For decades the people of Dal Lake, its houseboat community and wider Srinagar inhabitants, have been witness to many of their lakes becoming polluted beyond repair. Now, Dal Lake is on the brink of an environmental disaster with huge economic, social, cultural and ecological repercussions that not only threaten the prevailing way of life for the local community, but also foreshadows the demise of natural habitats across India and worldwide.
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By Charlotte Discombe
In my personal opinion travelling is more than just about getting away from your worries and your normal routine of get up, go to work and go to bed. For me travelling is about the experience – that once in a lifetime experience.
According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the definition of experience is:
– Practical contact with and observation of facts or events;
– An event or occurrence which leaves an impression on someone;
– Encounter or undergo an event or occurrence.
In this sense an experience is something you, as a living and breathing human being, take part in or have a connection to. However, unlike an everyday normal event an experience is something that stays with you even after the experience has finished.
Travelling is an experience itself. You experience time and liminality; the act of being in between places and time frames. But travelling also allows you to experience many of the world’s vast cultures.
A QUICK NOTE
In a moment I am going to recount a month long visit to Japan where I travelled to Tokyo, Nara, Kyoto and Hakone. I wish I had the time and the words to delve into all of my experiences of these places, but alas that shall have to be saved for another day. For now, I hope you enjoy this small account of several ‘once in a lifetime’ experiences in the mountain town of Hakone.
JAPAN: THE EXPERIENCE
I had never been to Japan before. I had travelled around parts of Asia but Japan was a totally ‘new’ place for me. After finally finishing my degree I wanted time to explore. Despite having a little knowledge of Japanese culture after studying Noh theatre, Japanese modern history and anime, I still did not know what to expect from Japan. In fact in hindsight I really was not prepared for the experiences that were about to hit me.
After a couple of days in Tokyo experiencing singing subways, old Japanese heritage sites mixed in with gigantic skyscrapers and an earthquake, we headed out into the mountains.
Hakone is a little town on a mountain just opposite Japan’s most famous, and arguably most beautiful, volcano – Mount Fuji. The town is only a few hours inland from Tokyo, the main city on the coast of Japan, and is a place where (again in my personal opinion) I truly experienced Japan.
Despite being a popular destination for tourists wanting to see the magnificent Mount Fuji, Hakone manages to maintain many of Japan’s sacred traditions that have been passed down through the generations. This is in contrast to the historic cities visited such as Kyoto and Nara which, although filled with historic relics from Japan’s complicated past, have become a lot more commercialised and metropolitan. Don’t get me wrong, these are obviously still amazing places to go and visit and experience for yourself (as previously mentioned), but my time staying in Hakone will be something I will never forget.
To get to the countryside we took the subway, then get on a bullet train – the fastest train in the world going at a rocketing 200mph – and then got a civilian train into the mountains and onto Hakone. I remember this journey vividly. The day was hot and sticky. All the trains were packed and uncomfortable. It was the weekend and many of the locals were also travelling in order to enjoy the countryside in the sun or see loved ones. I remember worrying about mosquitos and about the fact that I had not had the Japanese Encephalitis vaccination (not a good idea folks when you’re going into the countryside). I remember a lovely lady trying to teach me how to write my name in Japanese calligraphy, such a wonderful and friendly beacon in a sea of unfamiliar faces all speaking a language completely unknown to me.
When we finally got to Hakone we were met by the owner of the house we would be staying in. For next couple of days the group had the pleasure of staying in a traditional Japanese house, experiencing the richness of old Japanese culture and rituals.
This house was right on the side of the mountain and was a very long way up from the small town station. It was a sacred place and provided many of the locals with public baths to wash in. There were a few rules that needed to be respected:
On our arrival to the house we shared the ritual of bathing with the other guests and locals of the town. For someone very self conscious about her body, naked or otherwise, this was at first a very unsettling experience. Not only was I to be fully naked in front of my travelling companions, but also in front of men and women who I had never met before and would probably be sitting down to have dinner with in the next couple of hours.
After taking our first wash in the baths we were then given lessons in how to put on and wear a kimono – the clothing we would be wearing during our stay. I never thought something that looks so simple could be so complicated. There were layers and layers of material that all needed to be folded in a specific way to create the kimono. We could even wear our PJs, a rather fetching pair of yellow trousers and belted top, under the kimono. This was again was a completely new experience for me to try!
Once finally suited and booted (or words to that effect) we were shown around the house – yet another experience to add to my ever-growing list.
The house was a bungalow with spongy floors and wooden panels. Furniture was at floor level: we slept on the floor, ate on the floor and drank tea on the floor. There were many window panels covering the whole house, giving the impression that we were outside amongst the trees and wildlife within the wilderness that surrounded us on this mountain. Our bedroom had one massive window panel that looked out over to Mount Fuji. I have to say that waking up to see the sun rise over Mount Fuji every morning will be an experience I will never forget – an image that at first look seems so calm but when looking closer you could see smoke emerging from the volcano, a sign of the unrest right underneath our feet.
THOUGHTS ON THESE EXPERIENCES
Day after day the self-consciousness I felt on this first day, after taking part in so many new experiences, gradually faded. These experiences have become memories and these memories are still with me now. Even the experience of ritualistically washing in front of strangers whilst naked in a public space became pretty liberating.
I admit I have probably bored you by going into very specific detail about said experiences. I haven’t even gone into the fact that meal times were set and the meals were very true to traditional Japanese food. OR the fact we walked up the mountain in our kimonos to even smaller villages and experienced tea ceremonies. OR the fact we got right up close and personal to Mount Fuji. The list could go on… However, I hope you realise that this specific detail is important to me and it is what ‘made’ my trip to Japan. This was and still is what I travel for. I was taken out of my comfort zone in small ways and as a result I got to experience a small but AMAZING part of another culture. If I had not travelled to Japan and to the little town of Hakone, these experiences that I will never forget would never had happened. So if there’s just one bit of advice I could part to you it is travel to experience. Don’t just go travelling to get away, go to experience something new. I promise you won’t regret it.
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By Connie Bancroft
Whilst sprawled out lazily on a yellow sand lain beach, spooning rich passion fruit into my mouth and taking delight in this strikingly hot afternoon in Vietnam, I find myself reminiscing about my time spent in India. After leaving just under a month ago I have come to realise just how much this truly one-of-a-kind country means to me. It is undeniably true that it turned out very different to what I had expected and this is part of the reason I have been driven to write this article.
Before my departure my work colleagues found much enjoyment in warning me on what I was getting myself into:
‘People will steal your shoes and you’ll have to walk around barefoot in sewage’.
‘You do know people don’t use toilet paper there right? And they just relieve themselves in the middle of the street!’.
‘The dogs will bite you and they all have rabies’.
At the time I laughed along with them, finding the remarks funny and not thinking too much of it. Although a couple these are plausible, and I agree that this country isn’t for everyone, I have an urge to defend India and explain why I fell in love with it almost straight away.
Firstly, I think I need to say that no, not all the dogs have rabies. The average street dog isn’t vicious and all they want and deserve is just a little love and affection – this can sometimes be in the form of a biscuit. After one day of trying to refrain I gave up and made friends with at least one dog a day. Cuddling puppies turned out to be a thoroughly enjoyable activity with no negative side effects.
I was also warned that I would probably be spending half of my time in India on the toilet. I have a ridiculous amount of pills in my backpack which reflect my anxiety on the subject; most of these have gone unused.
To continue on the subject of India’s bad reputation, I would now like to tell you about my encounter with a Dutch fellow my friend and I met in Nha Trang, Vietnam. I sadly can’t remember his name so let’s call him Hank. After meeting Hank at our hostel we decide to go out for a couple of beers. Conversation quickly turns to travel stories, which quickly turns to India. Like everyone else who hears of our trip to India he asks, ‘What was it like?’ Although this time it is clear that the question is only asked out of politeness; it soon becomes apparent he has already made up his mind.
Hank is surprised by our enthusiasm for the country, abruptly stating that he would never step foot there. We calmly ask him why and this is when the atmosphere starts to get a little awkward. He shrugs and says, ‘I’ve heard it’s really dirty’. Well this is sort of a given, it’s India and out of all the negative reviews it gets, this is one that stands true. If experiencing bad hygiene and seeing rubbish on the street makes you so unhappy that it would ruin your trip then I would maybe say don’t go to certain parts of India.
Hank’s next point: ‘Apparently Indian people just want to make money out of you and I know loads of people who have been scammed’. This one is interesting because we were there for three months and not one of us got scammed. There are a couple of reasons I can think of as to why this was so. Firstly, we travelled in a group a majority of the time and I am aware that solo travellers have less support and are more easily targeted. Secondly, and most importantly, we did our research.
Online and in the guide books it tells you what to look out for and we were prepared to stand our ground. I knew before I left that Delhi is a hot-ground for scammers and avoiding them is as difficult as avoiding traffic whilst crossing the Indian roads. We were only in Delhi for thirty minutes for a bus transfer when we had an argument with a tuk-tuk driver trying to charge us double than what we’d agreed to. It is common for scammers to hang around at the train station and target foreign travellers getting off the trains. Tuk-tuk drivers tell you that your hotel is fully booked, has burnt down, has been washed away by a tidal wave etc etc, just to get you to travel further with them to get to their mates guesthouse. We once met a guy who was told the whole of Delhi was on lockdown after arriving at the airport. He bought it and ended up spending hundreds of dollars to be driven out of the city for somewhere to stay.
I am aware you can’t be prepared for everything but I do think a lot of these scams can be avoided if you have a decent amount of awareness. You are also more likely to come across problems if you stick to the big cities and this plays a huge factor in India’s bad reputation. We encountered a couple of people who were pretty much just doing a city tour of India: Mumbai-Jaipur-Delhi-Agra. If you do this, obviously your experience of India will be very different and I would argue that you haven’t experienced the real India at all. Cities can be stressful and the people there are more persistent and eager to make money from you.
“I met a Swedish girl who arrived in Goa and got her drink spiked on her first night’.
Hank’s last point is, for myself, the most frustrating. I have to take a long, deep breath, count to ten, and remind myself to stay calm because I definitely don’t want anyone to think I am being insensitive. Having your drink spiked is horrendous and it is obviously never someone’s own fault when it happens to them. I have friends who have been violated in this way during nights out in England. Unfortunately this happens all over the UK and, being the party capital of India, it also happens all over Goa. The state of Goa is the least conservative place in India; it doesn’t uphold the same values as the rest of the country. Because of this, and the expanding drink and drug culture that often causes problems there, I would feel unsafe walking by myself on the beach at night. Would I use this as a reason not to visit the whole of India? No, I wouldn’t. Hank has a distaste for our opinions that nearly matches his distaste for India. This results in an awkwardly abrupt exit after one beer. Goodbye Hank.
I don’t have the space to list all the reasons I love India, however there is one little phrase which may help explain my deep affection for this country. If you visit you will hear the phrase, ‘Shanti Shanti’ time and time again. In Sanskrit, Shanti means ‘Peace’. Following Hindu traditions, Yogis often chant it three times after meditation to represent peace in body, speech and mind. Locals also say it twice, often to express their nations state of being. Peace seems to manifest itself in many ways. It is there when you choose not to let dissatisfaction possess you, present when you discover twenty minutes means at least an hour in India time, and shines through when a local exclaims with overwhelming optimism , “Why not? Everything’s possible!”.
You will have noticed I have a biased opinion about India due to my trip having been such a success. I did not get scammed or spiked, I only got ill once, and dealing with the dirt became second nature to me. However, my love for India goes far beyond its ability to defy people’s negative expectations. My love stems from its people, their relaxed temperaments and the attitude they have towards life and it’s trials and tribulations. From the gentle hearted Swamiji I practiced meditation with, to the smiley chai vendors we visited in the streets, to the wonderful family who took me under their wing. India is full of inspirational people who will remind you to be thankful and accepting of your life everyday.
By Connor Newson
Here in the bay of Laemsak village, the fine seabed gradient slopes almost unnoticeably towards the open waters of the Andaman sea. As the moon pulls its metaphorical leash on the tide a shallow chasm appears, leaving a thick layer of mud to stretch across the expanding open space of the bay. Then, as the evening sun retreats behind the mountainous horizon, a palette of explosive orange shades form a thin yet marvellous mirror on the film of water left behind. Twice now I have spotted a small silhouette of a man, far out in the distance, gliding effortlessly atop the glassy surface. In the stillness and silence of his movements, a captivating narrative is painted right there in front of me. One in which the mysterious figure is the protagonist escaping to the tranquillity of his vast reflective canvas to dig for shells and shrimp. It is a story that is almost romantic in nature, his elegance awakening my curiosity. So evening, when I come into possession of a large plank of wood identical to the used by the silhouette, I decide to attempt my own version of his story.
In all it was about two metres in length and a lot heavier than one person could easily carry – much larger than I expected. It too k the three of us – Teo, myself, and a local boy called Nigh – to haul it fifty metres to the edge of the bay. The tide was a further two-hundred metres out, and we needed to be somewhere in between where the wood can skim easily across the surface. So we hoist the overweight surfboard above our shoulders and begin tiptoeing across the broken-shell shoreline until we reach a thin layer of wet mud. My feet slide momentarily before submerging slightly beneath, simultaneously allowing the waterlogged seabed to rise and squeeze through my toes. I cringe at the sludge as it consumes my feet, lifting each one in the hope that this would somehow relieve the slimy texture. However, after a minute of hopping from one foot to the other the gluey sensation begins to feel comfortable.
We march ahead towards the glimmering sunset, sinking deeper into the marsh as we advance. My steps become more difficult as the earth swallows my feet, and then my ankles. We drop the plank of wood that is now contributing to our gradual descent, and instead decide to pull it using the rope attached to the nose. It slides with ease. We push on, deeper still, and soon my white knees are peeking out of the concoction of green and brown sediment. I feel the vacuum sucking my right leg beneath as I attempt to pull it out – unsuccessfully. I point my toes and pull once more in the hope that it will ease my leg’s escape. It does, however I fall onto my hands from the excess force.
I look at my limbs that are now half caked in sludge before standing again. All of a sudden my right foot feels significantly lighter, so I lift it only to find it is now sockless. The earth has eaten my sock. It seems that nature is beginning to show its almightiness. I turn back and throw my arm elbow-deep into the hole that was left behind by my foot but feel nothing besides the squelching mud enshrouding my arm. It is lost. Nature wins this time. And as I step forward with my right foot it claims another point with the second sock as it too disappears into the depths. And then a third point is won as I fall face-first and undignified into the dirt.
Having successfully transformed into a muddy and faceless creature, I decide that the most logical course of action is to embrace the territory and my new form. I bury my hands deep and pull out a mass of thick black marsh, black as coal and as viscous as crude-oil. I lather it on every visible inch of my body, with Teo and Nigh following suit. Then we throw ourselves forward and begin crawling on our fronts like soldiers.
After fifteen arduous metres of attempting to swim through the sludge we stop for a break to catch our breath. I look over to Nigh who seems unaffected by the rigorous exercise, and seeing how he is now plunging his hands below the seabed to pluck out shells and shrimp confirms just that. Then Nigh’s face seems to express concentration, or maybe confusion as he feels below once more. With one swift movement, he retrieves his hand from below with a thick rope-like creature clutched in his hand. It falls limp and we stare for a moment before realising its slight movements as it slithers through Nigh grasp.
“Snake” he shouts.
He launches the snake a metre in front and we dive in the opposite direction, desperately hurling ourselves forward despite gravity making our attempts relatively futile. We stop after securing a bit of distance, but the thought of snakes and other unknown creatures lurking just below the sloppy surface makes me shiver. So I decide its time to attempt the mudboard. The three of us climb on, each with one knee resting on deck, two hands clutching the sides and the other foot digging into the dirt to push us forward.
Immediately the nose of the board digs down and thick gunge buries to wood. We are forced to get off and pull it to the surface, fighting against the vacuum that sucks from below. Once again we mount, and once again we sink. It seems that the weight of three people is too much. So Teo and Nigh climb off to rest, but I remain on top, determined to be that silhouette and glide across my squishy sanctuary. I reposition myself at the rear of the board to allow the tip to hover an inch above the seabed in order to avoid cutting into the mud and piling on extra weight. To my surprise this works. I am suddenly liberated from the powerful grip of marshland gravity – more so than two minutes previous to this anyway.
I fly forward, skimming over the bay, faster with every deep push of my right foot as I grip tightly onto the board’s edges. And there in the distance I see the same figure that I have seen twice before. Once again he glides elegantly, stopping occasionally to pluck a shell from the bay and put it in the bucket that rests on top of his board. I beat my foot down hard to catch up with him, feeling now the burning ache of my muscles as I travel another fifty metres on top of the two-hundred we had already crawled through. Finally I reach him, and watch as he moves swiftly past me. I try and keep up but fail miserably as the nose dips once more into the mud, halting my board and causing me to eat the dirt once more. I lay on my back exhausted and defeated, watching the silhouette in the burning mirrored sunset as he sails away.
Slowly, I return to Nigh and Teo. We are two-hundred metres away from where we began. Although out here it’s impossible to gauge any distance really, and moving anywhere takes enormous effort and time. It feels much further, and to return the same way would mean getting home after dark. I wasn’t prepared to stay out here that long with such creatures hidden beneath me. So instead we agree on an detour. Pulling ourselves an extra fifty metres to the sea and swimming around.
As we heave ourselves into the Andaman sea, I can’t help but feel my attempt at becoming that mysterious protagonist on the sunset-coloured seabed wasn’t quite as tranquil and effortless as my mind had made it out to be. And despite the quest being incredible messy and fun, I guess that this filthy paradise is best watched from afar, and left to the professionals to conquer.
By Connor Newson
Part of why Thailand attracts so much foreign tourism is down to its exotic and natural beauty. Beauty that in the last twenty years has helped boost its economy significantly. However, in many cases these inherently magnificent sights are overshadowed by the thousands of hostels, bars and other infrastructure that is needed to cater for such an industry. It is this sort of development that is constantly susceptible to overconsumption, to a point where the aesthetic romanticism of such landscapes are overwhelmed by relentless tourism that can bear heavily on the environment and its inhabitants. Places such as Koh Phi Phi, Phuket, and other crowded southern islands are an apt example of this. Still, not everywhere has been engulfed just yet. Laemsak, an isolated village in the south, is one of those.
I have been volunteering here for three weeks now, teaching English to the local community for a project that aims to bring community-based tourism to the locals in order to have a fair share of Thailand’s growing capital that hasn’t yet managed to reach them. An advantage of my role is being offered excursions to locations that not many other visitors have been before – free of charge! The catch? There are cameras following to capture the action and promote community-based tourism in the area. I can only assume that a show of my foreign genetics is a way of showing other tourists that this is a place worth seeing.
And so I have been torn between contributing to locals that want to gain economically from an established industry elsewhere, and the uncertainty that it may just expand hideously and tarnish the aesthetic of Thailand’s remaining beauty. My reluctance to deny the desires of my new friends who so desperately want to put themselves on the global map – and rightly so – causes me to agree to this latest adventure. In essence, today I am a guinea pig running the wheel that no other tourist has ran before. We embark on a new route, a trial run for future tourists, and what we are about to discover will be a surprise even to the locals and cameramen following.
After waking up at 6am and driving north for a while, myself and four colleagues (Teo, Sutima, Natalie and Jamie) arrive at a small pier on the river near Ban Lui. We climb onto a Longtail boat at 7am with a driver and a local cameraman. Five minutes down the river we stop at a floating fishing village where our cameraman jumps from our boat into a different one. The identical vessel is complete with a driver, two other crew members from the village, and three canoes squeezed on deck in which they sit. They come from three different villages, and so their coalition is based around this tour which would collectively provide money to all involved communities – community-based tourism. The drivers rev the huge engines, submerge the propellers, and speed away from the fishery down the widening river.
As subjects we were given no instructions, although I had already assumed the appropriate attitude for my role. Chill and enjoy as a tourist would – especially when it’s free. I lay comfortably on the nose of the boat as the sun begins to peak over the surrounding mountains. Its illuminating light gives life to the flourishing and tangled greenery that climbs up the mountains on either side of the river. We are the only boat on the river for kilometres, besides the camera boat that has been weaving from one side to the other to catch the best angle. Soon enough, even that becomes a ghost that blends in as a picturesque silhouette on the canvas of rural, untouched Thailand.
We continue around a curve until our boat slows at the sight of a few figures in the middle of the river. As we get closer I notice they are the shoulders and heads of local fishermen. Their bodies are submerged as their arms dig deep, only re-emerge again with shrimp, crab or other creatures clenched in their hands. Each catch is thrown into a basket that is wrapped around their torso. I look to my right and watch as a single bamboo seems to drift past. Upon closer inspection I notice the bamboo stilts on which it sits only a few inches above the water. Detached from the land and only accessible by boat, it is the only structure visible for the entire day after passing the fishery.
Soon we become enclosed on both sides by bicycle tyres that are strung together by sticks and rope anchored into the thick muddy riverbed. Some tyres are partially buried beneath, some hove above water level, all confuse me as to their purpose. Fortunately, Sutima – local to the area – is able to explain that these are Oyster farms. The tyres are immersed in water twice a day due to the rise and fall of the Andaman tide. Eggs released by oysters near the mountain float down the river and attach themselves to anything they can – including bicycle tyres. Here they are able to grow before being harvested by fishermen. The tyres run for hundreds of metres until we come to a small sandy island in the centre of the river.
We dock on the shore and jump off, unwittingly stepping onto an island inhabited by thousands of red crabs scuttling about. They move in their masses and split as we approach. Some of the younger crabs become stranded at the sudden sight of us alien visitors, so they rapidly dig in a downwards spiral to hide beneath the sand. Noticing this as an obvious sign of intrusion, we decided to board the Longtail once more and carry on down the river, leaving the cast of crabs in peace.
Eventually, we come to an opening of a sprawling mangrove forest. We had travelled 20 kilometres down the river, and finally it was time to use the canoes that had been squeezed into the identical boat at the floating fishing village. We both cut our engines and the crew lift the canoes into the water for us to clamber into. Teo and I share one, Natalie and Jamie climb into another, and the cameraman and his driver occupy a third as we set off into the undergrowth of the mangrove.
Now, with no spluttering engine to spoil the silent serenity, this really feels like a hidden paradise. Even more so than the seclusion we had been experiencing for the past couple of hours. The sun flickers through the leaves above and onto the spider-like roots of trees that stretch sporadically, from the suspended trunks into the riverbed below. We weave in and out of the maze, watching in awe as mudskippers ripple across the water’s surface. The tiny fish below our canoe distract us and we become stranded on the shallow waters. But the warmth of the river is inviting enough for me to get out and pull our canoe into slightly deeper water. After half an hour of breathing in the fresh sea air that emanates from up ahead, we reach our Longtail boat which had taken an alternative route.
Back on deck with the Andaman sea now in full view, we turn around head back towards the pier. Our promotional excursion was almost at an end – or so everybody thought. As I bask once again on the nose of the Longtail boat in the setting sun, reflecting on how gloriously exclusive the river has been, the engine suddenly cuts out. A serene silence blesses us once more. I look up at the cameraman who is now stood at the rear of the boat, staring intently a hundred metres to the side. I follow his eye line to the water and catch a glimpse of a what I initially think is a large fish momentarily surfacing. A couple of seconds later, just off to the right, it appears again. This time I see its pink head and shiny grey back elegantly rise and fall, and its heart shaped tail flick up before diving below once more.
This is no fish. What we are witnessing is an Indo-Pacific Humpback dolphin, more commonly known as a pink dolphin. In fact, we begin to notice a entire pod of about six pink dolphins working in harmony with a small fishing boat on the river rounding up their food. I was soon made aware as to why the driver and other locals seem just as surprised as us. These mammals are some of the rarest animals in the world, and it is a first sight for them as it is for us. We stay to watch them surface for air and spit water as they released air from their blow holes. I had never seen a dolphin before, and felt amazed that my first time is seeing them now, in the wild, in such an untouched part of Thailand. However, my amazement soon turns to concern as I am reminded of my purpose on this boat by the sound of a clicking camera behind me.
The cameraman is eagerly trying and catch the moment a foreign tourist watches as pink dolphins frolic about from the close proximity of his friend’s boat. This is a potential goldmine opportunity that he did not want to miss. And I was his guinea pig from which tourism would soon follow. After other areas have seen the influx of wealth flow in, it is understandable and justified for secluded communities such as this to want a piece of the moneycake. And to criticise this would make myself a huge hypocrite. However, after a day of being surrounded by genuine culture and raw nature, unscathed by the sprawling effects of tourism, my mind sits uneasily at the prospect of tourism completely consuming another beautiful part of the world.
As a tourist, it seems there is little escaping the chance of negative contribution. This is a concern that unfortunately comes simultaneously with exposing myself to cultural differences in order to understand diversity within the world, and wanting to help a community weigh in on the incoming capital. And so I feel it is important to draw attention to that. However, in light of wanting to enjoy the beauty and romanticism of the breath-taking landscape that surrounds me, I lay back down and relax. As our boat rocks gently on the water, my mind casts back to a fitting quotation by Scott Fitzgerald that I once read back in secondary school. “We beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past”. On one hand we are all entitled to benefit from tourism whether that is economically or culturally, yet at the same time we desperately desire to hold onto the exclusive serenity of beautiful and undisturbed places such as this that may one day become a memory. I can only hope that my input here will be put to healthy use and not overuse.
WORLD AWAY 