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May 16

Another 'publishable' from Claire; a knife shop in Lahore. Some of the knives on chains to the right of the picture are made for self flagellation (called tatbir) during the Shia Ashura celebration (the day Moses parted the Red Sea). A small number of Shia Muslims will swing the knives on chains around their bare backs, resulting in a bloody mess. Some cut their heads with knives or sword, whilst others might line up for a more clinical small cut with a surgical knife as a token blood let.
I'll let you Google Shia Ashura, but the more squeamish may simply want to take my word for it.
For those who like a bit of gore, also Google the Vegetarian festival in Thailand, which we saw first-hand when we were there about 30 years ago.

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May 9

Concrete. Rubble. Wiring. Regardless of how much we love Pakistan there is absolutely no doubt that 'beauty' is hard to find in the architecture and infrastructure. Buildings often look half built, half demolished. Generally, one is indistinguishable from the other and may actually be neither. Or both. The chaos of Lahore is not limited to the people and traffic, but the architecture as well. All encompassing.
Claire took this picture. She's good at capturing things that I take for granted and miss. The differences between our world and this blend quickly for me. Becoming normality. I love being amongst their daily lives. The formalities and routine of their religion curdling with the ignore-the-rules bedlam of their surroundings. It was wonderful. Organised insanity. I fit right in.  Claire loved Pakistan too, but was less adaptable to the differences. Always ‘fresh’ to the changes being thrust upon her. Claire is always taking photos that I don't particularly understand when we’re within a country, but gain clarity when we leave. I take photos for how they look to me when I am there. Claire takes photos because of how they will look to other people who are not there, and how they will rekindle feelings when we are no longer there. Gaining value and becoming brighter as memories fade.
She calls them her ‘publishables’. Photos that she feels I might like enough to edit and post somewhere. She excitedly grabs her phone and pecks at her screen, opening up the photos app and swiping through. She always tell me why the photo was taken, often starting her explanations with “I just wanted to show …”.
In this instance she points out the massive electrical transformers with writhing coils of hissing, venomous wiring that have bitten and killed many a brave Pakastani electrician. Made from wooden beams and collapsed metal trusses. One transformer skirting a professional fix by simply being raised at one end by a house brick or two.  Flick a switch. The lights come on. Job done. Safety and aesthetics be damned. It works, inshallah! (God willing)

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May 6

I'm a sucker for the 'pop-up' business. Preferably one that has embedded itself into the detritus of a city corner or alleyway. The backdrop an unwitting canvas for the sanguine business owner.

A cheeky start. A mirror. A chair. A defensive glance at passing police truck as the scissors and blades are lined up; hoping for a lack of interest or, at least, leniency from the authorities. A first client. Then another. The handsome beards of Lahore coaxed into place by a nameless barber shop.

Decades later the location is temporarily permanent; filled with regulars. A continual thread in the city tapestry.

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May 5

Hanging out with the Sufis at their holiest shrine.

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Apr 26

A hiker starting from the stone streets in Karimabad. Boots, rope, jacket and a stick. Old skool.

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Apr 17

Faisal Mosque, Islamabad. One of my favourite places in the world. The clean architecture forming a crisp modern backdrop to the gentle softness of the people wandering calmly around its plaza. Both utterly serene, there for ancient rituals.

The sun dips behind a solid gold crescent moon; a gift from Saudi Arabia that sits guarded by four, tall, white corner pillars. Monkey silhouettes move athletically along the ridges of a roof shaped to resemble a bedouin tent. Their ears prick. Salmon pink faces turn and glare at a sudden hum of loudspeaker static.

The Maghrib call to prayer washes over the marble of the mosque plaza and seeps into the deep green Margala hills that surround this north edge of the city. My eyes water. Although in no way religious the haunting call and its universal affect on the Muslims present is beautiful; tear invoking.

A stream of flowing robes ebbs barefoot towards the mosque doors. We can only stand and watch. My heart sinks. I have never felt such an urge to be part of something. Committed to the sidelines by my atheism. Temporary purgatory. A joyful jealousy though; happy for all those with spiritual membership. All who believe.

Trying not to sound choked up I turn to Claire. “Everyone needs to come here. Everyone needs to come here at least once and see this. Islamaphobia would just disappear. These people are extraordinary.”

Simply put, we are in a devoutly Muslim country. Two lone westerners wandering oround in, arguably, Pakistan’s major place of worship. And it is categorically not possible to be made to feel more welcome.

People come up to us and say hello. They shake hands. They invite us to ceremonially break their Ramadan fast with them. After prayer they invite us to their picnic rugs to enjoy dried fruit, curry, naan and drinks with a few generations of their family; to talk about Manchester, tea and James Bond. They invite us to be shown around their city. They invite us to stay with them at their homes. “You leave tomorrow? Come tonight then, don’t stay in a hotel!”

They invite us into the beating heart of Pakistan. To experience true Islam. To bathe in human kindness.

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Apr 13

The guide weaves through a thin lane bordered by market stalls. The journey has been daunting. An Uber breakdown in the middle of a busy Lahore highway; Lahore’s infamous streets at rush hour and then a chaotic argument with the ‘cash only’ Uber driver who has already been paid through the app.

It’s night. Crazy loves night. And the market place leading to the Sufi shrine has ramped up the usual Pakistani chaos to sensory destroying levels. Sights, smells, sounds all dialled up eleven. I consider a new marketing slogan for Pakistan “The Spinal Tap of Asia”

The lane is narrow and busy. The guide, keen to make up for lost time from the Uber and traffic issues, ploughs forward. We bob and weave like prizefighters. Slipping between women in various states of head covering and men almost uniformly wearing the baggy pyjama style Shalwar Kameez. We dodge motos, pedestrians, kids and chickens and the additional bits of markets stalls that don’t fit in the actual market stalls. A few hundred metres, all led with either one hip or the other. Space at a premium.

Outside the shrine are two Sufi drummers. We sit and watch. The steady beat and chanting giving way to a hypnotic head shaking as the tempo increases. The younger of the two wheeling around, a centrifugal force dragging his drum outward as he spins, towards the increasingly worried faces of those watching. A rain of 10 rupee notes scattered by our guide, showering the drummers and rapidly collected by their friend. The drummers calm back down to a steady beat.

I notice a guy rolling a joint, the younger drummer notices me noticing and beckons me to share one with him. The thought of making this night any more chaotic fills me with fear and I meekly shake my head. Mildly aware of the ever increasing years between these days and ‘those days are over’. He grins. A small sideways head movement agreeing that it probably for the best. We briefly hug and I say thank you. Genuinely pleased for the opportunity to see a bit more Pakistan crazy before we head back for an Uber. The return journey no less of an overload.

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Apr 12

Selfies are a seemingly constant request. Whether in a mosque or market, or simply buying a charging cable from a roadside store. Usually individual, sometimes a group, sometimes a group that keeps getting one person larger the longer we stand there.

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Apr 10

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Apr 9

The Eagle’s Nest Hotel stands guard at the cliff edge, one of Pakistan’s less awful structures, marginally better made than most with at least some semblance of a straight edge and a marginally coherent design.

We park the bike and head up a yellow dirt trail. It’s hot and dry. A fact lost on the 12 year old kid standing next to a large rock, absently mindedly pecking at his phone. He looks up and greets us with reasonable English. Substituting a simple ‘yes’ in place of any answer he doesn’t know to the questions he doesn’t understand.

We ask him the way and he tags along. Chipping away at unfamiliarity with his questions about age, occupation and where we’re from. He guesses at me being fifty. I consider nudging him over the cliff edge but the truth in his statement wins him a brief reprieve.

We head back and I slide 100 rupees from my wallet. A tip for the guide. He palms it temporarily into his pocket and heads straight to the candy store.

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Apr 7

Plans change. Wheels get swapped. The song remains the same. With the @nimbl.vehicles truck camper in storage we are back to our backpacking days. A rucksack, a plane ticket, a track less beaten. But having your own wheels is an addictive way to travel. The freedom to explore at will, untethered from public transport. The flight to #gilgitbaltistan throws us into the hospitable lap of @karakorambikers who outfit us with an old but reliable Suzuki 150 and a selection of protective gear at a great price. The legendary Hunza Valley beckons.
Get your motor running.
Head out on the #karakoramhighway
Looking for adventure.
Or whatever comes your way.

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Apr 5

Females from the Pashtun community line up to see the doctors at the CDRS Comprehensive Disaster Response Services clinic in Rahat Kot. The girl is holding an assesment form, a basic version of a medical record, kept by the patients and brought to the doc with each visit.

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Apr 2

The ability to provide help to others is a magical thing. Even something small like holding a door open for someone can provide a brief glow to both parties. Taking that a step further, the ability to provide medical care is a veritable gift; our trip to Pakistan carried on the back of a position with Continuous Disaster Relief Services (CDRS) at their local clinic.

Pakistan is Claire’s fourth NGO position having previously worked in Nicaragua, Colombia and Honduras, providing healthcare in rural or remote areas. Pulling into SWAT Valley, it was clear that conditions were poor and we’d definitely be ‘outside’ on the comfort zone spectrum. A land that architects fear to tread; where rubble is considered landscaping. Snow capped mountains peer at us from a distance, offering some hope of beauty. Even the famed SWAT river is a brutal width of pebble mounds veined by uninviting water flow. The local kids somehow managing to scratch a cricket crease out of a seemingly impossible surface at the river bank.

SWAT Valley in Pakistan is home to the Pashtuns, an ethnic group native to Afghanistan and north west Pakistan. Harsh living conditions, malnutrition, poor water and access to food snd medication are key problems. However, the locals are incredibly friendly and welcoming. Each one treating you as ‘my guest’ in their country.

The clinic is run by CDRS. A basic building housing some exam rooms, a lab and a pharmacy. This shot is of the women and children waiting area. A mix of kids, and women in full tan or black Pashtun burqas or various others levels of covering ubiquitous in Islamic countries. When the veil is lifted, they are just mums, sister’s, aunt and grandma’s. Smiling and chatty. Coming from far and wide to be seen by those with a famed Western Medicine background.

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Mar 31

One of the newer phases of our travel lives is actually going to a tourist attraction. This is usually country dependant; based on who we are likely to meet there. The attraction is not the attraction. The people are the attraction.

This is the Pakistan Monument. A few uninspiring leaves of concrete that probably look a lot better with a nice sunset and a misleading amount of Photoshop, rather than the bleaching midday glare.

Today's role call included: The beautifully dressed bride on her honeymoon. The local photographer hawking portraits of couples who, for some reason, wanted me in their photo as well. The kids Claire attempting to get Claire to subscribe to their YouTube page, they all have YouTube pages it seems. And, of course, those practicing their English.

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Mar 30

Running. One of the purest sports. The ability to lace up a pair of battered, trail dusty running shoes, and head into the heart of a country and its people, is one of our greatest pleasures.   We see things most don’t see. Sometimes the amazing. Sometimes the amazingly mundane. The day to day comings and goings that might be featureless to those actually going and coming, but a rich source of wonder for two whitey’s pounding past. A glimpse at another culture in its rawest form. Further from the beaten path we were already off. The places where we’re told we shouldn’t go. Relentlessly met with kindness we are told isn’t there.   We get stared at sometimes. Small kids with huge eyes run away, sounding the alarm as they disappear behind the rug that forms the front door of their home. The older they are, the more fixed their gaze. Curiosity, mixed with suspicion until we raise a hand. The International sign of friendship getting a smile and cackled greeting in return.  But, others laugh and join us for a few hundred metres. Instantly taking part in a sport they never do, but are fully equipped to enjoy at a moments notice. Running, so often a source to establish the most exclusive athlete, is also the greatest of equalisers.
 One foot. In front of the other. With people you’ve never met. Shouting words neither person understands. But smiling anyway. Humans. Connected. This is why we run.

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Mar 28

Welcome to Pakistan! A typical street scene in chaotic Swat Valley. Claire took this shot on the way to her clinic where she was working as a doc in an impoverished community north of Mingora. Look closer, past the meat sellers and motorcycles, and you’ll see someone indulging in one of Pakistan’s favourite pastimes; the ubiquitous chai.

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Mar 23

It appears our tropical digital nomad game is on point this year. Looking out over the jungle and Playa Majagual from our rented home in @balconesdemajagual

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Mar 23

Grooving along with my steak friends. The road is called 'La Chocolata'. Named for the ribbon of dark packed mud that links the back route from San Juan to Rivas. t really needs two names. La Chocolata for the smooth, dark texture it takes on during rainy seasons. And El Polvo, for the light dusty surface during dry season. To be fair, it resembles chocolate again when it mixes with the sweat on my legs.

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Mar 21

Running on Playa Lorenzo. Always (almost) deserted in the morning, apart from the owners of the tiny restaurant standing in the sea catching fish.

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Mar 20

The view from our house in @balconesdemajagual didn’t stay like this for too long. The dry season ravaging the lush tropical jungle to a dusty tan colour with few leaves. However, each week seemed to bring with it a new insect, bird or animal. The rhythm of life overseen by the ever present howler monkeys.

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Mar 19

One of the plentiful beasts that surround us in Nicaragua.

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