When we think of festivals, we often picture trampled city streets shot through with bright streamers. We hear the rumble of drums and the hooting crowd.
Listen up, aspiring photographers/photo journalists/anyone with a pulse.
Imagine for a moment that it’s 1969: Hendrix is shredding Star Spangled Banner at Woodstock; war rages in Vietnam; a counter-cultural revolution is taking place in the western world, and you’re part of it.
It’s a long uphill climb but smiles are back on innocent faces and time it seems has healed.
The beaming and curious smiles of the locals watch on as we load our bags into the back locker of our overland truck. The dirt road snakes its way onwards through gentle hills, punctuated by traditional thatched straw homes. Smoke from early morning cooking dots the horizon and mixes with the cool mist in the early morning sun. Another epic day on the road awaits.
With eight of the world’s 10 tallest mountains in its borders, it’s not a big surprise most travellers visit Nepal for the trekking. Flying into Kathmandu you’ll find dozens of adventurous looking groups about to set off into the snow-capped wilds of the Himalayas, usually carbo-loading on their second plate of momos.
In a city in where ramen enjoys cult-like status, Ivan Orkin’s achievements would be no mean feat for a Japanese chef – for a foreigner they’re unheard of.
Okay, I’ll admit it, I was nervous about using a Japanese onsen. I’m not a big nudist. In fact I think the best time to be nude is when you have a lot of clothes on, and maybe a coat.
Fluorescent lights hummed on the edge of hearing. I watched out of the corner of my eye as a thin bead of drool ran slowly down a sleeping woman’s chin.