St Kilda : Island on the Edge of the World

If you enjoy my article Id really appreciate a like on my FB page In a far corner of the United Kingdom, forty miles from the Western Isles, lies a speck of land that has caught the imagination of many. St Kilda supported a modest population, adapted to survive in such harsh and isolated conditions, for two millennia, but with the influx of modern world influence the population began to dwindle as religion, tourism, emigration and disease eventually eroded the sustainability of this fragile society.

The 29th of August 1930 saw the final evacuation of its last inhabitants. Now the archipelago is recognised as both a natural and cultural UNESCO World Heritage Site, its significance on a par with sites like Machu Picchu in Peru. Trying to get from London to St Kilda, or just the Outer Hebrides on a budget will mean you're not in for the most comfortable of journeys. Its going to be long and tiresome, but I say to myself; it will certainly be worth it! If money is less of an object, you can fly to a number of small airports on the Western Isles with FlyBe, changing at Glasgow, or even get the Caledonian sleeper train from London Euston Station to Fort William (or Glasgow) where you continue for the last few hours by coach. For me, it was on the 9pm overnight Mega Bus (tickets as little as 5) from London Victoria which gets me to Glasgow for 5am, and then a short wait for a connecting 7am Scottish CityLink couch to Uig (about 46 return) and finally a ferry to the village of Tarbert on Harris.

Opting for the coaches is cheap, but long and boring, it's not really until after I pass Glasgow that the amazing Scottish highland scenery begins to tantalise my mind. The mountains, valleys and lochs make for a lovely scenic ride, made slightly harder to appreciate after a sleepless night on the motorways of England. Its 2pm when I finally escape the confines of my coach seat at Uig, and here the ferry to Tarbert awaits (5.70 single). Excited, my short adventure begins as I board the MV Hebrides, a roll-on roll-off ferry, similar though smaller than those you would cross the English channel in, but way more exciting simply due to where it's heading, one of the UK's most remote locations. As the sun shines, I go on deck to celebrate making it this far with a can of Tennents Lager as I watch the Isle of Skye disappear below the horizon. After an hour and forty minutes we arrive in Tarbert, Harris which will serve as my base of my stay. Tarbert is a small and charming settlement, which acts as the capital and administrative area for Harris.

You wont find too much here; a few shops and couple of hotel bars. Its located on a narrow strip (an istalus) of land with the sea on both sides, and steep hills which contain its spread. As I walk off the ferry, I recognise the tourist office at the end of the street. I head there in the hope of obtaining a basic bus timetable. Its closed, so my second port of call is the Hebrides Hotel on the same road. I'm not checking in as I suspect this place may be a bit out of my budget, but the hotel bar looks inviting - I'm a great believer in a short break at the nearest pub presenting a solution to whatever situation you find yourself in. I walk in and ask if they know when the bus leaves for Leverbrough (as that is where the boat to St Kilda will leave in the early morning), and I figured its best to wake up close by to where Id be leaving. Sorry, we've no buses on a Sunday, I'm told by the young bartender. Ah, taxis? I ask. I sense a little hesitation when the bartender smiles and tells me shell check with her manager. It turns out Sunday may not have been the best day for my arrival. She disappears, so I figure Ill treat myself to a pint and a late lunch or perhaps an early dinner of fish and chips.

Just as I've placed my order the supervisor appears and informs me that they've the next best thing to an official taxi; she explains that only one real taxi firm operates on the island and they're based an hour away in Stornoway, which incurs a substantial additional call out cost. They offer me the next best thing, and call a local man who sometimes offers to undertake taxi duties. A pleasant half an hours ride starts to give me a feel for these islands. First, I begin to realise that they're massive: looking at a map just doesn't do this place justice, and I soon realise my backup plan of walking would have been foolish. Instead, I enjoy the ride as it takes me past wide deserted beaches, moors, highlands and lochs, occasionally passing a lone building or playing chicken with stubborn sheep on the narrow roads. 30 lighter after my ride, I arrive at Leverbrough to be told there's nothing open today, not that there is much there anyway. I'm told I wont find anything to kill time until the morning, but why kill time when it looks like time has stood still? Leverbrough is a lovely spread out village, with no person in sight, just a light breeze in the late afternoon and the evening sun reflecting off the coastline.

My pre-arranged bunkhouse is hard to miss; a big red building with a large BUNKHOUSE sign on its side will be my home for the night. I'm eager to dump my bags and set off for a little wander to the small harbour where I will be setting off for St Kilda the next day. A few boats are moored in the nearby waters but the highlights are two stunning vessels moored close to each other, the bright red hulls of the Orca III and the Hirta are the unmistakable hallmark of Kilda Cruises, who Ill be sailing with. As the sun begins to set on this sleepy place I find myself on the porch of the Am Bothen Bunkhouse. Its a pleasant summers evening but as the sun continues to disappear it also becomes noticeably cooler and time to put on a jumper. The rest of the evening is spent sipping on a couple of bottles of beer I picked up in the Hebrides Hotel Bar before turning in for my early morning.

Now I'm certainly not a morning person but today, waking at 5.30am, showering and making my coffee wasn't at all a burden I'm far too excited by the anticipation of my upcoming voyage to the edge of the world. Following a brisk walk towards the nearby harbour, where a few people were gathering, I'm approached by a man who seems to know who I am, he introduces himself as Angus; he runs Kilda cruises and captains the Orca III. A brief handshake and he explains the sea swell on St Kilda is much too high and that it wont be possible to land today. An overwhelming sense of disappointment fills me, and I'm not really sure how to respond to Angus. After all, I've travelled up from London all this way, only to be told I wont be sailing anywhere. Of course, at the time of booking Kilda Cruises strongly advised I allocate an extra day to my itinerary in case of such circumstances, but still I cant help but feel disappointed. Angus tells me that we can try again tomorrow, though he didn't sound too confident that tomorrows conditions would be any better.

Perhaps tomorrow was down to luck, or maybe years of experience have taught him to limit expectations. Angus kindly offers me a lift to Tarbert, where Ill find my way to another bunkhouse, Rock View, which is pretty much a self-service affair. Punch in a code to let yourself in and drop the money in a small box left downstairs, it reminds me of my old student digs so I feel right at home. I have the place to myself but I wont spend much time here as I want to explore. I've a few choices on how to proactively spend my day. Not too far is the Clisham, a 799 meter high mountain whose peak marks the Western Isles highest point, or perhaps I could rent a bicycle and head to the beaches of Harris world renowned as some of the most stunning beaches on earth. Id driven past Luskentyre Beach and from my ride it looked like a scene from a Caribbean holiday brochure, miles of flat white sands and turquoise waters hugged by green Scottish hills and moorland. Its a tough choice but instead I opt to make this tomorrows back up plan. For today I decide Ill visit the Callanish Standing Stones and Stornoway, the capital of the Western Isles. First its a visit to the Tourist Office to formulate a travel plan.

They explain to me the nature of the islands bus system. Essentially, coaches service the islands public transport needs; they run few and far between but provide the vital link connecting the settlements for many of the islanders. I'm told Ill need to change coaches in what appears to be the middle of nowhere. Furthermore, timetables aren't really printed to keep cost down, and if I miss a connection then it could be a very long wait or a long walk back to civilisation. I'm told to let the driver know my plans and he can drop me off and tell me where to head onwards, so I do just that. The fifty-seater coach races though the moorlands on narrow hilly roads like a giant rally car: these coach drivers clearly know the terrain and Im sure they must enjoy ragging these massive vehicles around the empty roads. Miles and miles of barren, uninhabited landscape as far as the eye can see truly make an impression of unforgiving terrain should one be caught out, and its not long before a new found respect for this place is thrust upon me. Yes, the emptiness is strongly beautiful but it could well be deadly.

The remoteness is occasionally broken up with scattered settlements and every so often with locals running from their front road to coach our bus, the reality seems to be local transport service offer close to a door-to-door service and will pick up and drop you anywhere along the route. After about forty minutes, I disembark to find another coach already waiting for me, and then its only another twenty minutes ride before I arrive at my first stop, the remarkable Callanish Standing Stones. I make my way up the path, conscious of the fact that the next bus leaves in forty minutes or its a two hour wait. While there's no rush, I'm just not convinced that I could appreciate the forthcoming landmarks for that long. The standing stones come into sight, massive grey rocks vertically planted in the green grass. Dated to about 5000 years ago, they represent an ancient burial ground. Like Stonehenge, these monoliths are impressive, but unlike Stonehenge you can walk straight up with no restrictions. Impressed with my first replacement trip, Ive almost forgotten my cancelled sailing as a coach takes me to the administrative capital of the Outer Hebrides, Stornoway.

I arrive here and begin to explore on foot. Though the population is only around 9000, this is a bustling metropolis compared to the rest of the settlements I've seen so far. I quickly notice the abundance of pubs - perhaps an attempt to make up to the scarcity of them elsewhere! I note to myself it would be rude not to visit at least one before I leave town, but first I wander the streets and make my way to the neo-gothic Lews castle. Unfortunately, I cant get as close as Id like due to renovation work. Most of Stornoway can be easily covered on foot, its a modest town with a few recognisable high-street chain stores. Perhaps its the grey skies and the rain which contributes to my subdued mood here. For now its time to wait for the bus home - well, after a pint of course! Its amazing how quickly the day slips away, and before I know it I'm back on an almost-full bus to Tarbert. The driver speeds across the barren landscapes of the Western Isles as I chat to a native Glaswegian who settled here over eight years ago.

Back in Tarbert the suns shining and I begin to formulate a backup plan for the next day, should my voyage to St Kilda be cancelled again. Over dinner in the Harris Inn I think about tomorrows back up plan of climbing the Clisham, and then a ride to the beach, perhaps even braving a dip in the North Atlantic. At this point Im excited by how tomorrow may turn out, and have nearly put St Kilda out of my mind when my mobile phone suddenly vibrates on the wooden table. Its Angus, letting me know the sea conditions for the morning. Its a yes: we are due to sail first thing! For a moment I feel a pang of disappointment as my planned alternative day wont materialise, but this quickly passes. Angus kindly offers to pick me up from Tarbert as Im on route back to Leverbrough, its much appreciated, even if pick up is at 6am. The next morning Im in Anguss 4x4 with his young son Alex and crew mate Murdur as we head back to the harbour at Leverbrough. I see another Kilda Cruises crew preparing the sister vessel, the Hitra. Im there before the rest of the passengers and while Angus, Alex and Murdur refuel and prepare the Orca III for sail I wonder what kind of people visit St Kilda, and why. Finally Im called on board the newer of the two, the Orca III. She carries twelve passengers, is very modern and with the open bridge I'm fascinated by the vast array of monitor screens, radar, GPS and other instrumentation positioned upfront.

After an initial safety briefing, Angus takes his place on the captains seat, the engines roar into life, and we head for the open ocean. Were allowed outside on the rear deck, providing we have our life jackets on. I'm joined on deck by a few middle-aged couples as well as a retired couple, and a family of bird enthusiasts. I'm the only solo traveller. It seems there's no stereotype visitor to St Kilda, and the one thing we all have in common is that for whatever reason, this fascinating place has caught our imagination. Sailors often see a variety of wildlife from whales to puffins, but for this voyage were out of luck and all that's abundant over the long two hour and forty minute trip are the dark clouds forming overhead; it seems the heavens could open up at any moment. I half expect a shout of land ahoy when the island of Hitra appears on the horizon, but no such cry is made. We continue our approach into Village Bay, anchors drop and we prepare to disembark on to a small jetty via a small motor dinghy. I'm given a hand up, and were soon greeted by the islands warden. He explains that hes one of three employees of the Scottish National Trust, his colleagues comprise an archaeologist and an ornithologist, in his words a bird woman. He describes himself as a general dogsbody, filling multiple roles from maintenance to clerk of the gift shop, which hell later open for us. He continues to explain that there are a number of Ministry of Defence contractors on the island who are best not disturbed.

They share the island with a number of researchers and students who are here for the summer to study the unique species of found here on Soay and Boreray. The weathers not looking good and the surrounding peaks are engulfed in cloud. The warden points in various directions suggesting where to go and where to stay away from. He emphasises the dangers of getting lost or worse, falling off a cliff. Wished a good day, we set off to finally explore the island. On first impressions I think to myself, this was not in the brochure; blocks of green portacabins used by the MOD as barracks and offices, and a large ugly grey building disturbs the peace with what I assume to be the generator for the complex. It takes a few minutes to navigate past these modern monstrosities before a visitor can finally make eye contact with the old village buildings and wow, what a sight! Instantly I forget about the modern structures behind me as I get lost in the atmosphere. A lone street with the ruined houses along one side that once stood inhabited.

The first five houses have been restored and let to the researchers as accommodation. House number three has been converted into a small, elegant museum with much information, illustrations and artefacts. Many of my fellow day trippers have their packed lunches here, however I'm much too excited to be in such an astonishing place to sit inside, so after absorbing as much information as I can, I carry on along the village street. To my left is the bay, to my right is the single row of houses along the old village street, the backdrop to which are the steep hills, disappearing into the mists. Scattered all along landscape are cleits, small stone structures roofed with turf used for drying foodstuffs and keeping goods cool and dry. I stroll along slowly along my path, entering these now roofless buildings to truly get a feel for how the islanders lived. Fittingly each ruined building has a piece of slate, no larger than a roof tile, on the ground resting against the wall with the name, age, and year of the last occupant. Names like Ewan Gilles and Rachel McDonald really bring to life that this isn't just a ruin, but it was a home for someone, a home they were forced to leave. Leaving the village behind I now follow a concrete track laid by the MOD uphill. It leads to a radar station positioned on one of the islands high points.

I'm eager to reach a high point, or ideally the highest point on the island from where I'm sure the views must be amazing. I'd be able to see the village from high above and the sea stacks in the ocean miles way which make up this archipelago. Wishful thinking with the current weather conditions, Id be lucky to see a metre in front me at a respectable altitude, but I'm not deterred. The walk is steep, and as I carry on upward I can see the village bay below, the grey buildings, the lush green grass with the slight turquoise ocean, fading into deep blue further along the horizon, even on such an abysmal day. A few more vertical metres and I'm completely swallowed up in the low cloud, visibility is down to a few metres, and the village below me has now completed disappeared. Its raining, windy and not at all pleasant as I persevere onward for another half-an-hour when suddenly, out of the white, grey buildings with domes and masts begin to emerge. Its the unmanned radio stations on top of Hitra. They give this place a ghostly feel, and I half expect zombies to come at me.

Though I cant see it, I certainly feel that this is a very exposed area as the winds blast my body and sideways rain drops sting my face. Here the road ends, and under normal circumstances, if one were to continue to reach the islands highest peak, they'd have to walk off-track along some of the highest cliffs in the UK. With such bad visibility any attempt would be extremely unwise, so I reluctantly turn back down the road. With every downward step the conditions seem to improve: less rain, less wind and thirty minutes later the village comes back into sight. I pass a flock of unique sheep, they're much darker, and with larger horns then what Id expect, but that's as far as my analysis goes. Back at the village bay, its time for the mandatory photo opportunities as I carry on exploring every nook and cranny of the village - I even make it down to the sandy beach.

This place seems to exert such presence that I think I could never tire of it: a dramatic landscape, amazing natural beauty and fascinating history as well as an important wildlife habitat. I begin to sense a break in the weather. Typical! I shout at myself. Hesitantly, I think, is now the time to hike up to the viewpoint again? I look past the buildings to the area called The Gap. Its not as high I was previously but connects to high points and the views should be just as impressive from there should the clouds dissipate. From where I'm standing, the tip of The Gap becomes visible and that's my sign to make a brisk hike for it. I race up the steep hill past the many clients dotted around and within fifteen minutes I'm making my final approach. I see the edge of The Gap, just about clear of any cloud cover but within seconds of me reaching my view point the cloud again foils my plans as it swiftly blows in. My pace slows as disappointment seeps in, and then, just as I'm about to plant my right foot on the ground, I suddenly, instinctively jump backward, and simultaneously feel like my heart jumped not just one, but a few hundred beats.

Catching my breath, I slowly crawl to where I was about to plant my foot, and I'm gazing out over sheer cliff. I just about make out the ocean below before more cloud works its way in. This is exactly what the warden warned us about. Realising how close I've come to simply disappearing off the most remote outpost of the United Kingdom, I sit down for some lunch and reflect on my day, and hope it may still clear up before I head back down. Unfortunately, it doesn't. Back in the village I visit the small shop and buy a postcard and the warden kindly promises to send it on my behalf. Then I wander into the nearby chapel where I'm told services are still sometimes held, and on to a nearby artillery gun, mounted in World War Two after a German U-boat attack.

My fellow visitors have gathered at the jetty awaiting pickup. The day has flown by and I'm not at all disappointed anymore about the weather, I tell myself that its been more authentic this way, the islanders would have probably had more of this weather than the sunshine I had hoped for. Once on-board the Orca III were all greeted with a much welcomed cup of tea and some homemade banana cake. Its not long before Angus brings his engines roaring back to life. Our return trip will take us past some of the steepest cliffs and sea stacks in the UK, and well visit the other islands of the archipelago where some of the most important bird breeding colonies on the planet are situated. In particular, the gannet population here is of major significance. On deck, an elderly gentleman tells me Now imagine how the islanders felt when they left their homes for the last time, a sobering thought which stuck with me for much of the return voyage.

The Orca III takes us further seaward for close of views of Stac Lee, Stac An Armin and the island of Boreray. Angus and Murdur explain to us how the islanders used to sail here to these unforgiving cliffs to collect bird eggs and how they'd stay here for weeks at a time. They point out features in the rock, shelters built for and by these brave men for the gatherings. They share their knowledge with great enthusiasm, and its obvious to me that these two love what they do. The boat is piloted close to these cliffs to give us a true sense of how enormous these monoliths are. High above us are thousands of birds, flying, diving and nesting. The dark cliffs are lined with white guano, the noise from these sea birds is loud, and the smell is strong. I was later told that they eat thousands of tons of fish a week, which in turn means they produce thousands of tons of guano a week, with no one to clear it up! Angus pilots the Orca III around the tall stacks: for perspective, these sheer cliff faces are substantially higher than the tower which houses Big Ben.

The tour comes to an end as we head into open waters once again for the trip back to the small harbour in Leverbrough. Its been a long day and opposite me a fellow passenger looks to be turning a bit green as the rocking of the boat puts me to sleep. The final moments of our time on board are marked with a complimentary whisky poured by Murdur, here the weather has lifted and the suns come out as I sip away. When we all say goodbye to each other at the pier, it feels like saying farewell to old friends. We've all shared this magnificent place and its clear that everyone enjoyed their day, however they spent it. I wait behind for a lift back to Tarbert but not before having a quick pint with the crew of the Orca III.

The conversation revolves around St Kilda, the boats, the sea, fishing and then back to St Kilda. I'm grateful for the chance to visit this amazing place and to share the experience with people who have a real passion for what they do.

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How do I embark on a career in Expedition Leading?

Hi there! I've been incredibly interested in working as an expedition leader now for about 4 years. Recently I've begun to realise just how much this line of work excites and interests me so I've been seriously considering it.

However it seems that it's incredibly hard to find much information about where to start. Being 20 years old, i don't have the money to gain travel experience. I can just about afford to save for a ML qualification but surely this is not enough to actually get employed by anybody?

There are various other courses, such as Trekforce's Expedition Leader Training Program which i have extensively looked in to, but at nearly 8000 in costs, it simply is not an option for me. Any advice or information would be greatly, greatly appreciated. Anywhere would be a good place to start!

eagleaoife@gmail.com

Pennine Way for Crisis UK

I completed this challenge for Crisis UK on 10th July 2013. The Pennine Way is 270 mile / 430 km from Edale in the Peak District to Kirk Yetholm in the Scottish borders. I realised after the last four walks that I need to keep my own costs down so I camped where possible and did the walk without support.

You can read more about the walk including the kit that I took athttp://rucksackrose.wordpress.com/distance-walks/the-pennine-way/ This was my fifth distance walk. I did Hadrian's wall (84 miles/135km) for the MS Society in June 2012 and the Dales Way (78 miles/126km) for the British Lung Foundation in August 2012.

This year I also completed the St. Cuthbert's Way (65 miles) and the Cumbria Way (78 miles) in preparation for the Pennine Way.

St Kilda: The Island On The Edge Of The World

In a far corner of a United Kingdom, 40 miles from the Western Isles, lays a speck of land that has caught the imagination of many. Its thought that for two millennia St Kilda supported a modest population, which adapted to survive in such harsh and isolating conditions. With the influx of modern world influence the population begun to dwindle as religion, tourism, emigration and disease eventually contributed to the un-sustainability of this fragile society. It was the 29th August 1930 which saw the final evacuation of its inhabitants.

Now the archipelago is recognised as both a natural and cultural UNSECO World Heritage Site, its significance on a par among such sites a Machu Picchu in Peru. Trying to get from London to St Kilda, or the even Outer Hebrides for that matter, on a budget will mean youre not in for the most comfortable journeys. Its going to be long, uncomfortable, tiresome, but I say to myself; I it will be certainly be worth it! However if moneys less of an object you can fly to a number of small airports on the Western Isles with FlyBe, changing at Glasgow, or even get the Caledonian sleeper train from London Euston Station to Fort William (or Glasgow) where you carry on last few hours by coach. For me, however, it was on the 9pm overnight Mega Bus where tickets start from 5 from London Victoria Coach station which gets me to Glasgow for 5am, wait for a couple of hours for a connecting 7am Scotish CityLink couch to Uig (about 46 rtn) , the Ferry terminal which will finally take me to village of Tarbert on Harris. Opting for the coaches is cheap, but long and boring, its not really until after you pass Glasgow where the amazing Scottish highland scenery begins to tantalise your mind.

The mountains, valleys and lochs make for a lovely scenic ride, though made slightly harder appreciate after a sleepless night on the motorways of England. Its 2pm when I'm finally escape the confines of my coach seat at Uig, here the Ferry awaits to take me to Tarbert (5.70 single). Excited, here my short adventure starts as I board the MC Hebraises, a small roll on roll of ferry, similar to what you'd expect to cross the English channel, but way more exciting simply due to where its heading, one of the UK's most remote locations. As the sun shines and I go on deck to celebrate for making it this far with a can of Tenants Lager as I watch the Isle of Skye disappear below the horizon. After a short 1 hour and 40 minutes we arrive in Tarbert, Harris which will serve as my base of my short stay. Tarbert is a small and charming settlement, which acts as the capital and administrative area for Harris, you wont find too much here; a few of shops and couple of hotel bars. Its located on a narrow strip (an istalus) of land with the sea to either side of it and steep hills contain its spread.

Very scenic though and everything seems to be a few minutes walk away. As I walk off the ferry, instantly recognise the tourist office at the end of the street. I head there in the hope I can obtain some basic bus timetable information. Its closed so the second port of call, the Hebrides Hotel on the same road, not to check in as, as I suspect this place may be a bit out of my budget, however the hotel bar looks inviting and I'm a great believer in which ever situation you find your self in a short break to the closest pub will present a solution. I walk in and ask if they can know when the Bus leaves for Leverbrough (as that is where the boat to St Kilda will leave in the early morning), and I figured its best to wake up close by to where Id be leaving. Sorry weve no buses on a Sunday, I'm told by the young bartender. Ah.. Taxis? I ask. I senses a wee bit of hesitation when the bartender smiles and tells me shell check with her manager. Turns out Sundays may not have been the best day for my arrival. She disappears so I figure Id treat myself to a pint and a late lunch or perhaps an early dinner of fish and chips. As I've placed my order the supervisor appears and informs me that they've the next best thing to an official taxi She explains that one real taxi firm operates on the island and theyre based all the way in Stornoway, about an hour away, and hence the additional call out cost. So they offer to call me the next best thing a local man who sometimes offer s undertake taxi duties.

A pleasant 30 minutes ride starts to give me a feel for these islands. First, I quickly begin to realise a that theyre massive, looking at a map just doesnt do this place justice, I soon realise my backup plan of walking would have been foolish, instead I enjoy the ride as it takes me past wide deserted beaches, moors, highlands and lochs, occasionally passing a lone building or playing chicken with stubborn sheep on the narrow roads. 30 lighter after my ride I arrive at Leverbrough, Im told theres nothing open today, not that there is much there anyway. Im told I wont find anything to kill the time till the morning here, but why kill time here when it looks like time has stood still? Leverbrough is a lovely spread out village, with no person in sight, just a light breeze in the late afternoon and the evening sun reflecting off the coastline. My pre-arranged bunkhouse is hard to miss, a large red building with the large BUNKHOUSE sign on its side will be my home for the night.

I'm eager to dump my bags and set of for a little wander to the small harbour where I will be setting of the St Kilda the next day. A few boats more in the nearby waters but the highlight are to stunning vessels moored close to each other, the bright red hulls of the Orca III and the Hirta are the unmistakable hallmark of Kilda Cruises, who Ill be sailing with. As the sun begins to set on this sleepy place I find myself on the porch of the Am Bothen Bankhouse. Its a pleasant summers eve but has the sun continues to disappear it also becomes noticeably cooler and time to put on a jumper. The rest of the evening is spent sipping on a couple of bottles of beer Ive managed to pick up in the Hebraise Hotel Bar before turning in for my early morning. Now Im certainly not a morning person but today waking up at around 5.30am, showering and making my coffee wasnt at all a burden Im far too excited and anticipate my upcoming voyage to the edge of the world. A brisk walk towards the nearby harbour where a few people where gathering.

I'm approached by a man who seems to know who I am, he introduces himself as Angus; he runs Kilda cruises and captains the Orca III. A brief handshake and he explains the sea swell on St Kilda is much too high today and that we wont be possible to land today. An overwhelming sense of disappointment fills my gut, not really sure how to respond to Angus after all, Ive travelled up from London all this way only to be told I wont be sailing anywhere today. Of course, on the time of booking Kilda Cruises strongly advise I allocate an extra day into my itinerary in case of such circumstance, but still I cant help feel disappointed. Angus tells me that we can try again tomorrow though his voice didnt sound too reassuring that tomorrow will be any better condition. Perhaps tomorrow was down to luck or maybe years of experience have taught him to limit expectations. Angus kindly offers me a lift to Tarbert, where Ill find my way to another bunkhouse, Rock View, which is pretty much a self-service affair. Punch in a code to let yourself in and drop the money in a small box left downstairs, it reminds my old student digs so I feel right at home. Ive the place to myself but I wont spend much time here as Ive the day to explore. Ive a few choices on how to proactively spend my day. Not to far is the Clisham. A 799 meter high mountain whose peak marks the Western Isles highest point, or perhaps I could rent a bicycle and head to the beaches of Harris world renowned as some of the most stunning beaches on earth. Id driven past Luskentyre Beach beach and from my ride it looked like a scene out of the Caribbean holiday brochure, miles of flat white sands and turquoise waters hugged by green Scottish hills and moorland. Its a tough choice but instead I opt to make this tomorrows back up plan for today I decide Ill visit the Callanish Standings Stones and Stornoway, the capital of these Western Isles. First its a visit to the Tourist Office to formulate a travel plan. They explain to me the nature of the islands bus system. Essentially coaches service the islands public transport needs, they run few and far between but provide the vital link for many of the islanders connecting much of the settlements. I'm told Ill need to change coaches in what I assume to be the middle of nowhere on to another coach. Furthermore timetables aren't really printed to keep cost down and if I miss a connection then it could be a very long wait or walk back to civilisation. I'm told to let the driver know my plans and he can drop me off and tell me were to head onwards, so I do just that. The 50 seater coach races though the moorlands on narrow hilly roads like giant rally cars, these coach drivers clearly know the terrain and I'm sure they must enjoy ragging these massive vehicles across the empty roads. Miles and miles of barren, uninhabited landscape as far as the eye can see truly make an impression of unforgiving terrain should one be caught out, its not long before a new found respect for this place is thrust upon me. Yes, the emptiness is strongly beautiful but it could well be deadly.

The remoteness is occasionally broken up with scattered settlements and every so often with locals running from their front road to coach our bus, the reality seems to be local transport service offer a close to a door to door service and will pick and drop you along the route. After about 40 minutes I'm let off the coach to find another coach already waiting for me, its only another 20 minutes or so before I arrive at my first stop, the remarkable Callanish Standing Stones. I make my way up the path, conscious of the fact that the next bus leaves in 40 minutes or its a two hour wait, and while there's no rush I'm just not convinced that I could appreciate the forthcoming landmarks for that long. The standing stones come in to sight, massive grey rocks vertically planted in the green grass. Dated to about 5000 years ago, they represent an ancient burial ground. Like Stonehenge these rocks are impressive, unlike Stonehenge you can go straight up to these monoliths with no restrictions. Pretty impressed with my first replacement trip, I've almost forgotten about my cancelled sailing only a few hours ago as a coach takes me to the administrative capital of the Outer Hebrides , Stornoway. I arrive here and figure Ill walk around for an explore. Though the population is around 9,000 this seems like a bustling metropolis compared to the rest of the settlements Ive seen so far. One thing I do quickly notice is the abundance of pubs perhaps an attempt to make up to the scarcity of them elsewhere, I note to myself it would be rude not to visit at least one before I leave town, but first I wander the streets and make my way to the neo-gothic Lewis castle. Unfortunately during my visit the castle renovation work presence stops a more close up visit. Most of Stornoway can be covered on foot in not much time at all, its a modest town with a few high-street chains. Perhaps its the grey skies and the rain which contributes to my subdued mood here. For now its time to wait for the bus home well, after a pint of course. Its amazing how quickly the day seems to have gone, before I know it I'm back on a bus to Tarbert chatting to a native Glaswegian who settled here over eight years ago. The bus back to Tarbert is almost full as it again races for an hour across the barren landscapes of the western isles. Back in Tarbert the suns shining and I begin to formulate a backup plan for the next day should my voyage to St Kilda be cancelled again. Over dinner in the Harris Inn I think about tomorrows back up plan of climbing the Clisham and then ride to the beach or perhaps braving a dip in the north Atlantic Ocean.

At this point I'm even pretty excited by how tomorrow may turn out, and I even put St Kilda out of my mind. Then suddenly my mobile phone vibrates on the wooden table. Its Angus, Id almost forgotten to expect his call to let me know what the sea conditions are looking like for the morning and if we are due to sail. Its a yes! Were good to go first thing in the morning. For a moment I feel a bit of disappointment as my planned alternative day wont materials but this quickly passes and my excitement again returns. Angus kindly offers to pick me up from Tarbert as Im on route back to Lavenbrough, its much appreciated, even if pick up is at 6am. The next morning Im back in Anguss 4x4 along with his young son Alex and crew mate Murdur as we head back to the harbour at Levenbrough. I see another Kilda Cruises crew preparing the sister vessel, the Hitra. Im there before the rest of the passengers and while Angus, Alex and Murder refuel and prepare the Orca III for sail I wonder what kind of people visit St Kilda, and why.

Finally I'm called on board newer of the two, the Orca III. She holds 12 passengers, is very modern and with the open bridge Im fascinated by the vast array of monitors screens, radar, GPS positioned upfront. After an initial safety briefing, Angus takes his place on the captains seat, the engines roar into life and we begin to leave the land behind us as we head to the open ocean. Were allowed to go outside on the rear deck, providing weve our life jackets on. Im joined on deck by few middle age couples as well as a retired couple, a family of bird entrusts. Im the only solo traveller. It seems theres no stereotype of visitor to St Kilda, but one thing weve all have in common is that for whatever reason this fascinating place has caught our imagination for one reason or another. Often sailors will see a variety of wildlife from whales to puffins, but for this voyage its like were out of luck and all thats abundant over the long to two hour and forty minute trip with dark clouds forming overhead; it looks like the heavens could open up any moment. I half expect a shout land ahoy when the Island of Hitra comes up from the horizon, but no such cry is made. We continue our approach into Village Bay, anchors drop and we prepare to disembark on a small motor dingy which takes us to a small jetty. Im given a hand up were soon greeted by the Islands warden, an employee of the Scottish National Trust. The warden explains, that hes one of three employees of the trust, hes colleagues comprise of an archaeologist and in his words a bird woman. As for himself, he is a general dogsbody, filling multiple roles from maintenance to gift shop clerk which hell open later for us. He continues to explain that there are a number of Ministry of Defence contractors on the Island who are best not disturbed. They share the Island with a number of researchers and students who are here for the summer to study the unique species of Soay and Boreray found here.

The weathers not looking good and the sounding peaks are engulfed in cloud cover, he points to various directions suggesting where to go and where to stay away from. He emphasises the dangers of getting lost or worse, falling off a cliff. Wished a good day, we set off to finally explore the island. On first impressions I think to myself, this was not in the brochure, green porter cabin/container sized blocks used by the MOD, a large load ugly grey building disturbs the piece with what I assume to be the power plant or generator for the complexes. It takes a few minutes to navigate past these modern monstrosities before a visitor can finally make eye contact with the old village buildings and WOW, what a sight. Instantly I forget about the modern MOD structures barracks and offices just behind me as I get lost in the atmosphere. A lone street with the ruins of the houses that once stood inhabited along one side, the first five houses have been restored and have let to the researches as accommodation. House number three has been converted into a small and elegant museum with much information, illustrations and artifacts.

Many of my fellow day trippers have their packed lunches here, however Im much too excited to be in such an astonishing place to sit inside so after exampling information I carry on along the village street. To my left is the bay, immediately to my right is the single row of houses along the old village street, the backdrop to which are the steep hills which disappear into the mists. Scattered all along landscape are cleits. A cleit is small stone structure roofed with turf used for drying and keeping goods cool and dry. I stroll along slowly along my path, entering these now roofless buildings to truly get a feel for how the islanders lived. Fittingly each ruined building has a piece of slate, no larger than a roof tile, on the ground resting against the wall with the name, age, and year of the last occupant, Names like Ewan Gilles and Rachel McDonald really bring to life that this isnt just a ruin, but it was a home for someone, a home they were forced to leave. Leaving the village behind I follow now follow a concrete track laid by the MOD uphill.

It leads to a radar station positioned on one of the islands high points. I'm really eager to reach a high-point or ideally even the highest point on the island where I'm sure the views must be amazing, id see the village from high above and Id be able to see the sounding sea stacks in the ocean miles way which make up the this archipelago. Though with the current weather conditions once at a respectable altitude Id be luckily to see a metre in front of my feet, wishful thinking at this point but I'm not deterred. The walk is steep, and as I carry on upward I can see the village bay below, the grey buildings, the lush green grass with the slight turquoise ocean, with its deep blue further along the horizon even on such an abysmal day. A few more vertical metres and I'm completely swallowed up in the low cloud, visibility is a few metres, and the village below me has now completed disappeared. Its raining, windy and not at all pleasant as I persevere on for another half an hour or so when suddenly out of the white soundings buildings become to emerge. Its the unmanned radio stations atop of Hitra. Grey buildings with their domes and masts give this place ghostly feel, I'm half expecting zombies to come at me. 

A Price on Their Heads

Ever since my aunt lifted me up to a glass case at the back of Oxfords Pitt Rivers Museum, at the impressionable age of eight, I have been hooked on shrunken heads. Like so many schoolboys before me, my lower jaw dropped as I gazed in awe at the array of miniature human heads, correctly known as tsantsas. There was something wholly captivating about their gnarled features, the sewn lips, little hollow necks and manes of jet black hair. I longed to learn the secret processes, known to a tribe deep in the South American jungle, which enabled decapitated human heads to be shrunk to the size of a grapefruit.

Despite an ongoing debate about whether museums should harbour human remains, the Pitt Rivers Museum still holds five, and the British Museum has at least ten. Interest in the gruesome exhibits remains strong. A roaring private trade in the illicit handicraft has developed, with heads being snapped up by wealthy collectors, many from the Far East and Japan. The genuine article comes from the Upper Amazon, a region on the Pastaza river between Peru and Ecuador. For thousands of years a tribe called the Shuar (misnamed by Western observers as Jivaro, meaning savage), shrunk the heads of their dead enemies. Although historically dozens of tribal societies have taken trophy heads, only the Shuar ever came up with the curious idea of reducing these trophies in size. One possible exception is the ancient Nazcan and coastal civilisations of the Atacama desert, with whom the Shuar share a common ancestry.

The Shuars victims were subject to swift and brutal attacks. During surprise raids on enemy villages, warriors would hack off as many heads as they could. The tsantsa raids were their raison detre. They proved a warriors bravery and the community's superiority. Retreating into the jungle with their fresh harvest of heads, the Shuar would begin work on their trophies immediately. They believed that humans have three souls. One of these the musiak is charged with avenging the victims death. The only way of pacifying the enraged soul was by shrinking the head in which it lay. During decapitation, a knife was used to peel back the victims skin from the upper part of the chest, the shoulders and the back. Then the head was chopped as far as possible, close to the collar bone using a stone-edged knife. The warrior would remove his own headband and thread it through the neck and out of the mouth, making it easier to carry, slung over the shoulder. The face was literally peeled off the skull, before being sewn up into a neat pouch of skin. This was steeped in hot water for a few minutes. Hot pebbles were then placed in the pouch, causing it to shrivel and shrink, taking great care not to damage the features. When the pouch was too small for pebbles, hot sand scooped from a riverbank was carefully swished about inside.

Next, the lips were sewn tightly shut with a strand of twine. A machete blade was heated and pressed against the lips to dry them. Then the facial skin was repeatedly rubbed with charcoal. Sometimes a large red seed was placed beneath the eyelids, filling the hole, preventing the musiak from seeing out. Between four and six days of treatment were needed for the basic tsantsa to be completed, at which time it was about the size of a mans fist. A hole was made at the top of the head and a string attached to it, so that the warrior could wear it around his neck for the celebratory tsantsa feast. As far as the Shuar people were concerned, the tsantsas had no intrinsic value, and they were merely tossed back into the jungle as soon as the avenging souls had been appeased. But once Victorian trailblazers got their hands on the curious trophies, a thriving market began. Search the Internet and you come across plenty of examples. Most of them are fakes, or made for the tourist trade, and are often fashioned from plucked goat skin, which has overly large pores. Genuine tsantsas have delicate nasal hair, and a light oily shine to the skin. Only a finished one will have twine hanging from the lips, which signifies that three enormous feasts have been held in honour of the head. On the Internet you can find black, white, and even Chinese shrunken heads.

They are outright fakes generally made in Guatemalan workshops at the turn of the last century. The Shuar would never have any cause to shrink a foreigners head, because they dont believe that outsiders have souls. On one expedition to the Upper Amazon, I hired a ramshackle boat and made for the remote Pastaza in search of the Shuar. My guide was a veteran of the USA-Vietnam war who told me that the Shuar tribe, made the Viet Cong look like pussy cats. Everyone en route warded us away. The Shuar will chop off your heads, they told us, and drink your blood and eat your brains. When we finally reached Shuar territory late in the evening, a man ran down to greet our boat and present me with a gift of a roasted monkey. In the background we could hear singing, which I was sure was the ancient ballads of the Shuar. Shrunken heads would be nearby. In the dawn light we climbed the steep bank up to the village, where the chief was waiting. He plied us with a strange white creamy beverage, called masato.

Only later did I realise how it is made. Manioc roots are boiled up and mashed with a stick. As they mash, the makers grab handfuls of the goo, chew it, and spit it back into the bowl. The enzymes in their saliva start off the fermenting process. After downing a third bowl of masato, I asked the chief if he had problems with the neighbouring villages. I motioned the shape of a small head with my hands. We love our neighbours, said the chief, they are our friends. We all pray together when the people in the flying boats come. 'Flying boats? The chief nodded. The friendly people from Alabama. They bring us tambourines and little pink pills but best of all, they brought us Jesus. What about war? What about heads? I asked. Why do we need to kill or shrink heads when we have the son of God? he replied. In little more than a generation the ancient ways of the Shuar have been changed forever. Small-scale petroleum projects in the deep jungle are one reason for this. But the overbearing responsibility must be assumed by a variety of missionary groups who have sought to cast the Shuar into the modern world, and to save their souls. Landing in remote jungle enclaves in flying boats, the white man has wrought change on an unprecedented scale.

The Shuar peoples have also been devastated by the measles, tuberculosis, venereal diseases and the common cold. The cures no longer come from traditional plant-based medicines but by handfuls of little pink pills. The only positive factor in terms of population is that the cessation of tsantsa raids has led to a reduction of death through warfare. After a tour of the village, the chief invited us to the makeshift church, built by the missionaries from Alabama. The proud former head-shrinkers stood in neat rows. As the noises of the jungle night echoed around us, the villagers sang Onward Christian Soldiers, translated into Shuar. But although most of the villagers were keen to sing hymns and show off their Shuar Bibles, one man the village shaman was less happy.

The missionaries don't understand what their religion has done, he explained. Head-hunting was a brutal practice, but it was our culture. It developed over a very long time, and had meant much more to us than Jesus and the Bible. The shaman lit a home-made cigar of mapacho, black jungle tobacco, as thick as his wrist. His eyes seemed to glaze over. Head shrinking gave reason to our existence, he went on, exhaling a plume of pungent smoke. Without the head-raiding parties our lives have changed, we are not the same people as we were in our fathers time. We are weaker. We are timid now. But worst of all, we have lost our honour.

Solo Pacific 2012

In May 2012 double Guinness World Record holder Charlie Martell attempted to row solo and unsupported for 6,000 miles across the North Pacific from Japan to the USA to raise funds for two charities, and to set a new Guinness World Record for the first and fastest solo Briton.

Charlie first launched the idea for Pacific 2012 after an inspiring meeting with a charity he has been involved with for many years, Give Them A Sporting Chance which enables those with disabilities of all ages to complete their sporting ambitions. Martell is also a core crew member of another charity, Toe in the Water who offer competitive sailing for servicemen and women who have often suffered traumatic injuries.

Bringing these two charities together has been Martells mission in the last year and he has been the powerhouse behind the Pacific 2012 challenge which aims to raise much needed funds for both organisations. Charlie Martell is a Mine Action Specialist who started his career serving with the British Army. He has served in Iraq Northern Ireland and Bosnia.

Having sailed as a child and with strong family links to the Royal Navy stretching back generations, Martell is very at home on the water. Swapped his sails for oars, this challenge was to be the ultimate test in mental strength and endurance. All the qualities that he possesses and put in to practice for the epic journey that was ahead of him... what happened...?"

I'm interested in becoming an expedition leader. Where is the best place to get training to become one?

I am extremely interested in becoming an expedition guide or a team leader. I was wondering where the best place is to get this kind of training? 

matt_schafer@juno.com

In the cave of the holy mountain - Athos, Greece part 2.

The new explorations of Athos Mt. Greece The second stage of the international project Study of the caves of Mount Athos (Mount Athos) - Greece. ended.

The same was initiated by the Bulgarian side and held under the patronage and with financial and material support of the European Federation of Speleology. The project team is composed Zhalov A. - Head, V. Gyorev , Zh.Vlaykov (Bulgaria), L. Makrostergios, J. Oykonomidis, T. Komaditis and M.Karidas (Greece), I. Agapov, S. Kaminski (Russia), A.Yamac (Turkey). The group works on an area from 1 st to 11 September. In this period were surveyed the areas of the monasteries , Diohar, Xenophon and heritages Kafrsokalivion, Little St.Anna, St. Anna and Nea Skiti. The distances between these holy places were mostly overcome with walking tours lasting from 1 to 4 hours, the movement by sea is carried by ferries. During the event were identified and mapped (according to preliminary data, information obtained on site and as a result of the search) about 45 underground sites. They can be divided into three main categories - caves associated with the lives of Saints, caves cells, usual and sea caves and artificial caves (catchments and reservoirs ). Along with it was collected many oral and photo information to other cave objects, which will be the subject of future studies. Preliminary data show that the team were surveyed 36 sites with a total length more than 350 meters. Other 9 objects was only visited and sketched among which is probably the longest cave in Athos for the moment. There were localized but not explored 2 more caves, one of which probably is so called The Big Cave of Athos. According the existing data (http://www.isihazm.ru/?id=1592) the cave over 150 m long. Its entrance is 50 m wide and around 80 m in high. The total number of the explored underground cavites under the project up to date is around 100.

The information for the results for the first stage and later for the expedition in 2012 is available at :https://sites.google.com/site/athosmistery/home

Expedition Arunachal Pradesh

What is Expedition Arunachal Pradesh?

Expedition Arunachal Pradesh is a photo documentary project by Jason K. Powers covering one of the least known tribes in all of India facing possible extinction. Paired with the photo documentary, Jason will also be doing basic ethnographic research with a small team, on this remote tribe. There are many undocumented areas, many unseen faces, and so many untold stories in the land of the dawn-lit mountains. One tribe has been chosen. Jason intends to visit the Zakhring tribe who are positioned in one of the furthest north east regions of India in the valleys of the Himalayan Mountains of Arunachal Pradesh. Arunachal Pradesh is bordered on three sides by Bhutan, China and Myanmar, with the rest of India to the South. Arunachal Pradesh is positioned in the Himalayan Mountains. The Tribe: Zakhring There is very little known about the Zakhring people. A census done in 1981 revealed that there were only 14 members of their tribe remaining. Living with the Zakhring people were another people group who identified themselves as the Meyor tribe, numbering around 240 people. It is presumed that these two tribes merged at one time due to their low numbers. If the population has continued to increase at a steady rate, the current population may be upwards of around 400, but if not, the population may have decreased to a startlingly low number, which could face the tribe with total extinction in the near future.

Interestingly, some sources suggest that neither of these names are the names in which they call themselves in their own language, which is the Charumba people. The Zakhring peoples are believed to have migrated from Tibet at one time, and have resided in this area ever since. Their religion is Buddhism which seems to be tinged with beliefs in a pre-Buddhist Bon religion. It is not known whether they have their own literature or written language. The Game Plan Expedition Arunachal Pradesh has been broken down into two trips throughout the year. The first trip was in early 2012 and served as more of a reconnaissance trip, including gathering information, visiting some of the places, talking to government officials, tour operators and the media. Upon returning and sifting through lots of information and deciding on the specific tribe to document, Jason K Powers has commenced the task of putting together a small expedition to head back to Arunachal Pradesh in the Fall of 2012. Due to permit problems the trip has been postponed to early 2013.

The decision to visit the Zakhring people was based on the fact that so little is known about this special tribe. Since they are also facing the possibility of total extinction, it is important to learn about such a unique people. Jason felt that it was not enough to simply go in and take photographs of these people, but to spend time with them and learn what he can about these people and share them with the world. Jason intends to do various new and state of the art styles of documentary photography to be displayed in galleries, as well as creating a photo coffee table book about the tribe. His photographs and research will also aid the research done by Rajiv Gandhi University. He also intends to work with a local publisher in Nagaland to publish an educational book on his findings. Where is India and the North East India? N.E. India is located just below Tibet/China, with Burma/Myanmar to the S.E. and Bangladesh to the S.W. with mainland India to the West of Bangladesh. About Jason K Powers For the past 11 years, Jason K. Powers has been a freelance photographer based in the Lakewood, Colorado area. He has covered a wide range of photography from weddings, modeling, headshots, sports, photojournalism, documentary, editorial, environmental portraiture and general portraiture. He also has extensive experience photographing tribal people and environments in the jungles of India. Jason has worked with clients from families, to major magazines, PR firms, modeling agencies and newspapers. While in Colorado he covers all of the Colorado high school sports State Championships for the Colorado High School Activities Association (CHSAA).

Additionally, he works for Brightroom Inc, the largest sports photography company in the country, covering marathons, triathlons and other races, including the New York City Marathon. Jasons love for the people of N.E. India, travel, adventure and the remote areas of the world has shifted his focus to documentary and ethnographic photography work these days. Since 2004, Jason has visited North East India many times. His first trip led him to the remote jungle villages of Meghalaya and Nagaland. According to one of those villages, his group was among the first foreigners to visit them since the late 1800s. In 2006 he co-founded the non-profit, North East India Project, where he served as President. NEIP worked with remote tribal villages in the jungles of North East India helping them to become more self-sustaining through means of healthcare, childrens education, water resource and economic development. One of his new photography projects in the making is taking him to the inner city of Denver, Colorados hidden homeless population to document their lives, and expose people to the homelessness they never see standing on the street corners.

Time Frame Hopes are to visit this tribe for around 21 days. The time-frame in 2013 intended is around the month of April. Long Range Goals Jasons primary intention on this expedition is documentary photography. He is working on several original, cutting-edge methods of photographing and presenting the expedition photographs as well as planning several exhibitions in galleries throughout the U.S.A. in 2013. He will also be putting out a photo coffee-table book with sidelining stories about the Zakhring tribe. A local Indian Publisher has already committed to publish an additional book which will result from the ethnographic research conducted by other expedition members.

After this first pilot expedition, the plans are to begin covering other remote, undocumented tribes in India and possibly around the world. With enough enthusiasm and support, the possibilities are endless!

Take Me On

Hello Explorers, My question is this: does anyone have a job that needs doing between January and April 2013? After a position working in the Alps fell through, I'm left looking for something interesting, and preferably unusual, to spend these four months doing. I'm willing to go almost anywhere, and do almost anything (legalities and moralities allowing).

I can drive, scuba dive, horse ride, and, less convincingly, sail. I'm an excellent photocopier, if it comes to that, but am after a bit of an adventure.I've spent much of my time travelling, and am an anthropologist by training (and calling!) so very much enjoy getting to know the locals of wherever it is I happen to be, and am quite comfortable wandering around by myself.

I've been writing a travel blog (www.indiegandolfi.com),which I very much enjoy!So would be very happy writing and/or editing. The only catch: I'm trying to fund my way through three more years at university, so am seeking a paid position! Having chosen to return to university and retrain as a midwife, to then hopefully work with MSF or the Red Cross, this is the one thing stopping me from extending my stay in Kyrgyzstan where I am currently working as an intern.

If you think you might have something, or know someone who might have something, please don't hesitate to get in touch!

Thanks, and happy exploring, Indie.