Top'a the mornin' to ye, Ireland - September 2010

It’s half past eight on a Monday morning, I know my chances of a lift are slim, but I stick my thumb out regardless. The first car that passes glides to a halt and a well-dressed man of about forty gets out. ‘Good mornin’. Beautiful day idn’t! That’s a big bag ye got there, let me help ye. Don’t mind the mess in me car’. He takes my bag before I can say anything and puts it carefully into the boot then arranges the mess in his car so that we can sit comfortably.

‘I’m just on me way to work. Already runnin’ bout ten minutes late, but it’ll be grand. Where is it that ye going to?’

A few days earlier I had been travelling from Dublin to the west coast of Ireland on a coach when I met an Irish lad on his way to make a flute. Now, after spending a day hiking the Cliffs of Moher, he and I have reunited in Lahinch, a quaint town by the sea.

We pile into the car on the outskirts of town and make our way to the home of Martin Doyle, who I’m told is a well-known flute maker around these parts. Our driver takes us ten minutes out of his way, dropping us at our door, despite us telling him anywhere easy will do. ‘Can’t have ye walkin’ all that way with that big bag. Ye here on holidays then? I went to Australia once. Ye’ve got funny accents.’ Our conversation continues like this, flowing in a stream of bizarre consciousness, until it’s time to get out and farewell our new friend.

The house is nestled amongst rolling green fields. As we walk up the driveway, I feel a set of eyes burning into me. As I meet the gaze I realise I am being stared down by a cow. I swear there is something a little off about cows in Ireland, like they know something that we don’t. I almost shout out to let it know I am a vegetarian but I think my new friend might find this a little strange, so instead I pick up the pace and get in the house before it can leap over the fence.

Entering the house, there are flutes everywhere, every possible shade of wood and metal that you can imagine, both finished and unfinished. Kev tells me to drop my bags in the spare room until I find a hostel and then we make our way out to the work shed.

‘Well hello there love,’ he says turning off the sander and extending a hand for me to shake. ‘Ye must be Bek. Ye’ll stay here tonight and I’ll hear no more about it’. And the rest of my day in Lahinch progresses much along the same lines. Before I can refuse any offer, I am staying in their house, leaving Kev to sleep on the floor and am having a family dinner with these people I have only just met, and only through chance of meeting Kev on the bus.

And that for me was the Ireland I fell in love with, the altruistic nature of the people, just for sakes sake, not because they want anything in return, other than to let you into their lives and for you to let them into yours.

Tale from Gioto Garbage Slum, Kenya - October 2010

‘Mzungu, mzungu,’ they whisper in excited breaths. ‘How are you?’ They stare at me, waiting for a response, their huge white smiles beaming. When I respond in Swahili they are first silent, confused as to why a white woman is speaking to them in their mother tongue, and then there is an eruption of giggles.

Wading ankle deep through the slushy trash, the sun peaks its head through the clouds and I’m not sure what is worse; the garbage slum when it has been raining, or the garbage slum when the sun is shining, the heat further intensifying the already rancid smell, leaving you gagging with each breath.

I reach the peak where the houses sit wallowing, and look out across the Gioto Garbage Slum.

Vultures lurk in the distance waiting, as though they can already smell the presence of death before it has taken place.

Snouting through the garbage, he grunts in satisfaction. On his hands and knees he rummages, devouring everything in his path. He eats sloppily, leaving a shine circling his mouth.

There is an ear piercing squeal as both he and his competition come across the same item at once. He coils up onto his legs and strikes the pig in the stomach with a closed fist causing it to retreat in agony, then the boy resumes his position on all fours searching for his next fare.

He is ten, maybe twelve years old and considering his conditions, he doesn’t appear to be too malnourished. It makes me cringe to think he is one of the lucky ones, this slum at least provides him with a source of food.

As he eats, a male pig mounts a female pig behind his back and they begin to do their business. When they are finished, the male pig urinates on the spot amongst the garbage, only centimeters away from where he kneels.

He looks up at me, oblivious and smiles through a mouthful of filth. I force back a smile and quickly turn my head, blinking away the tears.

Continuing, we reach the purpose of our journey; a house visit to 49 year old Elizabeth and her eight children. She has 14 children in total but only eight live with her in her small mud brick house.

In 1986 Elizabeth was abandoned by her husband shortly after she was diagnosed with osteoarthritis. Every now and then however, he returns to their home raping and impregnating her.

Because of her arthritis, Elizabeth is almost completely bed ridden. We have therefore made the trip to Nakuru to visit her in her house where we are testing for HIV.

She welcomes us into her home and I take a seat on a single mattress pushed into the corner of an otherwise bare room. This room sleeps Elizabeth and her eight children who have immediately joined me on their bed, curious, but not cautious of the strangers in their house.

Our doctor begins to explain the procedure to Elizabeth, so I attempt to distract the children with some games.

Soon I am clapping hands with Mercy, the eldest of the children still living at home. We clap to the rhythm of a childhood song I had forgotten I knew.

She laughs, happy at having picked up a new game. ‘More, more,’ she screams with excitement.

‘Elizabeth is negative,’ the doctor boasts happily, shaking the test strip in his hand, closely examining the patient line one more time.

It’s fantastic news and there are sighs of relief all around. We begin to pack up, having now no need to test the children with their mum testing negative. Or so we think.

Looking up, I catch Elizabeth’s eye. Instead of joy, her eyes are filled with sorrow as she averts her gaze to Mercy sitting next to me on the bed.

‘Um, Mercy has also been raped by the father,’ the translator explains. Mercy looks up at me, her big brown eyes sparkling with innocence. ‘More, more,’ she coaxes, completely unaware of what we are discussing. I flash her a grin and pull her in for a hug.

She is only nine years old. Nine. Can you remember what you were doing at nine years old? I was living in the blissful ignorance that should be childhood, something that these children have completely bypassed.

We explain to Mercy that we need a small blood sample and that it won’t hurt too much. She sits on my lap and sticks out her index finger, mimicking her mother’s previous actions.

When she is pricked, she does not even flinch. She gets up from my lap, looks me in the eye with her cheeky grin and cries, ‘more, more,’ and I hope for her sake, there will be no more.

Masai Markings, Kenya - October 2010

Rubbing a thin stick briskly between his palms, smoke begins to rise indicating it has reached optimum heat. He puts it to my skin branding me with my first Masai burn. I bite my lip but try not to let them sense my pain.

His arm reaches across my face as he heats the stick up for a second time. His upper arm is covered in circular scars; a sign of bravery within his tribe.

When the stick touches my arm for the second time, he holds it down longer than the first - it has burnt through multiple layers leaving me with a perfectly round weeping memory of my visit.

You know it is a bad burn when a Masai man, someone who has killed a lion with his bare hands, grimaces at the sight. The Masai men congregate around me, all examining my markings. They speak amongst themselves and then one translates for me in broken English.

He points to my first burn, which has now formed a welt. 'This one very good,' he says and then points to the seconds before pausing, 'this one...it's ok,' and they all begin to laugh. It is infectious and I am soon joining them, quickly forgetting about the searing pain.

The Masai are such a beautiful tribe, wrapped in brightly colored shuka and wrists full of beaded jewelry. Their earlobes sag, stretched by the years.

High-fiving me, I am told I am welcome back to their village any time, pointing to my burns, 'you are Masai now.'

I walk back to the campsite as the sun begins to set, accompanied by a Masai warrior for protection. He hands me a sprinkle of brown power mimicking to put a line across my thumb and to snort. I decline politely but he insists.

Following his instructions I inhale a peppery powder that burns my nostril as it goes up. ‘Masai cigarette,’ he says beginning to laugh hysterically and I hope it is as a result of my facial expression and not the affect of the powder.

Reaching the gate I shake his hand and wish him ‘ashi oleng,’ many thanks for letting me into his village.

Sick in Spain, Barcelona - August 2010

Leaning back into my backpack I close my eyes to stop the world from spinning. I am not moving but it feels as if everything around me is jetting about at a sickly speed. Weaving my arms through the straps of my camera bag and handbag I hang on tightly and open my eyes a fraction so I am peering through the slits, watching to see if there are any shady characters lurking around. I am going to collapse, I can feel it and this is the time I hate travelling alone. If I faint, which I fear I will, all of my valuables will be gone in a second.

Over the loud speaker I can vaguely make out the sounding of the last call to Valencia. I stand up but just as quickly I am down again, my knees buckling beneath me. My bag softens the blow and I quickly get back to my feet avoiding eye contact with those around me. The bus driver runs to my aid but I break free from his touch and walk towards the taxi rank.

I can’t do it. I want to, oh how I want to, but I just can’t. I was supposed to be on that bus to Valencia to go and work for the Fanatics at La Tomatina. There has been some hesitation over the last few days as to whether I should continue to jeopardise my health for another week of partying, or if I should be responsible and rest up for Africa. I had come to the decision that my body could hold out for one more week and then I would rest, but this little episode is a sure sign I can’t handle anymore. I have only been away a month but excessive drinking and lack of sleep have taken their toll and have left me sick beyond belief.

Standing in line, I am incredibly unsteady on my feet as I pull out my phone and begin to text mum. ‘I actually just collapsed at the bus stop getting on. I’m really sick mum, please come get me.’ I press the send button and wait for a reply. As I’m throwing my bags into the boot I receive a response. ‘We’ll be there tonight. Book us into a hotel xxx’ Thank god my parents are holidaying in France!

Through short breath I whimper ‘Plaça Reial, La Rambla,’ and fall into the taxi. Arriving back at the hostel, I climb the stairs and am met by confused eyes at reception. ‘You are back Rebekka! That was a short trip to Valencia,’ he laughs before noticing my sallow appearance and tears. He rushes from behind the desk helping me to a seat. I ask for a room but he explains that the hostel is fully booked.

I must have had devastation written across my face because he leaves me momentarily to go into reception. Returning shortly thereafter, he explains that he’s done some shuffling and will put me up on a mattress on the floor for the night. Coming back from behind the desk he takes my hand and leads me to my room giving me a big hug and telling me to rest up. Flopping down on the mattress I thank my lucky stars for this kindness and count down the hours until mum and dad arrive.

BCN – August 2010

Lathering my upper torso in oil, she begins to massage my shoulders as I nestle my head into my towel and start to relax. Just as I am dozing off, my back is transformed into a chopping block as she pounds her hands firmly up my spine - a sure sign the massage is almost over. Although I am fairly skint I am also not ready to say goodbye so I slip her another five and ask her to continue. But, just when I thought we were having a moment and I was re-reaching optimum comfort, the massage stops and I look up to find my masseuse gone.

Scanning the beach I find her crouching into a tight ball beneath the lifeguard stand, her gaze resting just in front of me. My confusion is answered when I see the police speaking with a woman to my right. While I don’t catch everything they say, I make out that the woman has had her handbag stolen and they are questioning her about the man she reports to have taken it.

As soon as they leave, my masseuse returns giggling apologetically mumbling something about ‘policia’ and the massage continues. This to me is the true Barcelona – beautiful, spirited and wild. And, that is why I love the place beyond belief, because it is what it is and it doesn’t pretend to be something else.

Leaving the beach, I stroll down La Rambla through the horde of tourists and street performers and into a tattoo parlour. The idea has been niggling at the back of my mind since my last trip to Barcelona two years ago, but today has confirmed my decision. ‘Hola,’ I cheer while pushing forward a piece of paper across the desk. Examining my design he looks at it nodding. I know myself that my drawing is a bit rough around the edges, but it epitomizes what Barcelona is to me and for better or for worse it will always be in my heart.

Lying back in the chair, my foot elevated so it sits at his eye level, the gun begins to buzz and my heart begins to pound. While there is not much conversation between the two of us, with him speaking no English and me speaking minimal Spanish, he manages to ask me where I am from. He switches off the gun and turns around pointing proudly towards a boomerang suspended on the wall, before placing a closed fist across his heart. I smile empathetically, knowing exactly how he feels to have such a passion for a place. When it is all done, he looks at my necklace, my name looped in silver across my chest, pronounces it to himself out loud before giving me a huge embrace and sending me back on my way.

Swimming at Sunrise, Barcelona – August 2010

‘Looking place to sleep,’ he says awkwardly stumbling across his words while gesturing ‘sleep’ by laying his head onto an open palm.

‘Ummm, we’re not going to sleep, we’re going to the beach for a swim,’ I slur, swaying gently on the spot next to Dan. ‘Maybe you two could sleep on the beach,’ Dan suggests, replicating the previous movement for sleeping and adding in some rather random gestures to illustrate ‘beach.’

They stare at us blankly so I wave my hand towards them motioning that they follow us. It is around six in the morning and after an enormous night out at one of Barcelona’s finest clubs, Dan and I have decided to head to the beach to sober up before making our way to bed.

Our new friends, whom we have deciphered come from Greece, dawdle slowly behind exhausted from having had no accommodation in over three nights. I insist on lightening their load, slinging their guitar over my shoulder and a small backpack across my front.

Arriving at the beach I off-load their belongings, throw off my shoes and strip down into my bra and knickers, dashing impatiently across the sand and diving into the water – it is cool against my bare skin and I let it carry me away from my inebriation.

Looking behind me, there are only four of us on the entire stretch of coast and I feel incredibly lucky to see Barcelona from this perspective. In a few hours the beach will be heaving with topless bathers and illegal dealers.

Dan lay cross-legged beside the two boys who are already sleeping peacefully against their packs. Turning my attention to the horizon, the sun is slowly beginning to rise and I find myself mesmerized by the colours streaked above me and wonder if I am the only one experiencing this beauty.

‘The Saint’, London - July 2010

‘If you write about me, be sure to refer to me as ‘the Saint,’’ he requests sincerely, explaining he has just spent time in Africa working with children and is somewhat worthy of the title. This demand in itself should have been an obvious sign that this guy is indeed, a bit of a wank. But, being true to my word, here I go.

Sprawled across the tacky pleather couch of the Generator hostel common room, I squint into the harsh lights, tipsy and distressed. He storms into the room from the bar and demand I speak with him. ‘Just leave me alone please, I’m fine’, and I return my attention to my new friend Sam.

Hours before ‘the Saint’ and I had been friendly, having spent the entire day together visiting Windsor Castle. Returning back to the hostel from our day out, we set out on a mini pub-crawl around London with two Bavarian boys and, after several drinks he becomes far too friendly. I thought he might get the hint I wasn’t interested after the second time I take his hand off my backside, but he continues to be persistent. Or, maybe he does get the hint and is just overly keen for hook ups, because two minutes later he is sucking face with a leggy Dutch girl by the bar.

Happy that he is now off my case I begin to relax, until he comes back to the group and high-fives one of the boys, boasting egotistically, ‘that boys is how it’s done!’ He mistakes my disgust for jealousy, convinced I am indeed in love with him. Unfortunately for me this mistake leads to further attempts of sleazy groping.

Being unable to take no more of his vile behaviour, I round up the boys and we take the tube back to the hostel and it is here that I meet Sam. Sam comes to my rescue after a rather drunken Englishman tries to shove his bare crutch in my face - lucky me, I know.

Bailing from the bar I take up position on the lounge and Sam follows me out to try comfort me, until in walks ‘the Saint’ insisting he be my knight in shining armour and me insisting he get as far away from me as possible. Exploding with unjustified anger, he picks up a chair and kicks it at me from across the room while shouting nonsensically before storming out, leaving me very confident in saying that not only is he NOT a saint, he is also the rudest backpacker I have ever met.