My Travel Adventures

I put a printout of my online visa in my passport before getting off the plane in Maputo; I had applied for it some two weeks ago and received it within a day. I was not sure then why the process went so smoothly, but I would soon find out why. Spotting my printout, the lady sorting people into queues asked me to stand by the side until she had sorted the rest of the passengers. When that was done, she pointed me to one of the glass cabins; I was not sure where to go, but glancing at my printout, I saw it was not a full visa but some kind of pre-approval receipt, so I went over to the pre-approved counter.

I have just about reached that age when some of my friends are getting married, and when the fingers on one hand no longer suffice to count the years many others have spent in committed relationships. Unfortunately for me, two among my closest friends decided to have their weddings during my year in Kenya, which spelled two long journeys across the Atlantic: first to Toronto, then to Philadelphia (with a quick personal detour to Washington DC), both within the space of a month. At the time I booked my tickets, I did not know I could ask for flexible working arrangements (one of the many secrets at my workplace), so I ended up making four journeys that each took almost twenty-four hours.

My trip to the Comoros began in Nairobi at 3:43 in the morning. Instead of waking up to my alarm, which was set to four o’clock, I woke up to the sound of a mosquito buzzing its disharmonious song right by my ear. Appropriately enough, I have been reading Anguille sous Roche by Comorian author Ali Zamir, who relates the story of three sisters: Ear, Hand, and Mosquito. If my shaky French serves me correctly, the story revolves around the three sisters buying a goat for a joint meal. Hand eats the goat by herself and frames Mosquito, and until the end of time she will not let Mosquito reveal the truth to Ear.  

I wondered, as I snickered in my aeroplane seat, whether I was the only person listening to the pilot’s announcements during our take-off from Paris. “Remember, when you are visiting friends in Africa,” went his routine, “that if you show up empty-handed, you will be compelled to offer up your personal belongings. Save yourself the embarrassment and select some presents from our in-flight magazine.” He followed with another bon mot a few moments later: “We would like to remind you that this is a non-smoking flight. If you smoke in the lavatory, the government will have you arrested for the rest of the weekend, which will ruin your trip.”

Today was so rainy that I only realised mid-afternoon that my sunglasses were useless. The surface had been destroyed by yesterday’s rain showers, which blurred the view by wearing down the polarised coating in uneven patches. Luckily, I found a big mall during my wanderings through the centre of Manila and bought new sunglasses there. Taking a gamble, I decided to pay for them in cash, as I am almost halfway through the trip and I have not spent anywhere close to half of the quantity I exchanged. Still, I do feel a bit nervous that I might run out of cash in the middle of nowhere at the most inconvenient time.

Only two weeks after my return from Indonesia, I am on the road again. I never planned to travel as far and as often as I am right now, but the circumstances have aligned to make it both possible and desirable. Firstly, Thailand is holding a holiday for yet another royal anniversary: this time, it is the Queen Mother’s birthday. Secondly, most of Southeast Asia is quickly heading into wet season, threatening to make travel more unpleasant in the coming months. Thus, it is imperative, as the Romans say, to carpere as many dies as possible.

With Sunday coming around, we had to begin our return to Geneva. For breakfast, we ate a few leftover pieces of bread and cheese, along with a few bananas and cashews we bought yesterday. Rather than waiting for the direct train to Bern, we caught a ride to Spiez, where we simply crossed the platform to make our connection.

Bonnie, Zach, and I spent the morning at Lough Eske, where Tom and Elva hosted a post-wedding brunch. Almost everyone beside us had stayed awake until at least three in the morning, a fact that one could readily ascertain from the haggard faces and hoarse voices. Because of Bonnie’s dislocated elbow and my antisocial habits, we left far earlier, and were thus probably the best rested of the group.

The more people travel together, the longer everything takes. Of the several items on my list, we only visited two today. Whether fortunately or unfortunately, however, my list has been shortened by many factors beyond my control. I had wanted to see Emanuel Vigeland’s Museum, but it is only open for four hours every Sunday and the tickets are booked far in advance. Unusually, the Royal Palace is also open for a few months, but all the tickets have been sold out too. To top it off, several other attractions, like the Nobel Peace Centre and the Viking Ship Museum, are temporarily closed (the latter until 2026).

After my return from Oxford, I only stayed at home for a day and a half. I spent much of that time unpacking all my things and repacking a fraction of them in a carry-on bag that I would take with me on my trip to Scandinavia. On Monday afternoon, I set off. Boarding the 13:15 plane from Prague, I arrived at to Stockholm Arlanda Airport shortly after 15:15. My plan was to board one of the many trains to Uppsala and spend the afternoon there.

There were a few things we did not get to see yesterday in Split due to our late arrival. After buying our breakfast from a local bakery, therefore, we made a visit to Saint Domnius Cathedral. A service had just ended there, and the lights were being turned off as we walked in, but at least we had a moment to enjoy the sacred space all by ourselves. An interesting feature of the exterior is that at the foot of the western gate stand two lions, one of them trampling a lamb. I am not quite sure what that is meant to evoke but it seems perverse.   

I do not know whether I was told this or simply made it up, but one of the best times to visit Cardiff is when the daffodils are in bloom. As the national flower of Wales, they grow everywhere from parks to castles and figure very prominently on all kinds of tourist knickknacks. I planned mine and Johnny’s trip precisely for this time. Since morning train tickets are cheapest on Saturdays (and that by a wide margin), our choice of date was set. It was also set well in advance, as tickets become more expensive the longer one waits. Of course, this meant that we were left at the whims of the weather, and as the day of the trip drew near, the forecast did not look particularly auspicious.