dark brown to black in colour – giving them protection from the ultraviolet radiation and giving them camouflage against the dark rock surface.

One animal, the black frog, is an ancient species that has retained many of its primitive traits as the environment of the tepuis has not forced it to evolve radically. It can neither hop nor swim and but instead has unique toes to help it cling to the rock surface better. It is more alike an African species than any other frog on South America, suggesting that its origins date back to Gondwanaland, which began to break up over 150 million years ago. Of Conan Doyle and his ‘Lost World’.

Back in the late afternoon of the twenty-first century we set off to bathe in the romantically described ‘jacuzzi’. The reality is more prosaic. No bubbles, no hot water but a series of ‘jacuzzi-shaped’ pools that were refreshing and a godsend to weary feet.

We returned to or campsite as the sun was setting tingeing the clouds with gold. The clouds rolled ominously in, darkening the skies overhead and casting the rocks in an eerie silhouette. Black and sinister the starkness of our position on the roof of the world was revealed.

On our final morning we walked to the north-western corner of Roraima to what is poetically called ‘The Window’. It is no ordinary view that confronts one, but befitting of Roraima it is breathtaking. The sides of Roraima dropped vertiginously into the jungle which swept away into the distance. The precipitous drop was dizzying and I did not dare go too near the edge – there are no signs warning you of such a drop, no protective barriers. This is Venezuela and tourism is raw and nascent and I would advise you to go before it grows up.

As a post script, Roraima is unrecognisable from Conan Doyle’s Lost World. It is no longer the preserve of intrepid explorers but now firmly on the tourist trail. Yet it remains enigmatic and enticing. Part of the alluring appeal of Roraima and the surrounding tepuis must be their dramatic geography: the sheer towering faces and the abrupt flatness of their summits which seem to defy the more subtle and gentle lines of Nature.

The elephant march begins. Everything else takes a back seat. The traffic comes to a stand still as these placid pachyderms plod slowly across the main road and down through the drag of tourist stalls that for once are wary of displaying their wares and souvenirs. The mahouts marshal their charges through these stalls, chary that the elephants are female and their penchant for retail therapy. The shopkeepers are equally mistrustful and do not advertise but rather chastise those showing too much of an interest in what is on sale.

Down the slope the elephants plod, leaving their spoor and dung on the muddy path. Their destination: the river, relief from the midday sun and hours of splashing about in the water.

It is a quaint scene viewed by a handful of tourists on a daily basis with much enjoyment and clicking of cameras.

The babies are bound to feature highly in any obligatory viewing of tourist snaps back home. Perhaps not the unfortunate three-legged female who had the misfortune of standing on a land mine. Missing the lower half of her front left leg she makes a sad and ungainly progress to the river. Her movement is stilted and crablike as she awkwardly negotiates the terrain. Her spine is twisted and deformed with years of effort. Her strained progress wins me over. Yes, the exuberant playfulness of the babies is delightful and enchanting, but when the three-legged elephant leans her backside against a rock so that she can take the pressure off her stump, which she rests human-like against her good front leg, I am won over….

The landscape was lush and verdant. Palm trees decorated the fringes of paddy fields, within which water buffalos languished idly. Banana trees and spice gardens were further testament to the productivity of the land. Two-wheeled tractors worked the paddy fields alongside teams of families, men wearing sarongs and women saris.

But for the last word, the description is possibly reminiscent of south-east Asia. In fact I was in the ‘splendid country’, better known as Sri Lanka.

The road snaked sluggishly, twisting and turning endlessly, through the mountain scenery. Yes our passage was painfully slow but I was continually enchanted by the idyllic bucolic scenes. Sri Lanka - or at least the hinterland of Sri Lanka - is rich and fertile, with red soil and full rivers. The pace of life is slow and tranquil, bicycles wheeling softly by, tuk tuks puttering past; no sense of hurry.

The road was lined with bungalows of well-maintained gardens. Neat plants and shrubs made me think of Sri Lanka as a nation of gardeners, certainly the case when I saw the impressive botanical gardens of Kandy. I am not green-fingered and was not expecting much but was taken aback by the scale and care of these gardens.

Whilst such charming scenes and the Bond-esque feel of Kandalama hotel impressed me and Etty, my wife, it was the elephants, the ‘naughty monkeys’ and tortoise that wee-ed on Mummy that impressed our three year old Isabel. Anna, barely fourteen months, meanwhile, was taken with the men. Her incessant flirting is indicative of future problems that I will face as a father.

Despite the flights, and two restless children, Sri Lanka and the Maldives was just the break that we needed as a family. It was not relaxing – what travel with two children under the age of three is - but it was certainly refreshing.

“Sir, you might want to hold on to your child,” said the flight attendant. “We are going to land through a rather large thunderstorm.” My first impression of arriving in the Maldives on a family holiday with my two daughters.

Minutes later I listened in disbelief to my second impression of arriving in the Maldives as the same flight attendant said, “You have a boat transfer to where you are staying? Be careful many of the boats capsize…”

Once off the plane, thankfully, despite the weather, the Maldives was able to speak for itself. Where else in the world does your luggage appear on the airport carousel placed in an orderly fashion and standing the right way up? This set the tone from beginning to end of our stay on the Maldives, namely the incredible standard and level of service. It was everywhere and unfailing. Wherever we went, whoever we met we were met by smiles and welcome.

So much so that my three year old daughter, who is not normally a morning person, began saying good morning to everyone as we walked to breakfast every morning. She was so taken by this that she was still saying “Good morning” to everyone late into the afternoon.

Inevitably the weather improved. The level of service could get not better. We had a fantastic start to our family holiday. Not knowingly a beach person I have been won over by the charms and service of Kuda Hura...

Signs that speak of “Fixed Prices” in five different languages are a warning to any self-respecting tourist to stay away. So too, anywhere trying to sell itself on the back of Star Wars. These two lessons I learned quickly on arrival in Tunisia. Thankfully my Tunisian tutorials did not end there and I was pleased to discover that my time in Tunisia was not of self preservation but very much of self advancement - there is much more to Tunisia than the dark side and over enthusiastic salesmen.

Quite simply, away from the package hotels there is a captivating and colourful side to Tunisia. Moorish doorways, mountain scenery and classical ruins are a more compelling and interesting Tunisia that I did not believe existed until I found them.

I also discovered that, getting serious, or rather political, for a moment, Tunisia has emerged from a history of foreign invasion and occupation as one of Africa’s most politically stable and tolerant Islamic nations. Women hold jobs in a variety of fields, from nurses to republican guards, from judges to government ministers. The country has a comprehensive legal and social security system. It is not rich, lacking the substantial wealth of its nouveau riche oil-rich Libyan neighbour, but you do not see children in rags, there are no signs of abject poverty.

But that doesn’t necessarily make it an interesting country to visit. It does not whet your travel juices. What does? That is a question only you can answer; all I can do is tell you of, or rather highlight, my brief visit and experiences of Tunisia.

Having come form the comparatively barren – both in modern culture and visitors – Libya, I found Houmt Souq, the capital of the small island of Jerba, to be delightful. The early morning light cast a warm glow over Houmt Souq’s market as it slowly awoke. There was a refreshing simplicity to the white-washed walls and the blue doors and shutters. A bucolic honesty to the old men going about their morning chores in their straw hats. The women were charming, even South American, in their local garb of white with red and orange borders. I was wary that the harsher light of late morning would paint a less flattering picture not least as it would bring with it the tourist hordes and headed away.

The amphitheatre of El Jem is imposing and monumental. It is hard to imagine the scale of the Roman town of Thysdrus, which gave birth to this amphitheatre modelled on Rome’s Coliseum. By the 3rd century Thysdrus had a population of 100,000 – modern day El Jem only musters a meagre few thousand – and was the richest city in North Africa.

Its prosperity was based on the fact that the Romans, through their exquisite knowledge of water systems, were able to harness the potential of the fertile soil in this otherwise dry region. El Jem stands as a worthy testament to their skill and management of water. The modern town is indicative of our lack of progress since that time, although, thankfully, the dungeons beneath the vast arena are now empty. Walking through the dungeons, shafts of sunlight streaming through, I had to rely on my imagination and scenes from the recent blockbuster ‘Gladiator’.

Kairouan is Tunisia’s religious heart and the fourth holiest city in Islam (after Mecca, Medina and Jerusalem). The Great Mosque is interesting to see not least for its magnificent cedar doors and the Roman columns that have been re-employed. The Mosque of the Barber, with its lavish and ornate tiling, is worth visiting as too is the medina, which is good to stroll around, getting lost in the maze of alleys, watching cobblers hard at work, old men gossiping.

With such a wealthy classical heritage, there are inevitably going to be some sights that impress in terms of historical resonance if not in the grandeur of the remains. Dougga is certainly not one of them.

Overlooking the fertile valley of Khalled, with cicadas ringing in the background, Dougga is nestled amongst an orchard of olive trees. The setting is enchanting and immediately I wished that I had brought a picnic. I wanted to lie in the shade of the orchard sipping chilled wine as I contemplated the former glories of Dougga.

Judging by the impressive ruins, such glories must have been impressive, for the site of Dougga is considered, for its diversity and beauty, amongst the most spectacular not only of Tunisia but indeed of the whole of North Africa. The theatre, with a capacity of about 3,500, is one of the best preserved in Africa with glorious views out over the valley below. The capitol is grand and imposing.

Enraptured by the delights of the Bardo, where I was so enthralled and absorbed by the mosaics that I did not notice the other tourists, I felt brave enough to venture into the souq. Immediately I was confronted by a gawping group of tourists but thankfully the herd instinct prevails. Lacking imagination or independence, such groups will not deviate from what has been ordained by their guide and I was thus able to avoid them and lose myself in the labyrinthine network of alleys.

I wandered aimlessly through the tangled and tortuous maze.

Seeking refuge from the hustle of Tunis, I set off for Sidi Bou Said. Set up on a hill, with its breeze, cobbled streets, white washed houses with heavy studded doors and blue mashrabiya, balconies, it is delightful. The combination of bougainvillea, birds and blue balconies, is not only attractive and stylish but soothing and calming. I obviously have good taste because this is where the rich and chic of Tunis have colonised.

I ended with what I had been looking for: a private Tunisia that I could enjoy in my own time without being swept alongside by the tourist tide. A haven, from which I could cherry-pick at my own pace and leisure. That is the best way to enjoy Tunisia’s rich pickings.

I could not sleep. I wandered dream-like through a fairy-tale land. I was surrounded by giant cakes, stories high, a delicate white icing highlighting the windows and tracing fragile patterns on the walls and crenellations. Wafts of incense and perfume delighted my olfactory senses. Black shapes ghosted past me. Men walked past their cheeks full of gobstoppers. Children ran amok, screaming with delight at the whizzing and banging of firecrackers. Everywhere people hailed me, saying that I was welcome.

I wasn’t dreaming but it felt like it. I was in Sana’a, the capital of Yemen. Stereotypes - some of which are none to reassuring - fill the mind at the mention of Yemen. Toyota pick-ups crammed full of militant men in white zannah, wearing jackets (invariably with the label still on the sleeve), and red and white headdresses. Whilst such stereotypes do exist, the mistake has been to pigeonhole Yemen.

Marib is the ancient capital of Sheba whose former prosperity was largely due to the impressive great dam built in the eighth century BC, a dam that was 720 metres long and 35 meters high. In the Marib of today I arrived to find a worrying amount of the population, including barely adolescent boys, sporting Kalashnikovs. Hassan, my guide, merely ascribed it to what he called the "Bedouin characteristic".

It would be easy for me to overreact, to typecast, and see Marib as a lawless, gun-toting city. The ancient mud-brick fortified granary stores merely evidence that this tribal fighting is deep rooted. The truth is that not once was I made to feel unwelcome, not once did I feel at all threatened. I cannot say the same for London. Yes there are guns but it is no less safe than London, the only difference being that the guns are more visible, and not being used to this it can be disquieting.

There have been and are problems with kidnappings but these are confined to certain areas of the country, no go zones. In the same way that one would not go to certain areas of New York, Nairobi or Newcastle there are areas to be avoided in Yemen. I am not being cavalier – I have two young daughters – but do not want to damn the whole country with the actions of a few individuals.

I am not so arrogant to presume that I know the country and its peoples after all too brief a stay, but I did come to understand that the reality is more complex. Problems between countries are problems between governments and do not manifest themselves into problems between peoples. The overwhelming reception I received throughout my stay in Yemen was one of welcome and friendliness.

Furthermore, the Yemenis have a great sense of humour. Tim Mackintosh-Smith in his excellent ‘Travels in Dictionary Land’ gives evidence to this. A young blind girl longing for a husband continually brought the subject up with her father. His reply was that no one wanted her but that she would find a husband in paradise. One day she tripped and fell off a roof but by chance fell into a passing lorry full of bananas and was knocked unconscious. When she came to, she believed she was dead, felt the bananas, remembered what her father had said and shrieked "Slowly, slowly, men of Paradise. Please take your turn!"

Another Yemeni joke I heard was that Adam, of Eve fame, was taken back to earth by an angel to see how it now looked. Flying over the world Adam would look quizzically down on unfamiliar regions and ask what they were. "Oh that is France," the angel would reply. Or "that is the USA", or that is "Jordan". Flying over the Arabian Peninsula, Adam remarked, "There’s Yemen." "How did you know that?" questioned the angel. "Nothing has changed," was Adam’s reply.

The joke obviously loses something in translation and my paraphrasing but suffice to say it is a good illustration, and perhaps endorsement, of the fact that Yemen is still very authentic. That time stands still in the land of Sheba. This really struck home in various black and white photographs I saw of Yemen in the 1930s – the only two differences between then and now were the modern day profusion of motor vehicles and plastic.

My Alice-like enchantment with Sana’a did not prevent me from seeing a less prosaic side of the country. Plastic bags are a plague that litter most villages and are indicative of a poverty and malaise. The former is due to a number of circumstances, ranging from the harsh terrain to the government’s isolation by the rest of the world; the latter is no small part to green chocolate, namely qat. This privet-like leaf is bought and sold in fevered transactions and chewed with disengaged relish, a small plastic bag of which costs anything from 500 Riel (Approx US$2.50) to 1,500 Riel. That might not sound much to us but on average Yemeni men are reckoned to spend a third of their income on qat, often to the detriment of feeding their families.

The fact that Yemen is authentic does not mean that it is stuck in a time warp. I often saw the Jahmbiya, a curved dagger, worn in tandem with a mobile phone. Its ancient houses are still lived in; its towns are not museums. The streets of today are vibrant and full of life, perhaps not more so than in Wadi Hadramawt.

Driving through the desert, dissolved and then scoured by wind and water over millennia into depressions and valleys, we dropped into the sunken world of Wadi Hadramawt. A deep scar of a valley, over one hundred and fifty kilometres long, Wadi Hadramawt is a veritable Eden in the harsh surrounds of the desert. The rich green of the fields of maize and the date palms lie in verdant contrast to the arid and parched limestone escarpment that towers hundreds of metres over the floor of the wadi. It oozed wealth, contentment and honey. Wadi Hadramawt is reputed to have the best honey in the world – I sincerely hope so given that I paid US$25 for half a kilo of premium honey.

The toy-town tower blocks of houses added a surreal and other-worldly enchantment. Appealing and intriguing, they are even more incredible when you realise that they are simply made of earth, straw and water. Cement has arrived, giving rise to a strange fusion of ancient and modern, but the mud-brick remains the basic element and the easiest to use. Large flat bricks of mud and straw are dried in the sun and mortared and then plastered over with more of the same. The building is then given a limestone icing that both waterproofs it and lends it an air of romance and fantasia.

Shibam, dubbed the ‘Manhattan of the Desert’ by Freya Stark in the 1930s, is the picture postcard image that sells Yemen. Individually the houses are no more remarkable than many others in Yemen but collectively they stand together to make a very picturesque whole; so much so that every sunset tourists make the daily pilgrimage up a conveniently located rocky outcrop to capture it on film. Meanwhile down in the old city I walked around the dusty streets impressed by the heavy decorative doors, admiring the eight stories of mud-brick, absorbed by the visual whole. Goats wander aimlessly, girls in pretty party frocks play hopscotch, men sit indolently watching nothing. Dust and inertia hang heavy in the air. Whilst superficially pretty, within it is sad and soulless.

Feeling flat after Shibam, I returned to Seiyun and sat at a small roadside café watching the world go by. Hassan chatted about the town’s past. Under the communist rule there was nothing but dust and dirt. Now, he correctly pointed out, there was tarmac, there were motorbikes, there was an energy that had been lacking in Shibam.

Driving out of Wadi Hadramwat in the early morning was as magical as our arrival. A witches’ coven of women dressed from head to toe in black, with tall pointed straw hats, huddled together as they worked in the field. We passed through Al Hatwa, a town of no real note except that I enjoyed the unobtrusive vitality of its market. Battered old Toyotas, barely recognisable under the scrapes, dents and broken bumpers; the banter of barter blaring out from loudspeakers; men with heavy dark beards absent-mindedly cleaning their teeth with meswak; the pungent smell of dried fish, the exotic smells of spices; an eclectic mix of faces and features. All men. All alien. None hostile.

Before driving into the desert we did two things, in their different ways, to insure our safe passage through the desert. We let the air out of the car tyres to give them more purchase in the sand and were met by our guide, Mubarak, a Bedouin with proud, aquiline features, few words and a Kalashnikov.

Crossing the desert was invigorating. Skirting the edge of Rub al Kali, the famed Empty Quarter with the largest sand seas in the world, we raced across a vast flat expanse of desert with huge horizons. Insouciant, I was uplifted by the sense of space and freedom. It was like free-wheeling on your bicycle down a steep hill on a hot summer’s day with the wind in your face.

The laconic Mubarak suddenly stopped and motioned ‘Do you want to drive?’ I accepted without hesitation and was soon behind the wheel with a boyish look of glee on my face. It was exhilarating to be speeding across the soft sand. Mubarak nodded his approval. With the slightest flick of his hand would direct me left and right across the desert, imperceptibly and unerringly steering me out of trouble.

As my confidence grew so did my speed. So much so that I became blasé, not paying enough attention to Mubarak’s quiet warning to slow down. Thump; a slight depression had been a little bigger than I thought. I looked guiltily at Mubarak expecting him to be annoyed at the unnecessary hammering I had just given his 4x4. Not at all, all I got was a smile and a look of I told you so. We did, however, change places shortly afterwards.

Unable to resist showing off the full range of his driving talents, Mubarak veered off towards a line of sand dunes. Revving the engine in the soft sand, he headed to the crest of the highest dune. I shook my head in disbelief but he smiled in disagreement. Up, up and not over – we got stuck on the lip of the dune staring down at the steep drop on the other side. I smiled and looked at Mubarak to say I told you so. We did not change places.

That and many other images come to mind of Yemen. It is an incredibly visual country. The stunning terraces, dramatic mountains and impressive dunes of the mainland contrast with the dazzling clear waters and brilliant white sands of the island of Socotra in the Red Sea. Charming, bizarre houses, bearded men bearing daggers and women all in black are images indelibly etched into my memory.

The black sharshaf – a woman’s outer garment consisting of skirt, cape and veil – is a powerful symbol. Arguably more a symbol of the failing of the west to understand the Arab world and what lies behind the veil. This is a world, that being male, I was not privy to. I do however know that there is a female judge on the Supreme Court, 42% of the voters at the recent presidential were women, women drive and have far greater freedom than in many other Arab states. Yemen is not just one dimensional.

I arrived back in Sana’a more worldly-wise but still enchanted. Walking around the old town on my last night I was once again bewitched. Still held in its spell.

“Imagine a land that time forgot. A land of mountains with tooth-like pinnacles enveloped in cloud. A place where the vegetation is completely unfamiliar and the people speak a language only known to them. A surreal landscape steeped in mystery and legend where Sinbad landed to find the Rukh, the giant eagle bird that could carry an elephant in its talons. This is Socotra.”

I smiled at Hassan with wry amusement. Having spent the last week with him in mainland Yemen I had come to know him well, and enjoy his passion for story-telling and his descriptive powers. I granted him his poetic license and looked down on the dark choppy waters of the Red Sea far below.

And then I caught my first glimpse of the island; less prosaic perhaps, but no less dramatic and beautiful than Hassan had just described. The dazzling clear waters of Qalansiya lagoon surrounded by brilliant white sands penetrated deep into the darker waters of the sea. An imposing escarpment, shrouded in a bank of long white cloud, towered hundreds of metres over the coastline like medieval battlements. Below me lay images straight from an ancient secret map, a smorgasbord of topographical features painted in a rich African red, seared by sandy coloured river beds.

It was spectacular. It was prehistoric. But was it the paradise that had been alluded to in the scarce amount of literature that I could find on the island?

“It’s like a market in here,” quipped Hassan as we entered the small unfinished terminal building to be inundated by the babbling, bleating greetings of the Socotrans. Their strangulated, staccato bursts of conversation felt straight out of the souq, which, judging by the amount of luggage emerging from the plane, was somewhere they had evidently spent a lot of time.

Perhaps the amount of luggage was unsurprising. Throughout history the island has suffered from severe isolation due to its remote geographical position, being some five hundred kilometres to the south-east of the mainland, and on account of the fact that it is impossible to access for half of the year due to monsoon winds. Such inaccessibility has deprived the islanders, some 60,000 in total, of basic needs like health, education and water. Thus they are much poorer and less developed than on the mainland, depending on government hand outs and money remitted from family working abroad. Paradise without doctors, without medicine and cut off from the rest of the world for half the year.

It is this geographical isolation that has led to high levels of endemism and to Socotra being described as the Galapagos Islands of the Red Sea. The island does have very rich bird and plant life – over 210 species of bird have been recorded nine of which are endemic whilst it is even richer in plants with over 900 species of which an incredible 300 are found nowhere else in the world.

Although the Galapagos has only a slightly higher percentage of endemism of plants at 42% it is perhaps misleading to compare Socotra to the Galapagos – Socotra does not have the mesmerising draw of animals that have no fear of humans. Had Charles Darwin landed here in 1835 rather than in the Galapagos, he would have written a hugely interesting thesis but he would not have become the household name that he is today.


Admittedly, botanists rank Socotra in the top ten islands in the world. But to promote it to tourists ‘as the Galapagos Islands’ is marketing hope (sic). That is not to say that Socotra is not worth visiting. Oh no.

The island is undoubtedly strikingly, hauntingly beautiful. Driving east – Socotra is some 120 by 45 kilometres - the landscape was parched and dry. A challenging environment for vegetation and to cope with the arid climate and periodic droughts, many of the endemics have evolved distinctive features, typically grossly enlarged trunks or succulent fleshy leaves. The bulbous Socotran rose – more like a stunted baobab tree than an English garden rose – has evolved massive swollen trunks to store water and to defy the meagre rainfall statistics.

The coast was pristine. In Arher, a remote picturesque spot, the beach was flanked by towering massifs and some of the most impressive white sand dunes I have seen. Striking, not for the fact that they were white but their height, which must have been two hundred metres. Windswept and wild, it was strangely reminiscent of Namibia and its similarly rugged coastline.

Driving west, schools of dolphins frolicked playfully within twenty metres of the sandy beaches, which were twenty kilometres long and the breeding ground for a variety of turtles that come to nest and lay their eggs in the monsoon. Socotra lies in the path of several major ocean currents, resulting in an exceptional and high diversity of marine life, fish and corals.

But it was in the interior, its secrets protected by the imperious peaks of the Haggier Mountains and hidden by cloud that was perhaps the most remarkable of all. The craggy, dramatic peaks of granite weathered over the millennia stood silent sentinel to the lost world within. As we climbed, entering the mist, I was unsure of what was to come. I could hear the proverbial drums beating distantly, ominously.

Then the mists cleared, the scenery opened up and we were in rolling countryside evocative of Kenya except that rather than there being the ubiquitous acacia we were driving through an eccentric arboretum. Frankincense trees – Socotra literally means land or emporium of resin – with their flaky bark gave way to the curiously named Dragon’s Blood Tree. So called because it produces a red resin which is used as a dye, the Dragon’s Blood Tree looks like an umbrella blown out by the wind.

“They are going to the barber everyday,” smiled Hassan.

He was right; they did have a peculiar sculpted and manicured feel to them. Upturned cones of branches topped with spiky leaves, they only added to the bizarreness of the surrounds.

Moving on, I found myself nodding my head in appreciation, even awe, as I looked out over the hidden gorge of Wadi Da’arhr set against the dramatic backdrop of peaks. We dropped down through hidden gorges to the bottom of the wadi. Here there were small oases, palm-fringed pools with dragon flies hovering busily over them and the Socotran warbler, one of the island’s many endemics, chattering unseen.

I was jealous of a young Belgian, one of only a handful of tourists I met (in 2005 there were just 400 visitors, a number likely to increase dramatically over the next few years), who had spent the last four days walking through the interior. As he said, “It was spectacular.” I did not have the luxury of such time and reluctantly headed back to Hadibo, the unremarkable capital of the island. Back to reality and down to basics, literally. The island’s infrastructure is in its infancy and can at best be described as rudimentary.

Hadibo has little to recommend it. The hotels are far too modest to contemplate character and are merely functional. The restaurants, well if you don’t mind eating bony fish that is more to the liking of the myriad of cats that stalk the town, then you will not starve. Have I put you off? If I have then it is a shame but probably just as well as you would not get the full enjoyment of nature’s wonderful pickings. If I haven’t then January or February are the best months to visit.

You have to pay a price for beauty; at the moment that price is forgoing creature comforts. A small price to pay.

“Do you know the film ‘Legends of the Fall’? It is a wonderful film shot here in Libya in the 1950s starring John Wayne and Sophia Loren. It is wonderful because it ends here, in Leptis Magna, and you can see many of the statues still in situ. They have not yet been removed. It is also lovely because of Sophia Loren.” smiled Mohammed, our guide, bringing Leptis Magna alive in a way that I had not imagined possible.

Not that Leptis is a bland site; to the contrary it is one of the most extraordinary ancient sites in the Mediterranean. In its heyday it dominated the sea shore for some three kilometres and is estimated to have had a population of 100,000; the nearby modern town of El Khums only musters some 20,000.

The site was mainly excavated by the Italians in the 1920s and 1930s over 15 years. Only a third of the site has been excavated and the question remains (no pun intended) of what treasures lie beneath.

Notwithstanding what is as yet uncovered, there is much to impress at Leptis. The monumental centre, the Arch of Septimius Severus, is an imposing start and introduction to Leptis. It sets the tone and gives you an idea of the scale of the city. The Imperial Forum lies at the heart of Leptis. Despite the ravages of time and looters, it is spectacular and is a vast area, some one hundred metres by sixty metres, strewn with masonry and surrounded by high walls. The amphitheatre had seating for 15,000.

“Ah, one of our talented silent guides,” commented Mohammed as we passed a disinterested local guide leading an even more disinterested group of tourists. His wicked sense of humour made me realise two things. Firstly, tourists are few and far between at Leptis, for the time being at least. Secondly, that sadly not everyone felt the same way about the site as I did, that not everyone had the benefit of the witticisms of Mohammed and his insightful knowledge.

Some looked jealously on, as Mohammed produced a diagram of what the Baths of Hadrian would have looked like.

“One of the largest bath houses built outside of Rome itself. The baths are magnificent. Not just in themselves but as an example of how advanced the Romans were.”

“The columns are an impressive eight metres high. But what I find to be more remarkable is that the columns were not quarried nearby but were brought from overseas by the Romans. Extraordinarily they were brought whole. Sensibly the Romans did not attempt to put them in ships due to their weight but rather they towed the columns on rafts behind their ships.”

More recent Europeans were not so enlightened. On the beach lie three columns that in 1680, fifteen hundred years after the Romans, Claude Lemer attempted to take back to Europe. He was defeated by their size.

“Further evidence of the superiority of Roman engineering is in the very fact that there are baths in this area of desert. Moreover, that they managed to heat the water in spite of the lack of firewood.”

The latter was easy for Mohammed to answer: the Romans used the residue of olive oil pressings which they squeezed into bricks and dried. The result was a slow burning fuel that burned at a very high temperature. The water system was not so easily answered.

“We know that they had a brilliant reservoir system which was reliant solely on rainfall but as to its actual mechanics we can only wonder; a team of UNESCO scholars spent much of the 1980s grappling with the problem but failed to come up with an answer.”

A library situated right next door to the loos made me chuckle to myself, not least because I could now argue that my toilet habits had classical origins. The latrines themselves were intimate, uncomfortably so for me at least. They were extremely close together and lacked a fountain, as at Ephesus, to provide sound cover. Mohammed explained that African baths lacked the elements of sophistication of the Greek baths.

“Here you will see the game of Tavula Issura, a Roman game that is played today, even on the internet.”

“Over there, if you look closely, you can see the grooves made by chariot wheels.”

Mohammed's fascinating attention to detail was hugely enriching. The extent and scale of the site was obvious, the extra things that he pointed out were a wonderful bonus.

“This is an interesting commemoration from the reign of Claudius. At the top the inscription is in Latin and at the bottom is Punic. Look how many lines of Latin there are compared to just a few lines of Punic.” The Romans were verbose. The Italians of today are no different.

“I like this. This is a good example of their iconography. The handshake is a symbol of friendship. Above it is the symbol of mercury, that of merchants. Thus this symbolises a commercial agreement.”

“This is the Sicilian market.” He pointed out the measures for volume, for liquid. On another stone there were carved units representing the various measurements, the Greek cubit, the Punic cubit and the Roman foot. “Evidence of the cosmopolitan nature of Leptis. So too here, this relief depicting both Phoenician and Roman ships.”

It was also his dry wit that made the tour less dry, less one dimensional.

“Look at the intricacy of this deep chiselling depicting the feast of Bachanalia.” A pause. “I am a devotee of Bacchus, the God of Wine,” he said with a wry grin. Libya is a dry country.

“Here we have a triumphal arch with a magnificent triumphal pylon in the background,” he jibed at the craziness of erecting a modern monstrosity so close to classical beauty.

“Note the plastic water bottles. A Libyan offering. A modern day measure of appreciation. The plastic plague.”

“It is fun to be in a country of such ironies,” he said.

I won’t go on to say what he said about the Minister of Tourism being a chicken farmer. But I will say that you should go to Leptis Magna now, before the chicken farmer goes down the route of battery hens.

On a more serious footnote the mosaics of the nearby and charming Villa Silin are absolutely exquisite. Their detail of Roman life is breathtaking. Now if that has not convinced you to go…

“How would you sum up your country?”

After much thought Majdi replied, “Going back to normal”

What is normal about this country where a litre of petrol costs seven times less than a litre of water? The ancient Greeks had a saying that ‘everything strange comes from Libya’. This was based on the fact that they spoke like ‘owls and bats’ and that their cows grazed backwards, which they did on account of their forward facing horns.

In more modern times, namely since the revolution in September 1969 when Gadhafi came to power, Libya has deliberately set out to be different. Working hard against globalistaion, Libya has its own