As part of an organised tour through Morocco, we had an overnight camp in the Sahara Desert. Arriving at an auberge or inn, we had a chance to offload our bags, collect overnight gear and sip mint tea before climbing onto camels for an hour long ride through the magnificent dunes of Erg Chebbi. The views as we were riding were amazing — rolling dunes of a beautiful orange gold colour and so peaceful. The camels seemed so placid, happy to stay in formation, and did as they were told. I’m sure they would have found their own way to the camp, but we had a guide leading us.

The camp was a great setup — about 4 individual tents with thick blankets over timber frames on the walls and roof, all connected with an open area containing low tables and comfy cushions in the centre. Each tent looked like it could sleep about 6 people, we had a small group of only 7 and apart from our tour leader and the guide, had the place to ourselves.

After settling in and picking tents, we decided to climb the dune behind the camp to watch the sun set. It was a tough climb, the dune was massive and the sand was so soft it was hard to get a footing. There’s just no way you can progress by trying to go straight up, so it was a matter of criss-crossing and climbing at the same time. Even climbing sideways across it was tough. There was no point wearing shoes, as they quickly filled with sand. I took off my shoes so I could climb more easily, But I then had to carry my shoes and was almost crawling a lot of the way. At the peak of the dune it was not as difficult, but still hard to get across. We maneuvered along the peak by putting one foot on either side of the peak and progressing that way. Finally we got to the top of the dune and sat in the wind and the cold to watch the sun go down. It was worth the effort though as it was a spectacular sight and one of those moments to always remember. The only bad thing about the whole experience was the sand constantly blowing everywhere — got in your eyes, nose, ears, mouth, clothing, even in my camera lens.

Coming down was much easier, I think it took well over an hour to climb up, but only 10–15 mins to get down.

While we were away, the guide had prepared dinner. We were joined by another group who were camping a short distance from us. Dinner was chicken and vegetable tagines all prepared using the simplest of cooking tools. We enjoyed our delicious meal sitting on the cushions around the tables. Desert was fresh oranges, then we sat around an open fire while our guide and tour leader played bongo drums – it was such an excellent way to finish the day.

I was a little worried that it would be too cold to sleep in the tent, but with the thick blankets around the walls and a sleeping bag to cover me, I had one of the best night’s sleep of our whole trip.

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Strolling around in Seoul in 2009 we found this facade made of old doors on a building of the Seoul Women’s University.

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We often wander directionless on our travels but other times, like now, we are on a mission. The destination is a little place called Playa Guiones on the western, Pacific side of Costa Rica. We have focused specifically on this goal based purely on a rumour of world class surf.

The mission was proving a little trickier than we had bargained for however. There is no easy way to get to Playa Guiones and the little dirt roads that snake through the jungle are impassable at certain times of the year – like now. So, here we are bucking and lurching 2000 feet above the jungle canopy in a tiny 10 seater plane and waiting for the dirt landing strip to be cleared of wandering wildlife. (Apparently if we circle round long enough some-one will get fed up with the noise and come and do the clearing.)

I have personally found it a little disconcerting to be able to see every little thing the pilot is doing; watching every light that flashes on the control panel and wondering if it’s anything important.

We share the plane with three Texans, as excitable as tiny children. All of us, it would appear, are surfers. Texan Tim was almost a surfer without a surf board. As our flimsy, toy plane started taxi-ing up the runway at San Jose Tim suddenly spotted something leaning against the flight departure building (a grand name for little more than a shed). “Hey, that’s my board! Stop. STOP! That’s my board, I can’t go without my board man!” Texan Tim was frantic, the pilot obviously annoyed, his friends unsure whether to deride or console. Me? I was already glued rigid with fear, eyes staring straight ahead and trying not to hyperventilate. I have a terrible fear of flying and the thing we were seated in now looked rather insubstantial and in my book barely qualified as a plane at all. It didn’t help that the pilot and co-pilot looked more like two young boys out for a jolly rather than the responsible conveyors of travelling surfers to the back of beyond.

Anyway, Tim got his board and the three Texans resumed their excited jabbering, making untiring efforts to engage me in conversation. For most of the flight everyone else was glued to their windows, the Texans tumbling over each other in their eagerness, arms and legs becoming jumbled until they resembled one large, multi-limbed beast. Everyone but me was oohing and ahhing over the endless waves below us, all going unridden. (I wanted to look but I was fairly sure that any movement from me would tip the flimsy plane into a spiralling plunge.) Names were exchanged and surf tales were told. It was impossible for me to join in, I had a very important job to do. I had to keep my eyes fixed on the instrument panel because it was obvious from the outset that no-one else was going to, the pilots included. Surely they should be paying some attention to that alarm going off and that red flashing light? I wondered at what point I should draw the very distracted pilot’s attention to the fact that we might be in imminent danger of crashing.

Landing was something I have tried to erase from my memory. It was neither smooth nor completed in such a way to alter my opinion of the pilot’s competence. My dignity was laready somwhat in tatters but I did manage to restarin myself from kissing the solid earth beneath my feet.

We managed to hitch a ride on the back of a truck going into Playa Guiones. Quite how we knew this was where it was going I’m not sure. Both Chris and I suffer from that embarrassing English affliction of speaking only one language. The Texans were no better. (A joke we would later be told by our Costa Rican buddies went like this – what do you call some-one who speaks three languages? — trilingual. What do you call some-one who speaks two languages? — bilingual. What do you call some-one who speaks one language? — Gringo.) Still, a truck ride to somewhere seemed preferential to baking in the midday tropical heat so we allowed ourselves to be shaken half to death sitting on the bed of a truck that obviously had no suspension, slowly but constantly choked and cloaked by dust that covered us from head to foot, each of us hanging onto our surf boards for dear life.

Arriving in Nosara felt like stepping onto the film set of an old Western. The ‘main’ street was just a dirt path and, because of the time of day, not a soul stirred. Insects chirred wildly but a little drunkenly as if the midday heat was too much for them too; strange, brightly coloured birds swooped and disappeared into tree canopies; somewhere, very faintly Bob Marley was playing.

We were to learn very quickly that everyone called this place Nosara. We never could find out exactly why. Nosara is the name of the village six kilometres inland. Playa Guiones was actually a few kilometres up the coast. The place we had arrived in didn’t seem to have a name of its own so it had borrowed one.

As the days progressed we were also to learn why when we arrived there was a certain feel about the place. Nosara, in more ways than one, is the end of the line. It was peopled with one of the most eclectic and eccentric mix of people I have ever come across. Most of the people here were surfers but there was also a sprinkling of yoga enthusiasts come to learn a deeper level of their craft from a guru who ran a shrine-like place in the jungle. Most of the people were running away from something and had stopped running here. There was a mixture of Costa Ricans or Ticos and Americans. We were the only Brits.

We ended up spending four months in this strange community, living in a house which saw fire, flood, earthquake and scorpion infestation. Nosara lures you in with its turquoise waters, endless waves and tropical paradise air and then refuses to let go, tightening its grip to a vice like stranglehold and casting a spell that makes extrication impossible. We were surrounded by people who had surrendered to this hypnotism, arriving many years ago with the intention of staying just a few days. We escaped only with some difficulty. I guess that’s another story.

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In the summer of 2004 I started my trip to Mexico exploring the federal state of Chiapas (Estado Libre y Soberano de Chiapas). One of the first places I have visited has been the Cañón del Sumidero on board of a boat. It is a narrow canyon with an enchanting multifaceted river with a dense vegetation, rapacious monkeys and crocodiles. The cañón’s walls are not only as high as 1000 meters but also 14 km long finishing with the dike Chicoasén.

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