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The succour of homesickness

Thoughts on returning home after six years around the world by bicycle

My journey around the globe began fatefully – with a life-changing decision, taken in the pub.

Pint in hand, mini-atlas flipped open on the table, I sat in the beer garden of The George near London Bridge on some forgotten day in 2008,
parading a new plan to a small circle of friends. Pen hovering above the tiny dot of London, I flashed a grin at my audience – all frowns – and began sketching out my route around the globe and across six continents. All would be conveniently handled, I’d affirmed, by bicycle. ‘In six years, give or take.’

Europe part 2: Revenge of the vagabond

When the night time temperature in Germany fell to minus thirteen, I wasn’t surprised. When the sun brought a pale haze to the valleys, and when the world stiffened under ice and trees became ghoulish, reaching things, I felt no upheaval. This is how it should be. Europe has always been out to get me.

Six years ago, when I set out from London to cycle around the world, it was also winter in western Europe: the coldest for thirty years.

Serial satellite images from the day I left home, if I’d bothered to look at them, revealed a clutch of blue talons reaching in callous steadiness over Europe. The following day over 250 schools across Kent called parents and delighted their children with the news that school was off; there was simply too much snow for anyone to cope. My first days on the road were spent negotiating up to two feet of the stuff and gangs of children rampaging with snowballs. I was slow and preposterous-looking; the ultimate prize.

The most cherished moment in a child’s life, I have discovered, is this: you are playing in the snow. Your mum shouts ‘Hey Benny, school’s cancelled, too much snow! Come inside for ice cream!’ ‘I’m coming Mum!’ you shout, but as you put the finishing touches to the densest, roundest snow ball of your young life, a huffing, unbalanced looking creature on a weighty bicycle teeters into view. He’s entombed in Lycra, unmuscled, weaving regretfully as if at the back end of seven consecutive Ironman contests. Your best friends gather about you, in a kind of platoon; he sees you all, pleads with his eyes, and develops a look that suggests the slightest distraction might send him painfully crashing to the icy ground. He begs a little in a string of whimpering ‘no’s’, but it’s too late for him, and he knows it. A silence falls as you take aim. Never will childhood be this joyous again.

The attacks lasted for two days. In my memory there was something military-like about these encounters: the kids were organised. For over a hundred miles they fired at will as I rode through Kent, flanking bridges and opening assaults from overhead walkways. I heard call signs, ‘Enemy three o’clock!’ and near Ashford a sure voice commanded: ‘Let’s get him in the face!’ What? No! I thought. Let’s not… But I could only wince as subordinates began chanting with Lord-of-the-Flies zeal: ‘In the face! In the face! Yeah in the face! Get him in his stupid face!’

But that was six years ago… I’m loving it here now.

It’s not surprising that the continent of my birth and earliest wanderings is my favourite of the six I’ve pedaled through. I tell myself I’m not biased, that the history writ large, the gastronomic hedonism, the architectural feats all validate my leanings, but I can’t be sure of that: home will always find a pedestal. We all ‘know’ Europe is stocked high with sweet-scented food, beautiful people, lovers, artists and bike lanes. Bloody bike lanes! Statistically speaking, if my bicycle is to be stolen over the course of a round the world ride, most likely this would occur in Europe too. The bike lanes would probably expedite the pilferage.

The Danube bike path

I feel this deep compassion I have for Europe as I stroll about the Christmas markets of Budapest, mulled wine in hand, snow gently piling up in the streets about the many spires of the parliament and the hushed glide of trams glittering with fairy lights. As I stop to admire the pedestrian traffic lights in Vienna which depict two women or two men, and not, as is customary, a mixed sex couple. As I use the excellent city transport systems, symbol not just of development, but of a liberal slant to the politics, of thriving social systems that prioritise equality arguably more than elsewhere, and that should make Americans blush and neocons wither away like vampires exposed to sunlight. And (Brits excluded), Europeans are often so multilingual that you want to remind them how unattractive it is to show off. Around one million Syrians made their home in Germany in 2015 whilst Republican front-runner Trump suggests banning not just Syrians but all muslims, and Australian fear-mongers wage a cynical war against new comers, conflict zone origin or not. I’m proud of my continent, if not in this case, my country. Perhaps Trump would like to meet the mother of the nine year old boy I met in an Afghan hospital who’d survived a suicide bomb with a deformed limb and severe psychological trauma and consider again why families take the risks they do to find another refuge.

My map of Europe was reassuringly spiderwebbed in roads, with a key that told of service stations, chalets, roman ruins, speed cameras. I recalled my map of Uzbekistan which looked as though the cartographer had given up or died abruptly before the job was done, as if someone had tugged out the map from where his slumped torso had pinned it to the desk. If there had been a speed camera in the desert, it probably would have been assigned the sprawling yellow shading of a metropolis.

I have to tell you something: service stations in Europe sell sandwiches in packets. In packets! Sandwiches! I’d almost forgotten sandwiches can come in packets. Add to my extreme excitement the discovery of chocolate hobnobs. When I first glimpsed them I did a little jig in the aisle, but stopped abruptly when I realized a displeased elderly lady was looking at me sideways as I directed some pelvic thrusts towards the Weetabix. Weetabix!

I have been roughly following the course of the Danube. Freezing fog filled my days in Serbia and Hungary. Dew made shining orbs on my clothes, and froze to frost. I couldn’t see the landscape, the tilled fields, fully appreciate its boredom. So I listened to vast amounts of funk on my iPod, I imbibed it like hot coffee, it livened and warmed me as I rode.

I haven’t been zipping between must see sights but following instead a random scribble of river on my map, planning less than usual and submitting to whatever the breeze. Mostly I have been happy to enjoy the simplicities I’ll go without and miss when I’m home: Rough camping. Thinking. Following whims. Taking hospitality. Spirited eating.

My campsites have been more carefully selected seeing as though they will be my last for a while: clearings in pine forests. On a rise overlooking mist-filled moorland. Little acts of kindness have followed me like a parting in the clouds, a service station manager in Serbia bought me a sandwich, a map and some tea. An Austrian hotelier gave me a night for free and a huge bag of doughnuts.

Each day the sun has taken its puny efforts below the horizon at around 4 pm, and the dark that follows is long and snow-riddled. I’m always up well before the sun rises again the next day, a teasing, jaundiced smudge in the clouds, keen to make use of the frustratingly few sunlit hours winter bestows.

Nostalgia blurs my days. I’ve remembered my first crossing of Europe, all those sunrises ago, when I was hesitant, intrepid, finally at large in the world and in love with being so. I was clueless of my own limits then. I remembered too all the terrible places I rough camped in 2010, on the edge of suburbia in Italy when the police were called to move me on, but who let me stay instead. And when I cross vast rivers like the Danube, a slippery looking sweep of water as wide as a lake, I recall the Yangzee in China and other monstrous rivers I’ve reached.

The mobility of Europeans is on show virtually everywhere now amid the porous borders of the EU. I found myself talking to a lady from Yorkshire in a Bulgarian village. In Romania I had whole conversations in Spanish, our only common tongue. That it’s easy now for Europeans to move around, to experience each other’s homelands means people have a greater understanding of their neighbours lives, and more opportunity to export the triumphs.

The thing about bigotry is that it has a global home, in this regard it doesn’t discriminate. Europe was where I met Barry: A 70-ish year old man from the UK who’d been living in Bulgaria for six years. ‘This country’s going to shit’ he told me. ‘It’s the Roma people, outbreeding the Bulgarians. Gypsies everywhere! All they do is breed and steal and do things with their women’. He went on to moan about corruption; his only positive reflection was that Bulgaria was cheap. He stood next to me as a bought some chicken from a nearby kiosk. ‘What’s the word for thank you in Bulgarian?’ I asked him, two days into the country myself, so I could thank the shopkeeper. ‘You know, I’m not sure’ he mumbled. I thought: you’ve been here six years. Six! You have Opinions on the Roma, and you can’t say thank you in the lingua franca. Perhaps you should rethink what you ‘know’ and try a bit more immersion.

Talk is of refugees, of course. Even in winter they come, thousands arriving to Austria and Germany every day. I have stayed with a couple who hosted a Syrian family stay in their home, another who had three Afghan men. Another volunteered in the refugee camps, another blamed them for sex attacks and suggested eastern European countries with no colonial history have no responsibility for the arrivals. I was pointed out the part of the Hungarian train station where refugees were stuck after Hungary closed its borders forcing them to take off by foot to Vienna. They are a presence here, invisible to me, spoken of like mythical creatures.

Globalisation, development, whatever your epithet, might lead inevitably to some degree of homogenisation, but there’s enough quirks in Europe to keep a tired traveler interested. Enter McDonald’s in Austria, I have discovered, and an automatic yodeling sound is activated by the door swing, plus the manager will be wearing some form of traditional Austrian dress. I’m not making this up. Europe is a place where people scribble James Brown lyrics on buildings in graffiti paint. It’s a place so bicycle friendly they plough the snow from bicycle paths, not bicycle lanes, but solitary paths! I saw it happen!

Predictably people have stopped to remind me that winter is a bad time to cycle across Europe, as if I’d got my hemispheres confused and was sporting sunnies and a sombrero. When they do a voice in my head says ‘Tell him about Mongolia! The nights of minus 40! Tell him ‘this is nothing!’ Luckily I don’t because another voice says: ‘you cock’. In Austria a lady dog walking was mortified when her darling pet bounded towards me, barking. She grabbed the dog and alternately scolded it and made obsequious noises in my direction. It hadn’t come within three metres of me. She has no idea what I’ve been used to. I’d put my hand into my pocket, watching the hound with narrow eyes and feeling the three stones I still keep there out of habit. I can hit a snarling target between the eyes, South America taught me that.

I flew to Spain to spend a happy Christmas with my family, followed by new year in Vienna. Then back to Budapest to finish up. I followed the Danube through the frozen wetlands of Slovakia, the pavement fretted with ice and piled at points in slush, the river flickering into view between bony-brown trees. And then into Vienna, swerving about the concrete graffiti-dashed supports of highways, as looming as sequoias. I set up a string of hosts on the warmshowers website, for company, conversation and to escape the cold.

So many signs! I kept thinking as I pedaled the Danube cycle way in Austria. Three or four different maps at each information point, which seemed to roll around every kilometer. Zoom-ins, large scale, different angles, extensive keys, florid descriptions with photos of local wildlife. Photos of local guesthouses. Historical titbits. There were maps that told you the location of other maps. There were altitude graphs, almost completely flat lines, in case you suffer some terminal brain disorder and had forgotten you were following the course of a large river and its floodplain. It reminded me of the short story by Borges in which a town so dedicated to making a detailed map they eventually make one bigger than the town itself.

Then more snow, stealing the tarmac in stacking sheets. But on one clear morning by an Austrian curve of the Danube the rising sun anointed the forest, once swan-white with snow piled upon boughs, no breeze to topple it. As soon as light fell onto the trees snow came down in clumps and flecks, a blizzard born under a solid blue sky. It was a spectacle utterly life affirming, visually dazzling, and for which there is probably a specific word in German. And that word is probably Shruntabintafrakan.

I should say German people have been some of the most openly curious, happy go lucky, hospitable people on my whole journey. But in Deggendorf, or any of the other towns that sound like characters in Harry Potter, I couldn’t imagine myself ordering anything from the local cafe’s beer menu.
‘Arcobrau Urfass Hell Vom Fass’? No thanks. Or ‘OK I’ll try some. Easy on the vom though, OK?’

It remains extremely cold, minus 12 by night here in Germany. The ‘Camping’ signs to lure summer bikers look more like warnings not to, loaded with snow and gleaming with ice. As the temperature dipped again the snow became frost-hard and stridently trod. Even the air has turned pale with just an intimation of pink, like the skin of a drowned person. But I’m close to home, that’s a thought that warms my spirit, even if my toes are only present by memory and not by sensation.

Next: The rest of Germany, Belgium, Holland and home. Thoughts about arriving to the latter will be the subject of my last blog post of this trip, though a new blog will rise from the ashes of this one.

Thank yous: My mum, George, Ronan, Siobhan, Anna, Margarita and her lovely parents Tony and Katerina, Lorna and Xavi, Barbara and Andreas, Alexander and Connie, Lui and Betti, Jan and Mirko, Zoltan, and Edit.


As I’m winding up this journey I’m getting a touch nostalgic so I thought I’d revisit some experiences from the road. I’m often asked what was the most frightening or dangerous moment during your trip. Probably, it was this one from Peru…


I feel muscles go taut, my whole body as tensioned and thinly tremulous as a tightrope walker inside my sleeping bag. It’s a familiar paralysis. I’m rough camping tonight, and offbeat sounds bring an anxiety that feels primal, that lives in my guts, and even if the sabre tooth tiger is now a policeman, a wandering drunk, or a curious farmer, it can’t be reasoned with, it won’t be allayed.

I stay still, dimly breathing, opening my ears and letting the sounds rush in. I hear the prickle of rain blown into my tent, and the breaths of wind, drawing, billowing the fabric. I think again about how safe spaces mutate into ominous ones when you’re sealed away, blind and sensitive only to its murmurings. I can’t hear footsteps now. Perhaps I never did. A dream maybe, or the fidgeting of trees: the innocent pretence of boughs knocking against one another in the night.

The blue glow of my watch says 3 am. I try to remember where I am. My brain zooms in like I’m moving a cursor on googlemaps : South America, Peru, somewhere in La Sierra. I’m far from a town. That’s right, it was raining. There was a house, silhouetted against a violet sky: aloof, concrete, long-shadowed and as empty as I’d hoped when I peered in through the paneless window. The roof, I saw, jutted out giving me three feet of shelter for my tent and a chance to escape the worst of the rain.

Rough camping is always haunted by stray sounds and grumbling portents, and camping in wild, unpeopled places can feel less adventurous than nights in the edgeland, in the half-light and jumbled shrubs of droning roadsides where car headlights tear strips into the night and streetlights twinkle like stars.

During these nightly detours there’s a feeling of stalking society. I’m awake to the clank and grumble of industry, the pylons that hiss like vipers, the harangue of farm dogs that have fixed my scent. It’s thrillingly outsiderish: the thief at the window. Childishly fun like a game of hide and seek. I worked out that over the last six years I’ve spent around 750 nights seeking out two metres square to make my own campsite. Like twilight, most nights have melted away and escaped from memory, though a few I recall now as glorious victories: the Jordanian cliff top, the Californian sea cave, the middle of a French roundabout, a derelict Ottoman castle. Others I remember as stonking defeats, and these I’ve catalogued under labels which invoke timeworn horror movies – The Night of the Fire Ants, The dawn of the Scorpion under my thermorest, and Midnight of the Flood. And when it doesn’t go wrong, when the footfall is not the axe murdering sociopath you know it must be, you experience a sense of escape that washes away all of that gut-buried fear and seems to make the whole process ecstatically worth it.

Crunch crunch



I’ve been here before too, the moment when all doubt evaporates. The feet – I’m sure now – are pacing out a careful circle. I’m being considered. I’m being surveyed. Someone, perhaps, is coming to a decision about me. The feet turn backwards and move to the other side of my tent, near the door.

Nothing for it now, I’m busted. The footsteps are too close, too precise, for me to have escaped notice. I revive myself in a jolt and sit up, unzip my tent and peer into the shadowy shape of a man whose face I can’t see well until he kneels down and I glimpse his eyes and stop caring about what he looks like because I’m staring at his right hand and the gun clutched within it that rises up and becomes aimed at my head.

The gun is black. It gleams metallically. It looks new. It looks illusory and weird. I see the black hole of the barrel. Something inside me falls and stays falling. I’m not breathing.


I’m babbling. Spanish comes in a messy flood, words clambering over themselves and pronunciation gone to shit.

‘I’m a tourist, it was raining, I needed somewhere away from the rain. What’s your name? I’m Stephen. What do you want? Please, you don’t need the gun’

‘Fuera’ – Get out. Not angry, not calm. Just instructive. I move. It happens in a flurry, I’ve twisted out from my sleeping bag, my shorts are on, I’m scrabbling to leave my tent. I’m saying ‘fuck’ a lot. And now I’m standing in front of a man with a revolver pointed at my guts. I can see his face now, wet with rain and streaked with mud. His eyes are wide, penetrating, moonlit. I notice that I’m shaking. I notice that he’s shaking too. His gun-hand wavers.

I’m reassured then in a wave. He’s scared. Scared enough to do something rash? I feel myself spiraling again. He angles the gun up a little, I judge the trajectory to meet my chest. My lungs, my heart, my aorta, my trachea, my spinal cord.

‘Get into my house’. There’s a tremble in that voice too.

OK, it’s his house. Think, think. But I’m numb, my mind’s snagged, insensate like my skin, unaffected by the cold and slicking rain.

Who is this? The infamous Ladrones perhaps, one of the bandits I’ve been warned of. There’s a flash of a conversation I had with a biker three weeks ago who’d been shot at, he’d showed me where a bullet had grazed his bicycle frame, it had sounded so fantastical I’d chosen not to believe him. Or maybe he’s one of the Rondas Campesinas, the local vigilantes who patrol rural Peru and fill in for the police, that would be better.

I walk towards the front door of the house, too fast, and he follows shortly behind me, the timbre of the footfall somehow worse than before. I feel the tendons in my neck in tension as I listen for a shot and wait for my back to explode, and blood to soak the front of my chest, movie-style. No shot comes by the time I reach the wooden door which creaks open under my shove.

‘Sit down. Who are you?’

A light comes on. I sit on a wooden chair by a table. I see a small stove in the corner that I must have missed when I peered in the window, but there’s little else to suggest this is anyone’s home.

‘What do you want?’ he says

My mind races to explain the rapidity of his questions, the flustered zip of his eyes, that catch in his voice. But something strange is happening: his fear has stopped precipitating more of my own. I start to wonder if it holds some key to getting out of this.

‘I’m just a tourist, from England. I’m travelling by bicycle. It was raining. I needed somewhere to camp’

He eyes fall away from me, to the side, he scrunches up his dirty face, he seems to be thinking. And with a small backwards lean, the gun falls down to his side.

‘It’s cold tonight’

‘Si señor’

‘Would you like some soup?’

Soup. Right. That would be wonderful. It wasn’t high on my list, but I’ll take it. I nod.

I’m still vigorously nodding as he moves to the stove and fiddles, his back to me. The gun is on the counter now: it’s unheld, it’s beyond an intrepid lunge away, I notice. He turns back to me.

‘Some men came to my home last month. They had guns. They took everything’ he says, explaining my impression that the place was derelict.

‘I bought this for protection. I thought you were one of them’

He smiles for the first time, and I realise I’m doing the same, but in a wildly exaggerated way.

‘Why are you back so late?’ I ask

‘Oro’ he says. Gold.

Of course, the muddy face, and all those holes I’d seen cut into the hillsides. This opportunistic mining is illegal, but local men ignore the rules and make nocturnal forays. Some have died when their holes cave in. They make pennies. The multinationals take it away in trucks.

‘Look what I found’ he walks over to me, digs into his pocket and brings out a wad of tissue paper. Opening it up two nuggets of gold glint in the yellowy dance of the electric light.

‘Wow. How much will you sell them for?’

‘112 soles per gram’; he says with pride. Thirty quid. Probably it’s nothing compared to their worth.

We talk, Vancho and I. He tells me about his family, a wife and three children, a few hundred kilometres away in a poor industrial town on the coast, high in crime and transient, dislocated people. He tells me of how he’s struggling to look after them.

Finally he says ‘Well if you need anything, you can knock. Buenas noches, Señor.’

‘Muchas gracias’ It’s for the soup, for the not killing me, but mostly for not toying with my impression that the world is not the chilling, calculated one of the TV news.

I return to my tent, the rain has stopped and a few stars are out. I fall asleep slowly next to Vancho’s home, listening again to the night. There’s a lulling, reassuring whisper to the wind, and in a few hours the sun will rise.

Two more blog posts to come: the next on Europe, the last one on thoughts of coming home.A new blog will rise from the ashes from this one.
I’ve been very lucky to receive regular donations from the
public over the last three years of this trip since I ran out of money, first through
a crowdfunding campaign and then through the ‘donate/ buy me some noodles’
button on this website. Along with income from travel writing and giving presentations, this has been essential for me to continue. I’m seriously
running on empty in the final weeks of my trip, so if you’ve enjoyed this blog
and would like to make a small contribution so
that I can sneak into a café and buy myself a coffee, or sleep in a hostel to
escape the snow, I would be immensely grateful. Here’s the link…

The human cost of conflict, northern Afghanistan

Home is an exciting, alarming, and chilly two months away. The homecoming is set, come down if you’re free: Friday 19th February at lunch time. Warning – there may be any or all of the following: gratuitous fist pumping, tears, mute confusion, complete psychological breakdown. Or I might just ponder the amassed friends and family from the perspective of Westminster Bridge and do an about-turn. I’ve never been to Chad.

I’m in Belgrade now and delighted to be back in Europe again – though there is much to lament about leaving Asia, I’m relishing the quiet roads and the voluptuous curves motorists make around me. It is a strange, unfamiliar world, without the constant threat of death.

I’m not publishing my usual update because this month has involved very little cycling – I’ve been busy instead visiting projects associated with the health of marginalised people in the Caucasus. I usually don’t blog about these topics – the aim is to write a book with the running theme of ‘edges’ which will combine a travelogue (crossing Asia by bicycle) with reporting on marginalised people and their helpers that I met along the way – remote, physically marginalized communities, and the figurative edges of the human world too, those isolated for social, economic or cultural reasons.


So far I have visited fourteen projects around the subject of marginalised people in Asia – the focus has ranged from patients with communicable disease (TB, HIV, Hepatitis), deforming disease such as leprosy, mental illness, children with disability, economic migrants, the homeless, sex workers, victims of domestic violence, terrorist attacks and natural disasters, refugees, nomadic tribes, drug users, remote communities, slum dwellers, ex-prisoners and members of the LGBT community.

With home virtually around the corner, my thoughts have veered to plans for The New Life. In the short term I will be starting a new blog with practical advice and articles relevant to cycle touring, and I will be rejoining my profession (part-time). I’ll also get cracking on that book, though realistically it’s about three years from publication.


The concept of Slow Journalism is an interesting one, though perhaps just a rebranding of what’s been performed for decades, and the bicycle with its unprotected view proved a great way to immerse myself in the landscape and context of people’s lives. “You can’t write about people unless you know what’s on their mantlepiece.” Journalist and mental health campaigner Marjorie Wallace said recently on Radio Four. Over the last six years I’ve slept in the homes of people in more than fifty countries, as well as countless churches, mosques, hospitals, schools, police stations and army barracks. I have shared the fusty air and mosquitoes of a barn with a snortsome, cheesed-off buffalo. Along the way I didn’t see many mantelpieces, but I do see Marjorie’s point.


This is a piece from Afghanistan

The human cost of conflict, northern Afghanistan


The frail, garbled song of a city waking up drifts through my hotel window. As the emerging sun restores colour to the domes of the Blue Mosque in the Afghan city of Mazar-e-sharif, a man splays a piece of cardboard onto the pavement below, a makeshift mat, and begins to pray. Next to him a tough gang of street kids fight over the fruits of begging, and a scattering of women wander about on early errands, most draped in blue burqas; rippled and shaped by the desert wind.

It’s the trucks though which hold my gaze, as they drag their long shadows up and down the square of road that encloses the Blue Mosque. Gangs of men sit in the open-topped backs, slung with silvery-worn assault rifles, legs draped casually over the side, their shemaghs wrapped around their heads and faces, leaving just a slit for the eyes. One of these wraith-like men per car attends to a mounted machine gun that makes my heart race. Some may be police, and some paid militias loyal to the provincial governor, at least I hope so. When the Taliban attack, they have done so in a similar disguise.

Mazar-e-sharif, Afghanistan’s fourth largest city, has long been considered a place of relative safety, attested by 14 years of calm following the driving out of the Taliban by the Northern Alliance in 2001, but this summer two attacks rocked such confidences, and darkened headlines. There was the murder of nine workers from a Czech NGO in their beds on the outskirts of the city, and the attack in April on the Secretary General’s office in daylight leaving scores dead, though the numbers are disputed. Witness accounts of fatalities are often at odds with numbers revealed on Afghan news, the government keen to promote a picture of stability in a country struggling to prevent Taliban inroads in the North, now that international military support has largely pulled out.

The population of Mazar-e-sharif is on the up as those affected by the spreading violence are drawn from villages to these safer streets controlled by a famously wealthy, ethnically-Tajik governor, Atta Muhammad Nur, known as ‘the teacher’, a former commander in the Mujahidin, a man skilled in the art of war. Though he has the monopoly on violence, he is widely respected for keeping order, and the Taliban at bay.

Sitting in an eating house scoffing the city’s famous ice cream, fluffy-moustached students practice their English with me; assuming that I’m a soldier. I exchange facebook pages with one who goes on a liking frenzy of my posts on his smartphone. Above us a TV set hums and throws out images from battlegrounds in some distant or perhaps not-so-faraway province.

I seek out the regional hospital, part funded by Germany, Sweden and Japan, which hides behind a tumult of fruit vendors. There is the usual collection of labs and wards, with the addition of a centre for the treatment of opium addicts, signal of yet another problem lumbering beneath Afghanistan’s turbid surface. Burqa-clad women sit in clumps on the steps by the entrance, be-turbaned men stand apart by the doors. Mazar-e-sharif homes a great variety of peoples, and the city’s roots are inscribed in the multiplicity of hats, skin tones and faces, in the emerald and café-au-lait and blackish eyes.

Dr Rallimullah is a bushy-browed kind-eyed orthopaedic surgeon, Indian and Afghan-trained, who I meet in one of the hospital’s offices.

‘Medical schools here can be a joke’ he says, mirthlessly. ‘Doctors come out with virtually no clinical experience, under-skilled, trained inadequately in one specialty by teachers of another. The difference between a teacher and a student is one night’s reading, I’m serious! Information is passed on like water is passed between hands, and after enough hands, there’s no water left.’

Dr Rallimullah believes the healthcare system is not much better than it was 50 years ago, when he boasts of how specialists indulged in open heart and even brain surgery. These days, he says, a so-called Chest Surgeon is someone who can insert a chest tube, which most junior doctors can manage in the West. In today’s Afghanistan, the doctors themselves are often the blood donors.

Dr Rullimullah has been invited for training in the UK, in Newcastle and Belfast, but even with references, his medical license and referral letters in abundance, a UK visa is far from a given when you hold an Afghan passport, and he seems reticent about discussing his chances. Go online here, I’m told, and the Afghan IP address will trigger a barrage of advertisements from the Australian government instructing Afghans not to make the journey, with the phrase ‘No Way. Do not make Australia home’. Who then, I wonder, will train the next generation of doctors if in-country education is scant and Afghans are ordered against venturing abroad to learn?

I push open a door stickered with a no guns sign and join the swinging tail of a ward round which sweeps volubly through the orthopaedic department. On any given day around 70% of the patients here are victims of road traffic accidents, but the peril of the region’s hectic highways is old news. It’s the 20% here by actions of an insurgent Taliban which is the fraction growing the fastest. But it’s not just targeted attacks I’m told: violence is infectious. Family feuds can be settled using guns, and Dr Rallimullah recounts stories of wedding party massacres, insisting this was never the case before, even five years ago.

We stop by the bed of an 11 year old boy. As we crowd round his face distorts into a mask of unchildlike fear; his mother, a small lady in a white veil, reaches for his hand. I sense some deep psychological trauma, and wait to hear a story I’m already guessing at.

Marjan had been at the bazaar in the northern town of Maimana with his mother to buy new sandals when a woman in a burqa detonated a bomb in a pressure cooker. The blast wave threw him into a nearby canal, where he was found with a head injury and broken femur. He was rushed to a private clinic with no expert orthopedic surgeon, but where external fixators were poorly applied in order to adjoin the ends of fractured bone. Dr Rallimullah holds up an x-ray film for me to examine ‘totally unnecessary’ he grumbles, pointing to the misaligned pins. When the bones failed to unite he was taken by his mother to a mullah who proclaimed the boy to be cursed, and responsible for his own pain and disability. Months later Marjan arrived in Mazar-e-sharif, via the Red Crescent, where he awaits further surgery and psychiatric evaluation. At night he wakes, screaming and tearing at his bedclothes.

I offer his mother a seat, but she refuses, opting instead to crouch on her hams on the floor, gazing up at me past the vacant seat and speaking through a white veil drawn half over her face. Before the bomb blast, she says, her husband had become addicted to opium and left her to look after their six children alone. Now, after her son’s injury, her other children go to school for only half the time, the other half they are forced to work, stitching together clothes to raise two dollars a day for food. I see then the ripple effect of violence, of how in time, deprived of education, these ripples may create ripples of their own.

But for now, her main concern is her son. ‘He’s not normal’ she tells me, in hushed tones, sending her words to the hospital floor. ‘He screams and talks to himself. I pray his leg will heal, but I worry most about his mind.’

On the way out Dr Rallimullah turns to a female doctor in the corridor: ‘Be orange!’ he says to her in passing, and she smiles back. I ask him why. ‘Last week two of our specialists argued about whose responsibility a patient should be.’ He says. I nod, thinking of how often a similar debate plays out in hospitals across the UK. He goes on: ‘I said to them: it is the patient that matters, do not let the patient get stuck in the middle of your arguments. If one of us is white and the other is red, then we must both become orange’ adding wistfully ‘I hope for this attitude too, for the people of Afghanistan’.


Why adventurers should aim to inspire, not motivate: the trouble with life-hackery

Two weeks ago Sarah Outen returned from nearly half a decade of cycling and rowing around the world, half a decade of vigorously roughing it in a manner that puts my similarly spanned escapade to shame. Roughing it, properly: heart-plunging, soul-shivering stuff on the open ocean, replete with crashing personal crises, soaking self-doubt and premonitions of death. It’s safe to say that facing down Pacific swells that would breach tall buildings is distantly orbiting the comfort zone of most of us.