Sure, you’d expect magnificent castles, cathedrals and grand squares – and yes, Prague has those in spades, and yes, they are magnificent. But what sticks with me after many visits through the years to the Czech capital, is the facades: the colours, the quirky ornaments, and centuries of history basically written on the walls along almost every street in Prague’s historic centre. It’s like the whole city is one big open-air gallery.

A city painted over centuries

Walking through Staré Město (Old Town), you’ll soon realise that Prague’s beauty is not about uniformity. No two buildings look alike. One facade glows in soft apricot, another in pale green, and next door, a cream-coloured front has centuries-old decorative plasterwork.

Cities are often built – or rebuilt – in a single architectural wave, but not Prague. This city evolved gently, over time. Gothic buildings were reshaped during the Renaissance, redecorated again in the Baroque era, and later refreshed with elegant Art Nouveau details. Which you know I love.

You’d think the result would be chaotic, but it is not. Instead, it’s all harmonious, like a visual conversation across generations.

If I look closely, I see sgraffito patterns scratched into plaster. On other walls, I see mythological figures above windows, and coats of arms hinting at long-forgotten families.

(Sgraffito? That’s a technique where you scratch the surface layer so you can see the layer underneath. Learnt that word myself just here in Prague. It’s fun to say. I like it.)

The quiet drama of Malá Strana

Across the river, Malá Strana feels softer, almost like a film set. Here, facades lean inward along winding streets. It’s as if they’re chatting. Gossiping about the residents, perhaps? Or about gawking tourists?

Before street numbers came along in 1770, the houses themselves served as signs: golden keys, red lions, painted suns. Standing there, I feel strangely aware of continuity, how merchants, travellers, and residents followed those same visual cues for centuries. Giving directions must have been a hoot. ‘When you reach the corner, turn right at the three violins, and look for the drunken duck.’ And can you imagine being a postal worker in this fairytale?

Prague’s Baroque facades look like they were designed to catch light, not just reflect it. In the morning, a façade looks painted in a gentle pastel, and in the evening, the sun turns the same building honey-gold.

Grandeur above the river

Up at Prague Castle, the monumental façades change colours with the weather.

Even structures built for power seem softened by time, with weathered rather than imposing surfaces. Still, I can’t look at this building without thinking about Prague’s long history of throwing people out windows, even here, from the castle.

Turning the other way, the city becomes a panorama of rooftops and facades stacked against the hills: pale walls, terracotta tiles, unexpected towers rising here and there, often between residential buildings. From this vantage point, Prague looks like a painting.

Further out, the Vltava (Moldau) River mirrors everything. Doubling everything. The facades look like they are floating.

Reading a city through its walls

The most fascinating bit, though, is how the facades of Prague act as biographies. Who needs history books? Wars, prosperity, neglect, restoration – you can read about it in the layers of plaster and stone.

In many European capitals, modernisation has all but erased most ordinary buildings, but not here. Prague has been spared large-scale destruction. Entire streets have been kept as they were, where everyday architecture lives alongside grand monuments. And that is what the UNESCO designation is about here: protecting not just the famous landmarks but this continuity of urban life.

As I wander around, I begin to notice small details: a faded fresco above a bakery here, a crooked centuries-old window frame there, a freshly restored facade standing next to one still gently worn.

Look up!

In Prague, I walk differently. Instead of rushing towards attractions, I constantly stop, with my head tilting upwards, looking at balconies, carvings, colours, details. A nice change from looking down at my phone. My neck thanks me for the balance.

But by ‘Facades of Prague’ I’m not really talking about architecture, though. Or at least, not only architecture.  It’s more about paying attention, the simple act of looking close enough to discover history hiding in plain sight.

When you go, slow down. Put the phone in your pocket. Choose a random street and follow the façades, wherever they may take you. In Prague, the walls speak. To hear them, all you have to do is look up.

Historic Centre of Prague is a UNESCO World Heritage site.
Here are more UNESCO World Heritage sites around the world.

Facades of Prague: history written in stone is a post from Sophie's World

One of the two beaches in Ancient Tulum

You can’t be in Tulum without exploring Zona Arqueológica.

Well, you can, I suppose. But I can’t.

The path to the Mayan ruins winds through scrub and low jungle until suddenly the ocean appears, and then… there they are: stone structures balanced dramatically on limestone cliffs above the sea, just as they have for centuries.

This was the only city the Maya built directly on the coast. The buildings face east towards the rising sun, and the Maya called it Zama – City of Dawn, reflecting their devotion to the sun and cosmic order. Sunrise here was not just a sight to behold; it was sacred, and their way of keeping time.

The name Tulum, meaning wall, came later.

Built ca 1200 CE, Tulum was also one of the last great Maya cities, a thriving place for nearly 300 years until the Spanish came along, wreaked havoc and shattered their world. In a sense, Tulum is a final chapter of independent Maya life – a bridge in time, you could say – between an ancient civilisation and the moment of European contact.

As I walk slowly between the ruins, I imagine traders arriving. Canoes would have approached directly from the sea below the cliffs, ready to exchange jade and obsidian, cotton, salt, honey and cocoa.

Painting on an info board at Zona Arqueológica

The most prominent structure here is El Castillo, a large, multi-purpose building, serving as a ceremonial temple and a symbol of authority, as well as a lighthouse. In my imagination, the paddlers are now arriving at night, guided by the fires and torches at El Castillo, so they could pass safely through a gap in the coral reef.

This little beach beneath the cliffs was a working harbour where trading canoes arrived loaded with goods from across Mesoamerica.

Daily Life in Ancient Tulum

Who were they, the folks living here in the City of Dawn, welcoming the traders?

It was probably not a massive general population. Most likely it was priests, nobles, traders, and skilled artisans who lived in wooden and thatched homes that sadly no longer exist. The stone buildings still standing were mostly administrative offices, or ceremonial and religious spaces.

Their lives would have revolved around maritime trade, astronomical observation, religious rituals and perhaps a bit of agriculture. The sea shaped everything: economy, spirituality, and not least, their worldview.

It feels different here in Tulum than inland at Chichén Itzá. The ruins feel more intimate here. They are not hidden deep in the interior, but face the ocean, watching it endlessly, with wind rushing through the ancient doorways.

Iguanas wander about, completely at home amongst the ancient walls, not caring one bit that I get up close.

Have I just stumbled upon a guardian from the past?

Sacred territory

Ancient Tulum feels mystical, partly because the location had deep cosmological meaning. This was a city of trade, an economic centre. But it was also a symbolic boundary, where land meets the sea. The edge between the known and unknown worlds. Landscape and belief were inseparable.

As I continue this walk through history, I have jungle around me, and panoramic views of ocean ahead. From the cliff edge, I watch waves roll endlessly below and think about how little this view has changed. I am standing where traders and priests once stood. They watched the same view, and saw the same horizon. Feeling the same wind on their face. Hearing the same rhythm of ocean against land. It feels like history has not quite finished here. Just set on pause.

Is time real or something we only perceive? A construct of the mind that we need to make sense of the world? This has been my favourite thought to play with, ever since I was a kid. Decades later, I still don’t have the answer, but it never stops being exciting to think about.

Meanwhile, this coati is just laying about amongst the ruins, looking cute. He is probably thinking about nothing at all.

Ancient Tulum is not a UNESCO-listed world heritage property, but it probably should be. Get on with that job, Mexico!

Ancient Tulum: A Maya city eternally facing the sunrise is a post from Sophie's World

Technicolour Tulum

Leen lives in Canada, Tessa in the USA, and I live in Norway, and when we planned our little reunion, we originally thought California. It was going to be at the end of October; apparently there’s loads of fun stuff going on in the Sunshine State at that time of year. And celebrating my Halloween birthday on board a spooky Queen Mary sounded like a cool experience.

But then, out of the blue, Tessa suggested Tulum!

Hm… I was in Yucatan once. Like, a million years ago. But not in Tulum. Time to do a bit of reading.

Pristine beaches, ancient Mayan ruins, bohemian-chic vibe, said the blogs and guidebooks. Once a quiet little fishing village on Mexico’s Riviera Maya, now a fave holiday spot. Boutique hotels, eco resorts and beachfront restaurants, all with a front-row seat to all the stunning stuff. Chic clubs where you can lounge around in a cabana. But… it has still managed to retain a laid-back kinda charm, I read. Want adventure, culture and relaxation? Then, Tulum is your 3-in-1 KinderEgg. Words to that effect.

This may be the place

It was an easy sell.

Here are a little something I scribbled the last morning in Tulum (but forgot to publish apparently), on the little beach outside our fab accoms, a perfect place for sitting on a swing and meditate in the early hours (thank you, jetlag!)

Tulum

I’m up before the sun. All I hear is the sound of waves lapping on the shore and palm trees rustling. It’s a gentle breeze, and the air smells faintly of salt, earth – and… is that pot? A nearby shop is rumoured to deal. Somewhere nearby, a motorbike hums to life before fading into the distance.

They feel timeless, mornings here, though strangely, the layers of time are more visible along this coast than almost anywhere else I’ve been.

The beaches: sun, sand, and serenity

We’re here for the legendary beaches, of course: soft sand along crystal-clear Caribbean waters, and a very relaxed vibe.

But you know me. However soft the sand and blue the ocean, hanging about a beach quickly bores me. So what else is on offer? I’m glad you asked.

Ancient Tulum

You can’t be in Tulum without visiting the last Mayan city, and the only one facing the Caribbean. These ruins above the ocean feel less like a distant relic and more like a place still chatting with the present.

I wander amongst the ruins of this once prosperous city, part trading port, part spiritual gateway, and entirely shaped by sun, sea and sky. El Castillo guided canoes safely through the reef. Temples with ancient carvings hint at their respect for nature; all about renewal and cosmic order. It makes sense!

And there’s cute wildlife.

Weirdly, Tulum feels more alive than the vast ancient cities in the interior, like Chichén Itzá and Teotihuacan. We’re closer to the elements here. The connection between past and present is more noticeable.

In fact, Ancient Tulum deserves a post of its own. Coming up, promise!

Valladolid: colour and calm

A few days later, we head to Chichén Itzá and a nearby fabled cenote – Ik Kil. We drive through villages slowly waking, past roadside stalls, stray dogs stretching awake under the pink light of morning. The jungle is thick and green on either side of the road.

On the way, we stop briefly in Valladolid.

Locals sit in shaded plazas, taking it easy. On a small square, families gather on benches and vendors sell fruit and sweet pastries nearby. Church bells echo softly in the background. Children chase pigeons. I try to stop them and they listen – for about 10 seconds.

Pastel façades glow pink, yellow, and turquoise under the early afternoon sun. It’s an elegant city, yet down-to-earth. Very different from the energy of the coast. Beach culture trends don’t seem to apply here.

And I’m reminded that the Yucatán is not only about beaches and ruins. It’s lived-in, layered, and, well… human, settled long before tourists showed up.

Chichén Itzá: a journey back in time

Where Tulum kinda whispers, Chichén Itzá has no qualms taking up space. It’s as if ancient Maya confidence shouts through the veil of time.

The El Castillo of Chichén Itzá rises from the earth with geometric precision; shadows fall exactly where ancient astronomers intended. It’s huge and commanding. I was here as a teenager, and remember climbing the steep steps. Can’t do that anymore. Ever since an 80-year-old tumbled down and died.

The heat builds quickly, and cicadas buzz loudly in the trees. A guide explains ancient rituals. I step away from the crowd, and… silence.

More about Chichén Itzá here.

Cenotes: gateways to the hidden realm

Cenotes are sinkholes created when bedrock collapses, revealing the water underground. The Maya believed these pools were portals to the underworld.

Cenote Ik Kil

A few kilometres from Chichén Itzá is Ik Kil. Walking down the stone steps toward the open pool, I glance upward at vines hanging from the circular opening above. Sunlight falls directly into the deep green water. People laugh and dive in. The splashes echo through the cavern, creating a strangely theatrical feel. Yet even with the noise, it’s stunning. There’s something undeniably magical here, and I understand why cenotes were sacred to the Maya.

Cenote Dos Ojos

After Ik Kil, we want more cenotes, so the next day we head to Dos Ojos – a completely different experience. Hidden in dense jungle, wooden walkways guide us to water clear as glass, and shadowy underground passages where vertical beams of sunlight falls from above.

Each cenote has its own personality: secret, sacred, mystical. More on these two (and a cenote in a bar!) here.

Ahau and the living spirit of Tulum

Yesterday evening, our last in Tulum, we walked along the beach road –

Mystery all round here

– heading to Ahau Tulum, a large wooden sculpture that rises from the sand. It’s often called Ven a la Luz and is symbolic of Tulum itself: humans and nature intertwined. People gather around it at sunrise and sunset, cameras in hand.

Ahau means sun king in Mayan tradition, reminding us this coastline was once sacred grounds aligned with the movements of the heavens. The sun, the sea, and the cycles of nature were more than just background scenery; they were central to existence.

Tulum still has a bit of a spiritual reputation, and stories go around of travellers who arrive for a weekend and end up staying for months, or unexpected life changes sparked during a visit. Many believe the energy of the land encourages transformation. Myth or mindset? You tell me.

Cancún then and now

Travelling in the Yucatán this time reminds me of visiting Cancún in the 1980s, when development was new and it felt almost experimental: wide beaches, open horizons, just a few new hotels rising from the sand, tourism in its infancy, possibility everywhere. It was bright, hopeful, and surprisingly quiet.

Now in 2019, Cancún is transformed. Energetic, towering resorts, busy nightlife, polished infrastructure, a tourist destination fully realised.

Tulum seems like a different chapter altogether. And perhaps that’s why it feels compelling now, somewhere between past and future – quieter, searching for balance between growth and preservation, still holding onto its mystique.

Tulum bonus

On beaches in Tulum, you’ll see little enclosures:

Cuidado, nido de tortuga. Careful, turtle nest.

Every year, between June and October, 2 species of sea turtles, loggerheads and white turtle, come up on the beach to lay their eggs. And just like in Trinidad, after many years and travelling thousands of kilometres, the ones who survive, return to where they were born to repeat the process. We were too late in the year to see them.

PS Our fab accoms in Tulum was Piedra Escondida – hereby recommended. And no, nothing sponsored. Recs on me.

Tulum and beyond: experiences, places, moments is a post from Sophie's World

Growing up in Norway, we tend to take the extraordinary beauty of our country for granted. Mountains, forests, fjords, waterfalls – they’re all a part of the background of daily life. Something you pass on family road trips, and see through a ferry window. As children, we assume everywhere is like this.

It’s first after travelling abroad, or seeing friends from other countries experience it on their first visit here, we understand how unique this landscape is.

A landscape shaped by time itself

The story of our fjords began thousands of years ago during the Ice Age. Over the millennia, huge glaciers carved deep U-shaped valleys through solid rock, and left behind waterways that go inland from the ocean, sometimes as far as 200 km in. When the ice melted, seawater filled these valleys, and the fjords we see today were formed.

Go west!

I live in Eastern Norway, 40km west of Oslo. My city has its own fjord, and right now, as I’m writing this on my balcony, I see it whenever I look up from the screen. But the real knockouts are along the country’s jagged western coast.

So let’s go west. To fjord country!

Driving to Western Norway, it feels like I am going through a gallery of nature’s very own artwork. I go through forests and wide valleys, then cross a mountain pass. There are several passes to choose from – all impressive. Highway 52 goes through Hemsedal Valley. Best known (internationally, at least) as a winter sports mecca, Hemsedal is gorgeous in all seasons.

Hemsedal Valley in September

Out west, the fjords are not just scenery, they are orientation points. Directions are based on them; journeys are planned around them. Distances aren’t measured in kilometres, but in ferry crossings.

We grow up understanding that roads curve because the mountains allow it. Ferries exist because water comes first. Weather changes plans, and nobody gives that a second thought. The landscape sets the pace.

They don’t reveal themselves all at once, the fjords. They appear gradually, with a new surprise around every turn. The road winds endlessly around the mountain and through tunnels carved through it. Sometimes the road is so narrow, I drive slowly, in case I run into some over-confident new driver who thinks speed limits are optional. They are everywhere, aren’t they…

A debate has been going on for years, ever since I worked for the Public Roads Administration, about raising the driving licence age from 18 to 20 (some have even suggested 23) for boys, as they are heavily overrepresented in accident statistics. Controversial, as you can imagine.

World Heritage landscape

Geirangerfjord and Nærøyfjord are on UNESCO’s list of sites important to preserve for generations to come. To us locals they are familiar memories of school trips, summer drives, packed lunches at viewpoints, sometimes in the rain.

Arriving at Geirangerfjord is thrilling. We’re coming from Åndalsnes, and drive down Ørnevegen (Eagle Road), with 11 hairpin bends. Dramatic! If you’re in the habit of snapping photos while driving (occasionally guilty of that myself), don’t be tempted here, even if the views are out of this world. Just don’t!

As the snow melts in spring/summer, hundreds of waterfalls pour into the fjords. Some fall gently like silver ribbons across the green. Others thunder down vertical rock faces with full force. Exciting to watch! And hear!

These are scans of prints I snapped in June 2000:

Spot the cruise ships? 

Nærøyfjord feels more intimate and a bit wilder. The water looks darker, and the silence is more profound. One of the narrowest fjords in the world, it squeezes between mountains that feel close enough to touch. There are tourists here, but not as many as in Geiranger, and no big cruise ships.

The surrounding villages offer glimpses into traditional fjord life, with grass-roofed buildings and quiet docks. Winding roads connect isolated communities that could only be reached by boat back in the day.

Everyday fjords

Some fjords feel quieter, closer to daily life, surrounded by small communities. Here, the fjord most of all represents livelihood.

Eidfjord feels relaxed and welcoming. There is tourism here, but local rhythm is the major player. There’s something grounding about it: a stillness. It feels like everyday life here moves at a slower pace. And I reckon it really does.

Eidfjord. Population: 571

Further inland, Lustrafjord stretches toward tall peaks and glaciers. The air is cool and clear, and the landscape feels calm and isolated. From here, you can see Jostedalsbreen, the largest glacier in mainland Europe.

I snapped this photo of Lustrafjorden from the doorstep of Urnes Church –

– the oldest of Norway’s stave churches, built in 1130.

Hardangerfjord and Sognefjord

The Queen of Fjords, Hardangerfjord, is surrounded by fertile terrain, thanks to generations of farmers.

Early morning in Øystese by Hardangerfjorden

Hardanger is apple growing country. I’ve driven along this fjord many times (on those crazy narrow roads curling around the mountain), but somehow I’ve missed apple blossom season.

It is sometime in May and/or June, depending on when spring decides to show up, and the season is short, so it’s not easy to plan. This is from my last attempt.

But as it turns out, I have a bit of extra time and opportunity to be spontaneous in the coming months, so I might give it another go. Look out for fruit trees in bloom along Hardangerfjorden on my Insta.

And then comes the almost overwhelming presence that is Sognefjord. This is the longest, largest and deepest fjord in Norway, reaching 205km inland, or 226km if you include Lake Sognesjøen at the end. As I drive along it, I keep losing track of distance and begin to understand why the scale is measured in hours.

They go by, those hours, and I’m still driving. The water continues, the mountains seem to go on forever. Sognefjorden doesn’t feel like one single place, but a world of its own. This vastness feels oddly comforting and steady, like something that has always been.

Sognefjorden, by Kaupanger

Standing at the edge of this fjord, well, any fjord, but Sognefjord in particular, you feel the immense scale of geological time: mountains shaped over millennia, water reflecting endless skies.

Sometimes it’s all wrapped in mist. Other times the water is perfectly still, mirroring the mountains so vividly it feels like I am looking into another world.

A quieter branch of this is Sogndalsfjord, where the landscape feels closely connected to everyday life, with small towns, farms, and student life in Sogndal, with a whopping 12,000 inhabitants, a veritable metropolis. A lived-in, modern atmosphere.

Following the sound of water

Whilst fjords define geography in Western Norway, waterfalls define movement and energy. Water is everywhere.

Waterfalls appear constantly. Some are hidden high on mountain walls, visible only as thin lines against dark rock. Others thunder beside the road; some even cross the road. Expect a good soaking. Kids love it.

The sound changes depending on where you stand. Up close, waterfalls roar. From a distance, they become a steady, meditative background flow.

Visitors often stop at every waterfall. Locals know that would make any journey impossible.

Still, some waterfalls make us pause.

Vøringsfoss, along the Oslo – Bergen road across Hardangervidda, is one of those places. As we approach the viewing platforms, I first hear the sound: a constant, powerful rumble echoing through the canyon. The water doesn’t just fall; it disappears into space. Many of us remember seeing it as kids, leaning out just a little bit too far, with parents hovering, ready to grab us at a second’s notice. Not much in the way of railings back then.

In the village of Norheimsund by Hardangerfjord is Steinsdalsfoss, almost playful in comparison. Walking behind the curtain of water is surreal – like stepping into a parallel dimension. Everything is mist. And sound.

Wish I had taken a photo from behind the veil. But… yet another reason to return.

And then there’s Låtefoss, a twin waterfall appearing suddenly along the road, like a landmark announcing I have entered fjord country for sure. I have driven past countless times, yet it never becomes ordinary. And yes, I stop every time, trying to get a photo that does it justice.

Can you guess what the word FOSS means?

Moving through living landscapes

They weren’t exactly designed for comfort or convenience, these landscapes, yet people have found ways to live in them for centuries. Small villages cling to narrow strips of land between rock and sea. Family farms have survived for generations in the hidden valleys.

Life here has always required resilience. Steep terrain limits farming space, but where there’s a will, there’s a way, and thus entered terrace farming and seasonal mountain pastures.

There’s a popular TV-series here, called Der ingen skulle tru at nokon kunne bu, which roughly translates as Where no one would think anyone could live. (The phrase comes from an old folk song; slightly awkward in English, but makes perfect sense in Norwegian.) It’s about people who live close to nature, often in old family homes at the top of impossibly steep gravel paths, constantly negotiating life with the elements.

This house was not the work of a local builder, but of Austrian-British philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein, who came to Skjolden at the far end of Sognefjord, in search of solitude.

Today, visitors meet a balance between tradition and sustainability. Electric ferries glide silently through the water, and communities work actively to protect the fragile environment that sustains them.

There’s no such thing as bad weather

Norway reveals itself fully in changing weather. We learn early that nature is not something to control – it is something to accept, and even embrace. Rough weather doesn’t take away from the experience; it adds to it. Rain strengthens waterfalls. Fog softens mountain edges. Low clouds moving through a fjord creates a mood that sunshine can’t match.

Perhaps the most remarkable feature is the light. Shadows and reflections shift as the clouds move quickly across the mountain. The same view changes, and looks different minute by minute.

Each season has a different personality:

• Spring: roaring waterfalls powered by snow-melting
• Summer: lush green valleys and long, white nights
• Autumn: mountainsides in gold, red, and amber
• Winter: fjords transformed into quiet, snow-covered worlds

Waterproofs are not accessories; they are cultural identity. One of the best-known sayings sums it up: Det finnes ikke dårlig vær, bare dårlige klær – there’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes. It rhymes in Norwegian.

The landscape shapes us

The fjord landscape has shaped Norwegian culture in many ways. Living amongst mountains meant communities grew independent, while the sea encouraged connection and cooperation. Patience became a necessary part of life because travel has always taken time.

Even today, many Norwegians talk about the sense of calm they feel when they return after being away in other countries. The steep mountains, the steady water, and nature’s constant presence create a kind of grounding that is hard to put into words, but easy to feel.

But… we never actually take it for granted

We may grow up surrounded by fjords and waterfalls, but we never really stop noticing them. The way evening light falls, fresh snow on the peaks, or mist suddenly drifting across the water can still make us slow down.

As kids, my brother and I would sigh impatiently whenever mum stopped her little black-and-cream Hillman Minx, to make us look at the views. In the backseat, it was all ‘yeah yeah, how much further?’ Reading comic books won over views every time.

As a grown-up, I finally understood.

West Norwegian Fjords – Geirangerfjord and Nærøyfjord is a UNESCO World Heritage site.
Here are more UNESCO World Heritage sites around the world.

Fjords and waterfalls in Norway is a post from Sophie's World

It has been a few years since I visited, and I’ve been meaning to write a little something about Madison ever since. Better late than never, right?

A little intro

Back in my college days at the University of Oklahoma, I met a lovely American family: Professor Ed Klehr, his wife Judy and their six daughters, including Tina and Mary, whom I had first met at an exchange student camp a few years earlier.

The Klehrs had a Sunday tradition: an early morning bike ride, followed by breakfast and long conversations around their large kitchen table. Anyone was welcome to join. Some faces returned week after week, others appeared just once. It was an easy place to meet new people.

Biking was not your average Sunday morning activity in the Sooner State back then. It was very much a drive-my-car and go-to-church kind of place, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it still is.

In fact, the Klehrs were unusual in other ways, too. They rarely used a car, but walked or biked. Their Christmas tree held real candles – with actual flames – something that would have terrified many, if not most, Americans. They didn’t use air conditioning, and were environmentally conscious long before it became mainstream.

They weren’t originally Okies, this family. They were from Madison.

Which, in hindsight, explains quite a lot.

Year-round biking in Madison; can’t let the weather stop you. Feels like home.

A few years later, they moved back north. I had been meaning to visit, but somehow life kept intervening. Truth be told, I hadn’t spent much time in the USA at all after college. There were simply too many other places in the world calling for attention. So much of the world to explore.

But eventually, one late autumn day in 2019, I landed at Dane County Regional Airport. Here are a few notes I scribbled then.

Cheese wins the day in the airport gift shop:

Yup, I’m definitely in Wisconsin

Madison: first impressions

Madison immediately feels like a cosy, vibrant, liberal college town – liberal in the American sense, that is. In European countries, the term liberal most often refers to economic liberalism and leans politically right. In the USA, it usually signals social liberalism and progressive attitudes.

OK, Tina. Show me your city!

It is October, and the weather can’t seem to decide which season it wants to be. Autumn? Winter? A bit of both?

Autumn foliage and snow. Which is it, Wisconsin?

Wisconsin State Capitol

We begin at the State Capitol, the architectural centrepiece – and masterpiece – of Madison.

The Capitol is at the very heart of the city, and everything seems oriented around it. Built of white granite, with a massive dome on top, it dominates the skyline without feeling too imposing.

Inside, it is also quite impressive. Marble columns rise toward painted ceilings, intricate mosaics glow under soft lights, and murals tell stories of the state’s heritage and craftsmanship.

It feels both grand and accessible – a public building that genuinely belongs to the people.

The posters mention Trump and BadgerCare – definitely a political buzz in the air here, at both national and local levels.

“Let’s check out the observation deck,” Tina suggests. “Best views in town.”

She is not exaggerating.

From the top, Madison suddenly makes sense. The city sits on a narrow isthmus between two lakes, Mendota and Monona, with water stretching out on both sides of downtown. Bike paths trace the shoreline; neighbourhoods fold out in neat patterns. In the distance, along the western skyline, is the university campus.

“Let’s head that way,” I say, gesturing ahead. There’s just something about universities, isn’t there? The energy in the air, the curiosity and the sense of possibility.

Sadly, I’m not in Madison over a weekend. Every Saturday, the Capitol Square hosts a farmers’ market that transforms the area into a celebration of local life: music, conversation, flowers, fresh produce, baked goods, and cheese of course. Enormous quantities of Wisconsin cheese.

Next time.

State Street

Instead, we wander down State Street, the pedestrian-friendly avenue connecting downtown with the university campus.

If the Capitol is Madison’s heart, State Street is its personality. It feels like it’s made for strolling, this street. Independent bookstores, vintage clothing shops and record stores that seems to thrive. Charming! Art supply shops, quirky gift stores, and boutiques filled with locally made goods line the sidewalks. Quite a few of them proudly celebrate Wisconsin’s favourite dairy product.

$8.25 – Norwegian goat cheese at Norwegian prices.

The scent constantly changes: fresh pastries from a bakery, then coffee, then pizza from one of the counters that stays open late. A bubble tea shop humming with students coming and going. Cafés spill out on the sidewalks. Tables are filled with laptops, notebooks and study sessions that somehow that looks both serious and relaxed. Quite the feat.

Street musicians play on corners, performers draw small crowds, and the whole street feels lived-in. Authentic and real, not designed for tourists.

University of Wisconsin at Madison

Like many great college towns, Madison’s identity is inseparable from its campus. Students, professors, locals, visitors – we’re all sharing the same spaces. I like that in a city. It creates an open and inclusive atmosphere.

We walk along tree-lined paths toward Memorial Union Terrace, one of Madison’s favourite hangouts. It’s quiet on this rainy/snowy autumn/winter day, so I snap a photo of a picture on the wall here, showing livelier times along Lake Mendota on warmer days.

Sunset here, I hear, is not merely an attraction; it is a ritual.

Somewhere along the wanderings, I come to realise I no longer feel like a visitor. Madison has that effect. You slip into everyday life almost without noticing. I kinda feel at home here. You can’t say that about every city

Madison, Wisconsin – better late than never is a post from Sophie's World

It doesn’t shout about its quirks, this little city. It hides them underground, on side streets, and in unexpected buildings, as if daring visitors to discover them. Over the course of one happily strange day, I visited two museums and a place to sleep that absolutely counts as sightseeing.

Here we go: three places that will convince you Reykjavik is one of Europe’s most wonderfully eccentric cities.

1. The Icelandic Punk Museum: creativity in unexpected spaces

Ambling along Bankastræti, one of Reykjavik’s shopping streets, I suddenly spot a sign saying Pönksafn Islands, above what looks to be the stairway down to a public loo. Now, I know Safn means collection. And pönk, well, that’s self-evident.

This must be investigated. I descend the seedy stone steps, with a mix of apprehension and curiosity.

And wow! If punk rock has a spiritual home in Reykjavik, it would absolutely be underground inside a former public loo. This little museum embraces its setting with some serious commitment. It’s tiny, chaotic, and oddly charming, and I am reminded that Iceland was not always all about ancient sagas and spa culture. Sometimes it was teenagers, loud guitars, and satisfying defiance.

Recognise this girl?

Downstairs, I wander through the old toilet stalls, now filled with vinyl records, battered instruments, photographs, handwritten lyrics, faded newspaper clippings, and gig posters above urinals.

The graffiti radiates the rebellious energy of Iceland’s late-1970s music scene. I listen to scratchy punk tracks through headphones, just like we did in HMV or Virgin in the old days. I feel like I have stepped into Reykjavik’s teenage diary. Or perhaps my own.

This little place has captured a time when Icelandic youth traded calm for mischief, and frozen it in time. It’s strange, funny, and full of character. A peak Reykjavik experience!

2. The Phallological Museum

This one you might have heard about: the Penis Museum. You might even have wondered if it really exists.

Well, it does!

Reykjavik’s most famous museum is dedicated solely to phalluses, penises and male bits, more than 300 of them, from a tiny bat penis to a humongous sperm whale one, and there is even a human one. Preserved in formaldehyde or dried, catalogued, and presented with the seriousness of a national archive, which somehow makes the entire experience even funnier.

As I enter, I promise myself I will approach the experience with maturity and intellectual interest. That lasts approximately twelve seconds. Expect equal parts curiosity, awkward laughter, and genuine fascination.

You would think this would be a novelty attraction, but instead this little museum gives an informative look at biology, folklore and a healthy dose of Icelandic deadpan humour.

Left to right: elephant, polar bear, sperm whale, and killer whale

The museum manages the impossible: being scientific, slightly surreal and oddly wholesome. Scientific seriousness is nicely balanced with quiet absurdity.

I leave, knowing far more marine mammal anatomy than I ever planned to. It is that rare attraction where you arrive giggling and leave surprisingly educated. And actually, that’s a pretty good museum outcome.

3. Galaxy Pod: sleeping like an astronaut

After all these, erm… unconventional experiences, I feel I have chosen just the right accommodations, equally unconventional. Galaxy Pod looks less like a hostel and more like mission control for an interplanetary expedition. Think glowing lights, private cocoons, and futuristic minimalism.

The reception area looks deceptively normal(ish)…

… so do the hallways.

But then…

…rows of futuristic sleeping pods glow softly in the dark, each one a private sci-fi capsule.

Climbing into one feels slightly ridiculous at first. For a few seconds, I’m wondering if I have inadvertently volunteered to be cryogenically frozen or something. But once inside, it is cosy, comfortable, and delightfully strange. Seems Reykjavik believes sleep should be an experience, not just a necessity.

I pull down the shade, and immediately cease to be a tourist. I’m now an astronaut prepping for launch. On a budget.

Reykjavik’s delightfully weird side: 2 cultural curiosities and a space-adjacent sleep is a post from Sophie's World

On an early January day, I trade the northern winter for southern summer. I’m expecting mornings with gourds of yerba mate, long conversations in cafes in the afternoon, and dinners that’s meant to begin at 10pm, but doesn’t really get started until midnight, music drifting from open windows and couples moving together in a sultry tango on a cobbled street in San Telmo.

Well, Buenos Aires certainly has all that. But what stays with me the most isn’t the rhythm of the city; it’s the silence. A heavy, deliberate silence that lives at Plaza de Mayo.

The square where mothers walk

In the heart of Buenos Aires is a historic public square surrounded by government buildings and colonial architecture. At first glance, this looks like any grand civic square. Tourists snap photos of the pink presidential palace, office workers hurry across the cobblestones, flocks of pigeons scatter, then regroup. The ordinary choreography of a capital city unfolds as expected.

Then I see them, painted onto the stones beneath my feet: White headscarves. Pañuelitos blancos.

Simple outlines, repeated again and again across the ground. They are easy to miss, until suddenly they’re impossible to ignore. Each one marks a woman who stood here, wearing a white headscarf, embroidered with the name of her child, waiting for an answer the government would not give.

I look around, and notice the white headscarf set into mosaic slabs, as well. These symbols belong to the Mothers of Plaza de Mayo, a group of ordinary Argentine women who transformed grief into political resistance during one of the darkest periods in the country’s history. These women challenged a brutal dictatorship, armed with nothing but photos, persistence, and motherly love.

Originally made from cloth diapers, these scarves turned motherhood itself into an act of protest. They became, and still remain, permanent reminders of absence and resistance.

Argentina’s dirty war: the vanished young

In 1976, Argentina fell under a military dictatorship after a coup led by General Jorge Rafael Videla. The regime launched what became known as the Dirty War. The aim was to eliminate political opposition.

An estimated 30.000 people were kidnapped, many of them teenagers who had simply asked questions too loudly, taken from their homes or schools, or from the bus. Students were taken from universities, journalists from newsrooms. Artists, activists, and ordinary citizens were abducted from their workplaces, then brought to secret detention centres, without explanation. Some gave birth while in detention; their children were stolen from them and illegally adopted. They all became known as los desaparecidos, the disappeared.

Families searched desperately for answers. They looked high and low, in police stations, in hospitals, and in government offices. But officials denied everything. Records vanished. Names vanished. People vanished. There were no trials, and no bodies.

In those days, fear ruled Argentina; it shaped people’s daily life. Speaking out meant you could very well become the next victim. The next desaparecido. Silence became survival.

Except for a small group of mothers who refused to accept not knowing. They refused to stay silent.

The Mothers of Plaza de Mayo: how it began

On 30 April 1977, fourteen women gathered here at Plaza de Mayo. They did not shout slogans, these women. They simply asked a question:

WHERE IS MY CHILD?

Names of the desaparecidos are recited

Since gathering in groups was illegal, the women, most of them housewives, began walking around the square instead, circling, remembering, insisting that the disappeared are not forgotten.

The dictatorship tried intimidation, arrests, and even murder. Several founding members themselves disappeared. Yet every Thursday at 15.30, week after week, month after month, they continued marching, these mothers. The movement became a ritual of resistance.

Some of the women still wear the white headscarves.

It’s Thursday, a little before 15.30. I am here on Plaza de Mayo, waiting for the Mothers. And they will come, I’m assured, just like they have every week since that April day in 1977.

I amble about the square, looking at photos and memories. A couple is laughing on a bench. Two toddlers are chasing pigeons. A protest banner flutters in the distance.

Then I hear chanting. The march has begun. It is as if I have time travelled to 1977. I picture the original 14 women, holding up photographs of their missing children, scanning the crowd for faces they will never see again. The enormity of their grief feels strangely intimate, even now.

Today, the Mothers are joined by a large group of relatives and supporters.

The movement that changed the world

The Mothers of Plaza de Mayo achieved something extraordinary: they broke the regime’s carefully constructed silence. They played a key role in bringing human rights to global attention, long before social media amplified activism.

Instead of armed rebellion, they used visibility, speaking to foreign journalists and shaming the dictatorship internationally. They reframed political repression as a human story: mothers searching for their children.

As international scrutiny intensified, Argentina’s military regime came under increasing strain. By the early 1980s, a failing economy and rising public anger had eroded its power, leading to its collapse. Democratic rule was restored in 1983.

Legacy, divisions, and ongoing activism

With the return of democracy, the movement took on a new direction. Some members concentrated on pursuing justice through the courts, working to identify victims’ remains and hold those responsible accountable. Others expanded their efforts into broader forms of political activism.

The Mothers never carried weapons, held political office, or commanded armies. They simply walked and asked questions. They refused to forget, and in doing so, they reshaped Argentina’s conscience and inspired generations across the world.

Their influence can be seen in trust and reconciliation efforts worldwide, international human rights law, and in women-led protest movements on grassroots level.

Nearly 50 years after they began, the Mothers remain active and resolute, even though questions about the fate of their missing children remain unresolved.

Plaza de Mayo is no longer just a historic square. It’s a living memorial to courage and resilience, of ordinary people confronting extraordinary injustice. Every Thursday, history and everyday life live side by side here on the square.

Thoughts on souvenirs

When you think of souvenirs, you likely think of an item. Something to take home. Or at least, I do. But Plaza de Mayo left me with a different kind of souvenir, a question: What does courage actually look like?

It is not necessarily dramatic heroism, courage. Here at Plaza de Mayo, it is something quieter: repetition. Showing up again and again, even when answers never come. Refusing silence, even in the face of overwhelming fear. I am in awe of these women, and hope I could summon the same strength, if needed.

PS I visited Plaza de Mayo in January 2024. Now, in the spring of 2026, on the 50th anniversary of the military coup, the Mothers are facing troubles yet again. Argentina’s current right-wing government is downplaying the horrors of the dictatorship and has stopped state funding to the Mothers’ organisation.

The Mothers of Plaza de Mayo: Argentina’s quiet, courageous revolution is a post from Sophie's World

Perhaps it’s the why. The reason we are here. A brief stop, or two rather, on the way to Fujian, to see the place where Cat was born. More about that here on the blog when we’re ready. For now: Shanghai, our entry and exit point into the country.

There are cities that impress you, and then there are cities that rearrange your sense of what’s possible. Shanghai does both, often along a single street.

We arrive in the early evening after a long flight, check into our lodgings near Zhongshan Park, and begin with a stroll through an indoor market nearby. That’s about all we have time for, as Cat becomes unwell. Could be a sudden stomach flu, could be food poisoning. She is more of a culinary explorer than I am.

Was it those tiny sausages?

Meanwhile, I run around Shanghai, looking for a late-night pharmacy.

Buildings glow in neon blues and purples, reflecting off the Huangpu River in a way that makes the entire city feel a bit electric.

As I walk through the rain, I wonder if we’ll get to Changting tomorrow. It’s a pretty strenuous trip if you’re unwell. First a flight to Xiamen, then finding the train station, and take a 2.5-hour train journey. But she is nothing if not determined, this kid of mine. She presses on.

As for Shanghai, we’ll get a better look on the way back.

Coming back to Shanghai

I have always imagined this city defined by its skyline, the kind you see in photos, all glass and light and ambition. And yes, that version exists.

Arriving back in Shanghai feels like stepping into a living contradiction. Glass towers pierce the sky unapologetically, and just a few blocks away, narrow alleys hum with the quiet rhythms of everyday life. Time hasn’t moved in a straight line in this city. It loops, overlaps, and occasionally collides.

It’s late morning, and we start the day on the Bund. Across the Huangpu is the famous skyline. The Oriental Pearl rises into the sky, clear in the bright daylight. A statement, almost. Further along, Shanghai Tower twists upward, impossibly tall, looking kinda misplaced, as if it doesn’t quite belong to the same scale as everything else.

Barges move slowly along the river. Buddhist monks and other mere mortals gather along the railing.

Surprisingly, I don’t see many tourists. Then again, the sheer scale might just give that impression.

Continuing along the Bund, we pass a statue of Shanghai’s first mayor, Chen Yi, in a Mao suit. Then, a monument with engraved words: prosperity, civility, harmony, rule of law, friendship, freedom – core socialist values. A nationwide messaging campaign, blending into the environment, rather than on huge, ugly billboards. Clever marketing.

On the other side of the street, historic architecture whispers stories of another era; one shaped by trade and colonial influence: a bit American, some French, but mostly British.

Nanjing Road

Just around the corner is Nanjing Road, one of the world’s busiest shopping streets, I hear. Well, not today. Or, at least, it doesn’t feel anything like Oxford Street. Plenty of space to wander and browse in this quirky mix of old-world charm, commerce and energy. Bright shopfronts, voices, movement in every direction. It’s rather enjoyable, like being part of something constantly in motion.

The Fairmont Peace Hotel is one of the most iconic buildings in Shanghai –

– instantly recognisable by the green pyramid copper roof. Art Deco grandeur at its finest.

Back in the 1920s, it began life as the Cathay Hotel, the most glamorous address in Shanghai’s Golden Age. Celebrities, financiers, politicos from around the world… they all stayed here when visiting Paris of the East.

Onward to Yuyuan Garden

We don’t have a particular destination in mind today; we just walk, following the flow, through Gucheng Park and into quieter streets where the air smells like someone is cooking lunch just out of sight.

Shanghai’s magic lies in contrasts. It’s in the way a century-old teahouse sits beside a minimalist coffee shop. It’s in the sound of mahjong tiles clacking in a quiet courtyard while traffic rushes by beyond the walls. It’s in the blend of languages and cultures that somehow coexist without losing their individuality.

By late afternoon, we wind up at Yuyuan Garden, carried by a steady flow of people. Along the narrow paths, people move in slow waves, camera phones lifted, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing over stone. We cross curved bridges across koi-filled ponds, alive with movement.

This area is vibrant and a bit chaotic today. And yet, every so often, a small pause: a reflection in the water, a glimpse of carved wood, a corner where the noise softens ever so slightly. Even on this busy day, you can find brief moments of calm.

What makes this city unforgettable is its momentum. This is a place constantly becoming something new, without ever fully letting go of what it was. It is as if I have received an invitation to witness that transformation, and perhaps even be a part of it.

By the time we leave, I realise something has shifted. Shanghai has shown me how to pay attention to the in-between moments, to be okay with not fully understanding everything.

I thought I was just visiting Shanghai. Just stopping by. But somehow, it feels like Shanghai met me halfway.

Swiftly into Shanghai is a post from Sophie's World

First impressions

We have ended up in Côte d’Ivoire to leave. Well, sort of. This is where the cheapest homeward flights depart from, so this is where we wrap up this West African journey.

I will have to return to Côte d’Ivoire for a closer look later. But for now, since we are here, we want to experience at least a little bit. And since it is the end of the trip, preferably something not too strenuous, especially since I have been out of sorts, coughing and sneezing and freezing (in 40°!) for almost a week.

Arriving at Félix-Houphouët-Boigny International Airport (what a tongue-twister) late in the afternoon, I’m happy to find a well-stocked pharmacy at arrivals, and I come out with cold meds, good advice, and feeling cared for. And with new glasses, since I forgot the old ones on board. Again!

Traffic in Africa

We decide to skip sightseeing in Abidjan, and set off directly for Assinie.

I’ve been pleasantly surprised about traffic this time in Africa. Cotonou gets a special mention. In Benin‘s major city/de-facto capital, cars actually stop for red lights, motorcyclists wear helmets, and walking feels as safe as in Europe. But here in Côte d’Ivoire, it’s back to the no rules/no consideration that seems to be the default in most of Africa. (I’m looking at you, Entebbe. And many others.) I’m reminded once again that terrorism is not the biggest danger in Africa. Traffic is.

Coucoué Lodge

I can feel it the minute I enter the lobby: peace, quiet and a lagoon stretching before me. Right away, I am stepping into a slower rhythm.

Bringing the outdoors in

The path to my bungalow is framed with lush greenery. Other bungalows are tucked away in the gardens, hidden almost.

Inside, it is spacious, charmingly rustic, and facing the water. No ultra-modern minimalism here at Coucoué Lodge, folks. It is old-world classic and relaxed.

Pools, food & lazy afternoons

There are two swimming pools: one is social and lively, the other is calm – ideal if you want to lounge about with a book. Something for every mood. Afternoons here tend to stretch out beautifully. A swim maybe, a drink or two, maybe a nap under a palm tree…

Dinner is in the overwater restaurant built on a pontoon. Very nice, especially at sunset. On the menu is Ivorian specialties, grilled seafood, and much more. And lovely views over the lagoon.

This is also where you have breakfast, by the way –

– or long, drawn-out cups of morning tea, with a view.

Spot the boat out there on the lagoon? 

Lagoon-to-ocean, free of charge

One of my favourite unexpected details is the boat transfer across the lagoon to the beach side.

Because the lodge sits along the lagoon, the Atlantic beach is just across the water. Instead of walking around or having to arrange for a car to take me, I simply hop onto one of the lodge’s small boats, and within minutes I’m gliding across to the sandy oceanfront. The boat ride is quick, scenic, free for guests, and adds a touch of adventure to a simple beach day.

The Atlantic Ocean is just the other side of the palms here

There’s just something about stepping onto a boat in beach wear, crossing a calm lagoon, and hopping off into soft sand with the sound of crashing waves ahead of you.

Atlantic beach beauties

On the other side of the lagoon is a bar and a beachside restaurant, where you can dig into wood-fired pizza or grilled fish, with your feet in the sand.

Location, location, location

This is not a super snazzy, ultra-luxury resort. Nothing flashy here, no polished perfection. But if you, like me, are looking for a friendly, lively atmosphere, scenery, and relaxation, Coucoué Lodge Assinie delivers.

And the setting – lagoon on one side, ocean on the other – it just can’t be beat!

Assinie has a rhythm, and at Coucoué Lodge, you get to live inside it.

And now I’m going to find a place of my own to watch the sun dip into the lagoon –

– and try not to think about the looong way home.

All photos by David Røgler and yours truly.

Disclosure? Nope, nothing to disclose here. All expenses have come out of my own, ever slimmer, wallet. 

Coucoué Lodge Assinie: lazy days at the lagoon is a post from Sophie's World

But first…

The four of us have just arrived in Liberia for a bit of R&R.

Libassa Ecolodge

Melissa has found a place on the coast in Marshall, about a 1.5-hour drive from the capital, Monrovia. Libassa Ecolodge. Looks promising. And it had better be. It will be the most expensive stay on this journey in West Africa.

As it turns out, it is fabulous – and quite a bit more than just lodgings.

This family-run ecolodge focusses on sustainability. Think solar energy, efficient use of power, composting and recycling, planting trees, and my favourite, not serving water in plastic bottles. Instead, they have a rainwater harvesting system, and supply each guest with a bright orange thermo bottle we can fill with well water whenever needed – and keep! Nice touch.

They also focus on wildlife. The owners have established the first sanctuary in Liberia, with rescued and rehabilitated chimpanzees, pangolins, reptiles, birds, and more – including a blind crocodile. The goal is to return the animals back into the wild. Well… that poor croc will probably remain. He is safe here.

Guided tours of the wildlife sanctuary are offered 3 times daily.

My very own digs at the ecolodge; the design is inspired by local traditional buildings. Rooms have names, not numbers. Mine is Chimpanzee, and it comes with an old-fashioned metal key, no plastic cards here.

Now, all that is to be expected from an ecolodge, of course – but Libassa does more. As part of their commitment to local communities, they support the Butterfly Early Learning Centre (also known as the Butterfly School) in Kpan Town, a rural community nearby.

Interesting! Tell us more. Or better yet, let’s go see for ourselves!

The Butterfly School: hope through education

Early next morning, we drive the short distance – about 10 minutes – to Kpan Town. At the school, this cheerful bunch greets us, dressed in bright pink school uniforms.

Instant good mood!

The Butterfly School provides classrooms, but also serves as a community hub where children begin their educational journey, and where a ripple of hope spreads throughout the surrounding villages.

Singing and dancing is an important and joyful part of school

The Butterfly School was established to provide quality early childhood education to children in and around Kpan Town. Before the school opened, many young children in these communities had hardly any access to places of learning, and for the youngest, the nearest public school was too far to travel safely to every day.

With the help of dedicated founders and volunteers, including local businesses and supporters in France, a new school was built. It opened officially in 2016, in partnership with Liberia’s Ministry of Education.

More than just ABCs and 123s

At the Butterfly School, education goes beyond basic numbers and letters. The centre focusses on holistic development, encouraging creativity and a love of learning from the get-go, and importantly, teaching critical thinking! There’s just not enough critical thinking in the world.

The school provides lunch, and for many children, this will be the most nutritious meal they have all day. For some, this will be the only meal.

School uniforms

I have visited low-income neighbourhoods in several African countries. In many places, school and school supplies are free, but mandatory school uniforms are not. If you’re a family who struggle with daily expenses, the cost of a uniform can mean the difference between sending your child to school – or not. It seems downright absurd to me that any country can allow this to happen. Either scrap uniforms altogether, or do what the Butterfly School does: provide uniforms at no cost.

Community support and growth

When Butterfly opened its doors in 2016, about 65 children were enrolled. Some of these were older children who had never attended school before. These kids were offered a “speed school” programme to catch up academically, and then transition over to schools nearby.

Since then, the Butterfly School community has grown, and hundreds of children now attend. Girls make up a significant portion.

One at a time, boys!

We head into the surrounding village –

– where we learn about Liberian cooking –

– and the ingredients and spices they use.

Making cassava porridge, a staple

Growing wings in Kpan Town

Back at the school, the children are busy carrying their chairs back inside. Others are busy at the playground.

For the children in Marshall and nearby villages, Butterfly is more than just an early learning center. It is a place where confidence is nurtured, curiosity is encouraged, and dreams are given room to grow.

In this rural corner of Liberia, where access to education has not always been guaranteed, the Butterfly School stands as proof that when a community invests in its children, the impact reaches far beyond the classroom.

One teacher sums up the spirit of the school beautifully:

We call it Butterfly because we believe every child can grow wings. Education is what helps them fly.

In Kpan Town, those wings are beginning to open.

All photos by David Røgler and yours truly.

Disclosure? Nope, nothing to disclose here. 

Liberia: an ecolodge and a butterfly school is a post from Sophie's World

Religions side by side at the Voodoo Festival

Every 10 January, the laid-back coastal town of Ouidah bursts into life for the Fête du Vodoun. Ouidah sits between the Atlantic Ocean and a vast lagoon, and what is usually a quiet place with sandy streets and fading old-world façades, turns into a lively celebration of history, identity, spirituality, and a complex, colonial past.

Thousands of devotees, priests, musicians, dancers, and, erm, curious travellers, gather to honour the spirits that shape daily life across much of West Africa.

Many streets are closed to cars during the festival. Tuk-tuks – or walking – does the job.

During the festival, stalls appear overnight, selling bright wax-print fabrics, ritual objects, grilled fish, chilled drinks, and pretty much everything else. You can hear the sound of drums through the streets from early morning. Anticipation is in the air.

10 January 2026

Hotels in Ouidah have been fully booked for ages, so Nina, David, Melissa and I have been staying in Cotonou, a 1-hour drive away. Our fixer and driver will take us to Ouidah, but they are 1.5 hours late, which means we miss the opening ceremony, the Egungun, and the Zangbeto. Safe to say we’re a bit miffed.

The Sacred Forest: where spirits dwell

But… have to make the best of it, so we head straight for the Sacred Forest.

Close to Ouidah city centre is La forêt sacrée de Kpassè, a shaded, leafy grove filled with shrines and statues representing Vodoun deities. This forest is a living spiritual sanctuary, and various ceremonies take place here during the festival.

The Voodoo King enters the arena in the Sacred Forest –

– then: voices rise, bodies move, spirits drift into trance…

In the forest, sunlight filters through thick foliage, lighting up statues of spirits painted in bright colours. Our fixer explains the stories behind them, from trickster gods to powerful ancestral forces.

According to local tradition, King Kpassè, founder of Ouidah, transformed into a tree to escape his enemies.

Sacred trees in the sacred forest

The Python Temple: Holy serpents in the middle of town

Just opposite the Catholic basilica –

– is one of Ouidah’s most striking spiritual sites: the Python Temple, dedicated to royal serpents, symbols of wisdom, protection, fertility, and all that good stuff. The contrast between church and temple is deliberate, reflecting centuries of religious coexistence and adaptation.

Inside a building in a modest courtyard, dozens of gorgeous pythons coil around branches and rest along the walls. They are not feared, but rather revered, as manifestations of Dan, the serpent god of creation and continuity.

The pythons live freely in the temple grounds, and are released at night to roam. People say they return of their own accord by morning. Killing a royal serpent is a serious offence.

Devotees drape a python gently around their shoulders for a blessing.

Peaceful coexistence. And we are both harmless.

Door of No Return: At the Edge of the Atlantic

At night, the celebrations move to the beach, by the symbolic Door of No Return, a stark memorial marking one of the departure points for enslaved Africans during the transatlantic slave trade.

The setting is profoundly moving. A religion that travelled across the ocean in the hearts of those forced into slavery, is now celebrated openly and proudly in its homeland. From West Africa to Haiti, to Cuba, to Louisiana – and back again.

Ca. 200 000 attend the beach party

As evening falls and the crowds thin, the beach grows quieter. Waves break against the shore beside the Door of No Return. The drums slowly fade. Once again, I can hear the steady rhythm of the waves.

Zangbeto: Guardians of the Night

Since we missed the Zangbeto ritual at the festival, our fixer takes us to a small village the next morning for a look at this unusual tradition.

Entrance to Djegbadji village

The Zangbeto are traditional guardians of the night, here represented by large, swirling structures made entirely of layered raffia (palm leave fibre). No human figure is visible beneath them, and according to belief, there is none inside at all.

As drums beat, the Zangbeto spin at astonishing speed, around and around, with flaring straw skirts.

Watching the Zangbeto whirl across the sand is hypnotic. Also, slightly eerie. One of those travel moments that just cannot be easily explained.

Sometimes, they collapse to the ground and get back up again, revealing unexpected objects underneath their skirts.

They are regarded as spiritual protectors who patrol communities and maintain order.

Voodoo Festival beyond the spectacle: Understanding Vodoun

Western portrayal of voodoo have long reduced it to caricature, all about black magic and sticking pins in dolls to cause harm. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Vodoun is a sophisticated spiritual system focussing on balance: between humans and nature, the living and the dead, the visible and invisible worlds. It is about healing and protection.

People offer palm oil, gin, maize, and even animals. Not from fear, but out of respect. People consult their ancestors. Illness and misfortune are understood within a broader spiritual framework. Less exotic, perhaps, but more, well, human.

Ouidah Voodoo Festival practicals

• Book accommodation well in advance! Rooms were hard to come by in Ouidah, and also in Cotonou.
• Arrive early on 10 January to secure a good vantage point at the main venues.
• It’s a good idea to have a local guide to help interpret ceremonies and navigate cultural sensitivities.
• Dress lightly;  the heat and humidity can be intense. Also, dress modestly.
• Be respectful at all times; this is a religious ceremony, not a performance for tourists.
• Always ask before taking photographs; this is particularly important during rituals.

For us, it’s onward to Liberia, via a road trip to Ghana, and a brief stop in Togo along the way.

All photos by David Røgler and yours truly.

Dancing with spirits at the Voodoo Festival in Ouidah is a post from Sophie's World

How did we end up in Togoville?

We’ve been exploring Voodoo in Benin – Nina, David, Melissa, and I – catching the Fête du Vodoun (Voodoo festival) in Ouidah. Next up: Liberia. The fastest route is a direct flight from Accra; otherwise, we’re stuck connecting through Europe.

So, how to get from Ouidah to Accra? Why, a road trip, of course!

On the way, we’ll stop, ever so briefly, at interesting spots along the road, including Togoville.

(We also spend a night at the super cosy Hotel Petit Brussel in Lomé, and have a look at Marché des Féticheurs, the fetish market, but I won’t be covering that, as I’m no fan of shrunken dog heads and dead birds. If you’re interested, you can have a look at David’s snaps.)

Togoville: a town that shaped a nation

Togoville holds a unique place in the history of West Africa. This is where King Mlapa III signed a treaty with Germany in 1884, an event that shaped what would become modern Togo. That moment tied this peaceful little town to global history, and even today, Togoville has the quiet dignity of a place that knows its importance.

That’s another German protectorate there. I haven’t realised just how big a role Germany played in the gruesome Scramble for Africa. Did you? You will know about Namibia. But Cameroon? Tanzania, Rwanda, Burundi? And Togo, known as Schutzgebiet Togo in German times. Clearly missing info from my world history classes at school.

German – Togolese friendship monument in Togoville, celebrating 100 years of friendship, or possibly  ‘friendship’

Under German rule, Togoville was known as Togostadt and was the capital of the colony. After World War I, the French took over, changed the name to the French version, and so it has remained.

Togoville feels a bit like stepping into a living museum. There are no flashy signs announcing its past here, just stories passed down through the generations. Landmarks whisper, rather than shout. There’s a strong link between yesterday and today.

Spiritual crossroads: Christianity and Vodun (Voodoo) side by side

Cathédrale de Togoville

One of the interesting things about Togoville is how different belief systems seem to coexist in harmony. The town has a Catholic cathedral, a striking structure that overlooks the lake and draws pilgrims from across the country. It stands as a symbol of Togoville’s role as a centre of Christian faith.

At the same time, Vodun traditions are very much alive. Shrines, rituals and reverence for the ancestors are part of everyday life, running alongside church bells and Sunday services.

Vodun priest and female fetish/shrine in Togoville. A female fetish always has a roof over her head, to protect the home, we learn.

There’s a nice, quiet balance here, a kind of lesson in tolerance and cultural continuity that you can’t help but notice.

Mary – and Papa Paul

 Like in Međugorje, Mary has showed up here in Togoville. One day back in the 1970s, the good virgin appeared before a young girl on the lake. This has been recognised by the Catholic church and the spot where she appeared has been declared holy.  And Pope John Paul II even stopped by. His visit in 1985 was a huge event, and it put Togoville on the map.

JPII prayed by the shores of Lake Togo, recognising the town’s deep spiritual significance and its unique mix of faiths. 

The holy baobab

Gotta say, I’m more into trees, and in the centre of town, is a sacred baobab. Legend has it, the tree is so old it remembers the arrival of Europeans and even spirits of past kings. Locals say if you tie a ribbon around the tree, or offer a small token, it brings luck or protection, whichever is needed.

Faiths living side by side… We could all learn a thing or two from Togoville.

Life by the lake

Togo means by the water in the local Ewe language, and Lake Togo sets the rhythm of life here.

The lake is more than just pretty scenery. It’s a source of food, transport, and connection, all rolled into one. Fishermen head out early in long wooden pirogues, children play along the water’s edge, visitors arrive by boat from neighbouring towns. That slow approach across the water creates the vibe here. There is no rush in Togoville. Life moves at a calm, gentle pace, shaped by the lake, and the people who depend on it.

You don’t need a particular itinerary. No noise, no crowds. Nobody comes to Togoville for the nightlife. People come for calm. To slow down. To look around, listen, go with the flow. It’s about atmosphere, this place. About sitting under a tree, watch the sun dip into the lake, and let your thoughts drift. Or not think at all.

If you’re interested in history, culture and spirituality, Togoville delivers. There’s no performance, no trying to impress. It just is.

Bambino beauty in Togoville

In many ways, Togoville represents Togo itself; spiritual, rooted in its past, and moving gently into the future. Our visit has been brief, yet it feels like we have had an ever so slight encounter with the roots of a nation.

World at a Glance is a series of short articles here on Sophie’s World, portraying curious, evocative, happy, sad, wondrous, or unexpected little encounters. 

Togoville: history, harmony, and the art of staying still is a post from Sophie's World

This country welcomes you with warmth: sun on your shoulders, waves crashing playfully against the shore, salt in the air, music spilling from passing cars, laughter and life.

And then, a stillness that demands attention. At the coastal forts and castles, Ghana quietly asks you to remember. Stepping into Fort Prinzenstein, or Christiansborg Castle, you’re not just sightseeing. This is an emotional journey through layers of history that still shape the present.

Standing here, knowing what happened and how many lives were changed forever, is uncomfortable in a way that sticks with you… visiting these sites are less about travel and more about remembering.

Fort Prinzenstein: A lonely witness by the sea

Fort Prinzenstein is at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean in Keta.

 If you don’t know what you are looking for, you can easily miss it. 

Today, the ocean presses up against the walls, slowly wearing the place down. Parts of it are already gone. It feels like time itself is slowly reclaiming the crumbling structure. What about the stories inside here? Will they be forgotten, too?

It is modest in size, Fort Prinzenstein – but immense in meaning. Learning that this hub of the transatlantic slave trade was built by the Danes in 1784, when my own country was still a part, however unwilling, of then Denmark-Norway, makes me queasy.

Walking through the fort, the silence is striking. This intimate, fragile space somehow makes the brutal history hit harder.

The rooms are narrow and dark, with low ceilings that force you to bow your head as you move through them. It is impossible to not think about the physical and emotional weight carried by those who were confined here – waiting, before being forced onto ships, not knowing where they would be taken, or if they would survive the journey ahead.

I stop in one of the smaller rooms, and the air feels thick even though the doorway is open. The heat lingers, and breathing feels harder than it should. I can’t help but think about the many people crammed in there. The smell of sweat. And fear.

What strikes me most, is how exposed the fort is. Unlike larger coastal forts with imposing walls, Prinzenstein feels vulnerable, both to the elements and to memory.

The ocean

The ocean is right there – beautiful, endless, almost cruelly indifferent. I can hear the waves breaking rhythmically against the shore. It’s a steady, almost soothing sound.

The contrast is unsettling. Standing on the shore, I am very aware that this same sound once marked the final moments of familiarity, the last glimpse of home they would ever see.

There is no spectacle here, no attempt to soften the experience. Fort Prinzenstein does not overwhelm you with displays or explanations.

Instead, it invites stillness. It asks you to pause, to imagine, to mourn. In that quiet, I feel a heaviness. A mix of anger, grief, responsibility even, and deep respect for those resilient souls that passed through.

Places like this are not meant to be comfortable. They are meant to be remembered, even as the sea slowly threatens to erase them.

Christiansborg Castle (Osu Castle): Power, politics, and pain

On the coast in Accra, Christiansborg Castle (also known as Osu Castle) has a more complicated history. It has passed through many hands: Danish, Portuguese, British. And later, after Ghana’s independence, it became HQ of the new government.

Visiting Christiansborg is a very different experience from Fort Prinzenstein. This castle is immediately imposing. At first glance, the whitewashed walls and sweeping views of the ocean seem almost serene. But as you move through the dungeons and holding cells, that calm dissolves. Slave traders designed these spaces for control: thick walls, minimal light, and a heavy sense of power.

One detail that stays with me is learning that Queen Elizabeth II visited Ghana and stayed at Christiansborg for 11 days during her historic post-independence tour in 1961.

The image is striking: a queen sleeping within these walls, dining in candlelit halls, whilst directly beneath her feet were the dungeons where enslaved people once were imprisoned. Upstairs, royal banquets and formal receptions. Downstairs, rooms where enslaved Africans waited in darkness. Two completely different stories sitting side by side, staring you right in the face.

The return

I walk down a narrow spiral staircase, and through a Door of No Return. My steps slow as the air shifts – warm above, cool and damp below. My legs feel heavy, my breath deliberate. I try to imagine how this must have felt centuries ago, with no hope and no idea where you were going.

Even more compelling is the path upward. At Christiansborg, people not only left through the Door of No Return – they also came back through it. Returned, freed individuals walked back into this castle, retracing their steps. Climbing up the same staircase from the dungeons into the light feels symbolic. Like reversing history. And reclaiming a space that was once used to dehumanise.

What makes Christiansborg striking is its complex history. You can feel the echoes of suffering from the slave trade, but the same walls also held colonial rulers, and later, the leaders of an independent nation. Again, the contrast is jarring – rooms where enslaved Africans were once held prisoner, near offices where centuries later, political decisions were made. I’m reminded how power and oppression often have been closely intertwined.

The beach near Christiansborg Castle today

Thoughts on Ghana’s coastal forts and castles

Visiting Ghana’s coastal forts and castles is not easy, nor should it be. These places are reminders of resilience as much as they are of cruelty. They ask Ghanaians, members of the African diaspora, travellers from around the world – all of us – to pause, reflect, and acknowledge a shared history.

The contrast between modern-day Ghana and the painful stories embedded in these walls are poignant. If you are in Ghana, make time for these two sites. And go with respect and curiosity. Go ready to listen. Between the stone walls and the restless sea are stories that deserve to be remembered. Not only as distant history, but as part of our collective human journey.

Long after leaving Ghana, it is the sea I remember most. The same waters that once carried bodies away, now receive people who return. It’s as if I can see them here at the shoreline, breathing deeply, taking their space back.

Constant, shimmering, and seemingly unchanged, it has witnessed centuries of departure and return, this ocean. Waves that once carried ships filled with suffering, now lap against a coastline, very much alive with music, life, and energy.

And standing at the water’s edge here, I’m reminded that memory, just like the sea, doesn’t go away. Restless, reflective, and impossible to ignore. The sea remembers what the world tries to forget. It has carried grief, stolen futures, and names that were never spoken, all across generations.

The ocean does not erase what happened, it holds it. So when the waves meet the shore, they are not just arriving – they are remembering.

Forts and Castles, Volta, Greater Accra, Central and Western Regions is a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Here are more UNESCO World Heritage sites we have visited around the world.

Between stone and sea: Ghana’s coastal slave forts is a post from Sophie's World

In the splendid city of Buenos Aires, La Recoleta is one of those barrios (neighbourhoods) that feels special, with grand architecture, leafy streets, and a strong sense of history. There is no shouting for attention in this barrio. No need to.

It is a lovely place to people-watch at one of the many pavement cafés, or wander along stately museums standing side by side with residential buildings, or taking lazy strolls through the parks, like the locals do. In short, you don’t need a strict plan here.

Amongst La Recoleta’s many lovely spots, is what must surely be the world’s most beautiful bookshop. And just a short walk away is another iconic site: a cemetery.

Graveyards

Fascinating places, aren’t they, cemeteries. Places where history, art, and memories quietly intersect. They offer a peaceful space for reflection on time and mortality. They tell little, intimate stories of lives lived. In fact, cemeteries have been the subject of many posts here on Sophie’s World.

Here is yet another burial ground, a famous one. In Argentina’s lively capital.

Cementerio de la Recoleta

Whilst Cementerio la Recoleta is a graveyard, it feels more like a small city within the city. Instead of rows of headstones, I walk through narrow pathways with elaborate mausoleums, imagining the stories of those whose bones rest here.

Many of the tombs are decorated with statues, stained glass, and intricate ironwork. 

Evita

Some of them you do not even need to imagine. The cemetery gives a glimpse into the social and political history of Argentina; with people whose lives were very public. Most famous of all is the tomb of María Eva Duarte de Perón, better known as Evita. Politician, activist, actor, philanthropist, president of the country’s first broadcaster performer’s union, first lady and spiritual leader of Argentina (a title given her by the Argentinian Congress), who tragically died young.

The Princess Diana of the 1950s

It seems almost natural that great drama would follow Evita in death as in life. Her physical remains were stolen, missing for 16 years. But she was finally found – and then buried at her family’s tomb here at La Recoleta.

After that, the government went to great lengths to ensure her tomb was secure. The tomb has a marble floor with a trap door, which leads to a room with two coffins. Below that room, is another trap door, leading to another room, with Evita’s actual coffin.

Is it a cemetery or a museum?

Some of the graves are grand and pristine, others weathered and slightly crumbling, but that only adds to the atmosphere. It feels less like a place of mourning and more like an open-air museum.

The city noise fades away here along the narrow lanes, replaced by my own quiet footsteps and soft echoes between marble walls.

Even if I don’t know the names carved into the tombs, there is something compelling about wandering past the tombs, noticing the little details: a forgotten flower here, a cracked sculpture there, a cat stretching in the sun. It is haunting, peaceful, and strangely beautiful all at once.

Interior of a mausoleum at La Recoleta cemetery

Spooky stories

You know I love a good ghost story, and a cemetery will of course have those. Cementerio La Recoleta is no exception.

They are not scary, these stories, but rather atmospheric, making the walk past the marble mausoleums delightfully mysterious, and very Buenos Aires. Here are three that add a deliciously eerie layer to the walk:

The Legend of Rufina Cambaceres

One of the most visited graves at La Recoleta, is the Art Nouveau tomb of Rufina, a girl from a wealthy family who, in the early 1900s, collapsed on her 19th birthday and was declared dead. After her burial, the tomb was later opened and scratch marks were reportedly found inside the coffin, suggesting she may have been buried alive. Since then, visitors claim to see the ghost of a young woman in a white dress wandering the cemetery at night.

The Gravedigger and the Keys

Another legend tells of David Alleno, a longtime cemetery caretaker who worked here for decades. He saved his wages to buy his own tomb, had his statue placed at the entrance of his mausoleum, and then took his own life shortly after retiring. People say his ghost still wanders the cemetery, jingling keys and doing his nightly rounds, refusing to leave the place he cared for so deeply.

The Black Lady

Locals speak of a mysterious woman dressed in black, who appears near closing time. She lures men into following her through the cemetery gates, before suddenly vanishing, leaving them alone amongst the tombs.

Walking out of the cemetery, I realise this is a place less defined by death, and more by memory. Its narrow passageways and ornate mausoleums tell stories of ambition, love, tragedy – stories that shaped Argentina itself. In the quiet between footsteps, I am reminded that history is not only written in books, but carved in stone and preserved through the echoes.

Even silence can speak volumes.

La Recoleta: where the dead live beautifully is a post from Sophie's World

Amongst some truly gorgeous ones I have seen, El Ateneo Grand Splendid is in a class of its own.

Wandering around in Buenos Aires a January day two years ago, I was not expecting a bookshop to stop me in my tracks, but that is exactly what happened.

In the heart of Buenos Aires’ snazzy Recoleta barrio (neighbourhood) stands a place where literature, architecture, and history converge in spectacular style. We are inside an old theatre. And not just any theatre, but a seriously glorious one. More than just a bookshop, El Ateneo is an experience,

From grand theatre to literary temple

Originally opened in 1919 as the Teatro Grand Splendid, the building once hosted opera performances, ballet, and tango shows during Argentina’s cultural golden age. Legendary performers, including the country’s very own Carlos Gardel, graced its stage. When the theatre was transformed into a bookshop in the early parts of this century, the renovation did not eradicate the original splendour, but rather preserved it.

The moment I walk in, I see books, books and more books! All filled with stories waiting to be discovered. Did I just step into a dream?

This is a shop unlike any other. Ornate, gilded balconies wrap around the space, bookshelves have replaced the old audience seats, and a frescoed ceiling watches over it all. It feels more like wandering through a cultural landmark than shopping for books. And I suppose that is just what it is.

I wander up to the balconies for a bird’s-eye view of the main floor – and spot… a cafe?

Behind the crimson curtains that once framed live performances on the stage, I can now have a coffee, whilst looking out at the shop and at the ceiling. A moment of quiet enchantment!

Even non-readers stop and stare

What makes El Ateneo special is not only the books for sale, but what the shop represents: Buenos Aires’ deep literary identity. This is a city of writers, readers, and philosophers.

And are there any spooky stories? Well, some say it still carries the ghosts of performances past. Staff and visitors sometimes mention an uncanny feeling late in the evening, especially on the upper balconies, though nothing officially documented. If there are spirits there, they seem content to linger quietly among the books and velvet curtains.

A Bookstore Designed to Be Explored

People mill about, but without stress. Despite the monumental surroundings, it feels oddly intimate. Welcoming, rather than intimidating. This is one of those places where you want to stay longer.

Not that into books?  El Ateneo is still worth your while. It is easy to explore, and genuinely memorable. Hard as it is, I leave without buying a book (carry-on only), but with a big smile and about thirty-five photos on my phone.

I love the idea that bookshops can still be magical in a digital world. El Ateneo reminds us reading is not only about information or entertainment, but about place and atmosphere, about connection. It also reminds me that stories – and beautiful buildings – are meant to be lived in.

If you are in Buenos Aires, don’t skip this place.

World at a Glance is a series of short articles here on Sophie’s World, portraying curious, evocative, happy, sad or wondrous, unexpected little encounters. 

El Ateneo Grand Splendid: possibly the most beautiful bookshop in the world is a post from Sophie's World

To me, it always evoked a strange combination of fear and fascination; a name that carried both a whisper of peril and the thrill of the unknown. It was in the rugged mountains of the mysterious Caucasus, and it was a relic of the once-closed and oh-so-secret world of the Soviet Union. I felt both wary of, and irresistibly drawn to, Nagorno-Karabakh. What was behind the headlines? It was somewhere I wanted to see for myself.

It has taken a long time to write about this contested region. Making it non-political and fair to both sides has been challenging. This is one conflict where (in my opinion) both sides have valid claims. In the end, I decided on a travel story, nothing more, nothing less. But first, a bit of reference:

Nagorno-Karabakh after the USSR: three decades of conflict and transformation

Mapeh, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

In the southern part of the Caucasus, mountains do more than divide landscapes. They divide eras. This is especially true in Nagorno-Karabakh, a region that has lived many lives in a single lifetime. Armenia and Azerbaijan have fought over this territory for more than 100 years.

Back in Soviet times, Nagorno-Karabakh Autonomous Oblast was a culturally Armenian-majority region within the Azerbaijan SSR, shaped by centrally planned towns, collective farms, and that old familiar Soviet architecture. For decades, it followed the rhythms of the USSR: factories, cultural houses, hillside villages, dachas (summer cabins) in the forests. But beneath the surface, identity, language, and memory ran strong.

With the Soviet collapse in 1991, the region entered a new and turbulent chapter. The First Nagorno-Karabakh War shaped the region’s borders and emptied many towns, with major battles around Shusha/Shushi, Aghdam, and the Lachin corridor. The war ended in 1994 with Armenia winning, more than a million displaced Azerbaijanis, and 30,000 dead.

Almost 30 years later, the Second Nagorno-Karabakh War (2020, and again in 2023), ended with Azerbaijani victory and a mass exodus of Armenians.

Each conflict left its own imprint, turning Karabakh into a landscape of successive eras, each marked by its battles.

A journey across Nagorno-Karabakh through two worlds

Few places have changed as dramatically in a single decade as Nagorno-Karabakh. I first travelled to this area in 2017, when the region identified itself as Artsakh and felt like a small, self-contained world.

Returning in 2024, now under Azerbaijani administration, I saw a landscape transformed by reconstruction, new infrastructure, and a different political horizon. It felt less like returning to a place, and more like returning to a memory, rewritten.

This is the story of travelling the same road twice, in two different worlds, with two distinct realities inscribed across the same mountains.

Shushi/Shusha

2017 – ARMENIAN ARTSAKH

At the end of a journey across Azerbaijan, Georgia and Armenia, I was looking for a way in to this disputed territory. Marshrutkas made the journey from Yerevan, but when I was offered a seat on a bus full of Armenians from around the world, I was intrigued.

And so I find myself on winding roads where mountains curl around villages like protective hands, on a bus with Syrian-Armenians, Australian-Armenians, Lebanese-Armenians, Armenians from Quebec, Iran, Israel…

Then there is me. From Norway. Not Armenian. Just curious.

Yerevan to Stepanakert

Leaving Yerevan, the highway slips quickly into mountain country: steep gorges, apricot orchards, and narrow passes with villages where roadside vendors sell jars of honey.

The route winds south through Goris, where cliffside houses are stacked like stone terraces, before it climbs toward the checkpoint – the unofficial border – near Lachin. In the distance, I spot a monastery sitting improbably on a cliff. Traffic moves slowly, partly because of the terrain. The landscape demands the driver’s full attention.

The checkpoint is a breeze. Young soldiers are busy flirting with each other, and give us hardly a glance.

Snapping photos at a military checkpoint? Totally fine.

A visa is not required, but I ask for one anyway. As a souvenir.

For my fellow travellers on the bus, the journey appears to be as much emotional as geographical. I hear many stories, some funny, some sad.

I also get into arguments.

Past the checkpoint, the road is smooth, and the air sharpens as the road descends into pine forests and open valleys. Small towns and villages appear at measured intervals.

Stepanakert

Arriving in the capital; I feel as if I have reached a hidden enclave, remote but lived-in.

Stepanakert has Soviet architecture, flowers, tree-lined streets and sweeping views of the surrounding mountains. It is a small city, quiet, modest, easily walkable.

The Presidential Palace on Renaissance Square, formerly HQ of the Nagorno-Karabakh Regional Committee of the Communist Party of Azerbaijan on Lenin Square

Mass weddings and bride kidnappings

As I pause for a closer look at this sculpture, a local approaches. He must have noticed my puzzled expression, because he launches into a story about a mass wedding.

In 2008, to encourage a baby boom, a mass wedding took place in Stepanakert, organised by Levon Hayrapetyan, a wealthy Russian-Armenian. 700 couples tied the knot, with the promise of state support to the tune of USD 2,000 for each child born. There were rumours the ceremony included abducted brides, a practice not unheard of in Armenia, known as Aghjik Pakhtsnotsi (girl-kidnapping). Originally a children’s game, the term includes both cases of consensual ‘kidnapping’, i.e. eloping, and of coercive, violent stalking and abduction.

I am staying at the quiet, lovely Vallex Garden Hotel, along with some of my fellow travellers. We arrive in the early evening, and the gang is ready to party.

Shushi/Shusha

Next morning, I am up early to have a look around this peculiar breakaway territory. Some of the Armenians very kindly invite me to join them on a guided tour. We begin in Shushi (Armenian) / Shusha (Azerbaijani).

On the approach to town is a striking landmark: a T-34 tank on a concrete platform. This town was the most important Azerbaijani stronghold in the first Nagorno-Karabakh War, and it was captured by Armenians in 1992, using this tank. A stark, immovable relic, set against the vast mountain backdrop.

This 8-year-old girl and her 13-year-old brother have travelled from Canada with their mother, to meet up with grandpa who lives in Damascus. They are seeing each other for the first time since war broke out in Syria in 2011.

It is a quiet hilltop town, Shushi – with faded, fragile grandeur and views stretching for miles. Weathered houses along stone streets, art schools and little cafés overlook panoramic valleys far below. Ghazanchetsots Cathedral dominates the skyline. A fortress from the Persian Era stands guard over the cliffs.

Life moves slowly here. Children play near the cultural centre, artists sketch the old neighbourhoods, open plazas are filled with the sound of church bells and the wind moving through the trees. There is a low-key, contemplative energy here.

Friendly folks in Shushi

Gandzasar Cathedral

From Stepanakert, the road winds north past the village of Vank and up to Gandzasar Cathedral, originally a 13th century monastery. This is the most important Armenian-Apostolic church in Artsakh. The walls carry centuries of candle smoke and whispered prayers. A bit eerie.

Close to the church is the Lion’s Cave, a tourist attraction associated with local legends of strength and refuge, and restored by none other than Levon Hayrapetyan, of mass wedding fame.

Insta spot

Tigranakert, Aghdam, and ghosts of the past

We continue east to Tigranakert and Aghdam. The former is an archaeological echo of an ancient Armenian kingdom, with ruins stretching across a dry plateau. It is a quiet place – and a little spooky; all I can hear is my own footsteps on the stones.

The medieval fortress of Tigranakert – looking out on Aghdam

But the place that leaves the deepest mark is Aghdam, scene of several battles during the First Nagorno-Karabakh War. Shots are frequently fired from across the border in Azerbaijan, says the guide. Do not go far.

Once the home of 60,000 souls, now it is a ghost town with hollowed buildings and streets taken over by grass. The twin minarets of a lonely mosque stand like two markers of a vanished world. The silence is so heavy it feels physical. I walk along boulevards that leads nowhere and everywhere at once. Aghdam is not empty. It is full of absence.

Back to Stepanakert

Returning to Stepanakert is like coming back to the living world. Just outside town, we stop by the iconic We Are Our Mountains-monument, carved from amber stone and a symbol of Armenian heritage. Locals call it Tatik-Papik, Grandmother-Grandfather.

Tatik-Papik

A new day

It is my last day in this territory. Before heading back to Yerevan and Armenia proper, I go for an early morning walk in the unusual little capital.

Metallic Grand Marquis or metallic Lada: what’s your preference? Me, I’m nostalgically drawn to this orange Moskvitch. It was a popular car in Norway in my childhood, along with Opel and Hillman and the VW Beetle, long before anyone thought they needed huge SUVs. 

Friendly folks at the market:

Is that look saying ‘Enough with the snapping, buy the dress already’? I don’t know. We have no languages in common, and my attempts at Armenian, well…

I ask for a quarter kilo of raspberries, at least I think I do. But this lovely lady laughs so hard she nearly falls over, and gives me a big bag of berries, free of charge. Wonder what I really said…

Artsakh in a nutshell

That was Artsakh: fragile and remote. A land leaning into its past for identity, held together by monasteries, mountain roads, and quiet resilience.

I left, thinking I might someday return to the same place.

I was wrong.

2024 – AZERBAIJANI KARABAKH

The liberated territories

Seven years later, the land has changed its name, its authority, its rhythm.

This time, I am here with a group of fellow travel writers, bloggers, journos – all of us Norwegian. The trip is organised by Azerbaijani extreme traveller, Mehraj Mahmudov, under the banner of a peace tour of a former war zone. The intention is three-fold: to send a message of peace around the world, support landmine clearance, and promote tourism. Of course I’m curious.

 We leave Baku at 04.00, as we have a lot of ground to cover.

Sun rising on the road to Karabakh

We enter the territory near Fuzuli International Airport, a glass-and-steel structure on soil that once held ruins. The highway leading out of it is newly constructed, smooth as an airport runway, pointing like an arrow toward the rising mountains.

The airport itself was built in just eight months, along with two others. However, despite the efficient construction, the three airports are not yet in operation (as at May 2024), due to the challenges of landmine clearing.

As for Fuzuli town…

Shusha: the reframed city on the cliffs

The ascent to Shushi, now Shusha, feels familiar yet strange. The cliffs are the same; the road is not.

Shusha now has a more curated energy: restored mosques, clean squares, polished stonework.

Cultural institutions are reopened, and the fortress walls have been restored.

Statues of famous Azerbaijanis bear the scars of conflict, their surfaces peppered with bullet holes that stand as stark reminders of the city’s turbulent recent history.

But beneath the renewal is a profound quiet: a city rebuilt faster than it has been repopulated. One thing at a time.

Aghdam: the future city of the plains

In Aghdam, where I once was warned not to walk along the sprawling ruins because shots could be fired, a planned city is on the rise.
Wide boulevards are coming, new administrative buildings, and the old Juma Mosque (Friday Mosque) is being carefully preserved.

According to our guide, Armenians used the mosque as a cattle barn.

There are still ruins here, like the Aghdam Bread Museum, a significant historical museum dedicated to, well, bread, built on the site of an ancient mill. Three walls were destroyed by shelling in the first Nagorno-Karabakh War, and now, after the second, it is being restored.

Aghdam is a construction site of a future still waiting for its people. It is no longer the ghost city it was seven years ago. But danger still lurks. We walk along a narrow path that has been cleared of landmines, and are told not to stray from it.

More about landmines in a bit.

Near Aghdam is a cemetery holding the graves of local victims of war.

Across the border in Armenia, are similar memorials. No one really wins a war.

Toghana

At night, we reach Toghana, where we stay at the Cennet Makhan Hotel, a peaceful refuge in the hills.

Ömar Mountain Pass: the raw spine of the Caucasus

Beyond Toghana, the road climbs into the Ömar Mountain Pass. The air thins and sharpens. At this altitude, snow is on the ground, even now in May. The land is majestic, indifferent, eternal.

Kalbajar and the Istisu Springs

Descending into Kalbajar, forests return, thick and deep. We are down to 2,225-metre altitude now.

In the early 12th century, a massive earthquake left behind thermal mineral-rich springs.

Love all the colours in the travertine terraces

Here at Istisu Springs, steam rises in pale ribbons, and for some of us, a dip under the cold skies is just what the doctor ordered.

There is a Soviet era sanatorium nearby, stuck between eras, neither restored nor demolished. But the water flows anyway, ancient and unbothered.

Minkand, Lachin, Qubadly

The southern arc of the journey winds through Minkand, Lachin, and Qubadly, villages scattered amongst steep valleys and meadows. Most are partially rebuilt; some are still skeletal outlines of former settlements.

I am now near where the former checkpoint was – and the local press is following along

Zangilan: a night in a military camp

In Zangilan, in the south, near the border with Iran, we get a feel for Azerbaijani military life. We practice at a shooting range and test drive a tank. It’s certainly unlike any other press trip I have experienced.

In the evening, we share a meal with Azerbaijani soldiers. Stars burn bright out here, unfiltered by city lights.

Our accommodation for the night is in the camp. It feels both safe and surreal. I sleep well.

The next morning, we will get a lesson in landmine clearing. But first…

Aghali: the smart village

Across a small stretch of land, hundreds of families are finally making their way home after decades of forced displacement. The village of Aghali, home to ca. 500, emerges like a model for the future, with solar-panelled homes, fresh sidewalks, and modern schools. Here, amidst the controlled reconstruction, civilians have returned. Commonspace.eu, an independent info and analysis website, sums it up in this article

The village of Aghali is in many ways a pilot project, meant to be one of many. That will continue to be a difficult and costly process. But for the moment Azerbaijan needs to be praised for its achievement.

The right of people displaced by conflict to return to their homes in safe and dignified conditions as soon as is possible is enshrined in international humanitarian law. What is happening in Aghali is a visual example of that right being exercised.

The South Caucasus has hundreds of thousands of people displaced by the conflicts that ravaged the region in the last three and half decades. The latest are the hundred thousand Armenians displaced after the fighting in September. Aghali should be a beacon and a symbol for all of them – a hope for a return home. Whenever a displaced person or refugee returns home – be she or he an Armenian or an Azerbaijani, a Georgian or an Ossetian, every person with a humanitarian conscious should rejoice. This work needs to continue until this problem is relegated to history.

Khudafarin Bridge & Jabrayil: touching the edge of history

We continue to the point where the Republic of Azerbaijan meets the Azerbaijan province of Iran. The Araz River forms the border, marking both a frontier, and a quiet conclusion of sorts.

From the other side of the border, Iranians are looking at us looking at them

The two countries are linked by the Khudafarin Bridges, a pair of ancient stone structures. Only one is in working order.

Now, this is not just any bridge. It wasn’t built, you see. It just appeared one day, so the legend goes. In the 13th century. Or the 6th, or the 11th. No one remembers. Not for nothing is it called Khudafarin. ‘God created’.

Spot the gate?

Turns out, the gate to Iran is locked with a simple, corroded padlock.

Climbing over wouldn’t be difficult, except…

Best not try

The Araz River winds its way through arid plains and patches of green…

… forming a mesmerising, intriguing landscape any which way you look.

Landmines

Karabakh is one of the world’s most mined areas, in particular Fuzuli, Aghdam and Jabrayil. More than a million landmines are still active: anti-personnel mines, anti-tank mines –

– and even mines specifically aimed at killing those who locate and disarm mines. Human cruelty knows no bounds.

Since the end of the most recent fighting over Nagorno-Karabakh, clearing landmines and unexploded ordnance has been a major, ongoing effort involving national authorities and international partners. Azerbaijan’s National Agency for Mine Action (ANAMA) leads systematic survey and clearance operations across contaminated areas. International partners work alongside, including the HALO Trust and Mines Advisory Group (both British), as well as the Belgian non-profit, APOPO.

But even though tens of thousands of devices have been destroyed and tens of thousands of hectares have been made safer, there is still much work to do, and it is expected to take years.

TWO JOURNEYS, ONE LAND

Travelling in Karabakh in 2017 and 2024 felt a bit like reading two different chapters written on the same pages. In 2017, the land whispered its history. It was intimate, fragile, human-scaled: a land held together by memory and identity. In 2024, the land announced its future. It was expansive, forward-facing: a land shaped by construction and state-led vision.

One was a world that felt lived-in. The other felt newly reopened. Both are real. Both exist in the history of the same mountains.

*******************

PS: For fellow extreme travellers, the Kalbajar District, Stepanakert (now Khankendi), the Lachin corridor, and the Zangilan District are all NomadMania DARE regions (Distinctive Alternative Remote Extremes).

Disclosure: In 2017, I was in Nagorno-Karabakh on my own accord. In 2024, it was not possible to visit this territory as a tourist, so I was in Karabakh at the invitation of Azerbaijani extreme traveller Mehraj Mahmudov, with official authorisation from Azerbaijan’s government.

As always, I have complete editorial control of content here on Sophie’s World. Otherwise, this would be meaningless.

THEN & NOW: Nagorno-Karabakh is Artsakh is Karabakh is a post from Sophie's World

I was going to explore Myanmar – more of the country than just Yangon, that is. But a typhoon was on the way, and if I had any kind of time constraints, I would do well to leave and come back another time, I was told. Flights would be cancelled or at the very least much delayed.

Time constraints. My middle name. Trying to fit in a lot in little time, get as much out of every vacation day as possible. That’s working life. No time to wait out a typhoon.

And so I am in Laos instead. Luang Prabang specifically. Not a bad trade-off.

Not bad at all

Luang Prabang: Temples and Tradition

Just where the Mekong meets the Nam Khan River, lies the former royal capital of Laos. I have been curious about Luang Prabang, and it’s fun to finally be here.

If you are an early riser, the streets come alive at dawn, with almsgiving rituals. Long lines of monks in saffron robes, walk barefoot through town to collect offerings of sticky rice. It’s fascinating to watch. A bit humbling, too. The monks move silently, gliding almost, through the morning mist.

It feels like I’m in the middle of a live postcard. Golden temples shimmer in the sunlight. Luang Prabang is home to more than thirty Buddhist wats, each with a character of its own. They are architectural masterpieces, these temples, all sweeping rooflines and intricate gold details.

No wonder UNESCO has added this little town to its World Heritage list.

There’s a scent of frangipani in the air, one of my favourite flowers. And freshly brewed Lao coffee, which smells divine. Tastes a bit too strong for my taste, though. But then, to be fair, I prefer single shot latte. Or even half a shot.

Beyond the City

Just beyond the town, is a wilder side to Luang Prabang.

It’s early still, and I’m persuaded to take a taxi to a waterfall. There are several, all promising stunning nature.

I decide I want to see Tad Sae, a multi-tiered waterfall, close to the town centre. It takes about 25 minutes on a bumpy road to the small village Bak En –

A temple in every village

– then a short ride in a long, low-slung boat along the Nam Khan River, and finally a short hike.

And what a sight it is, Tad Sae. A dreamy cascade of milky blue-green water, flowing over limestone terraces, with jungle landscape all around.

Like liquid opals

There are more dramatic waterfalls, as well. The most famous is Kuang Si, a bit further from town. There’s swimming, kayaking and hiking opportunities there, and an elephant sanctuary nearby. A good day trip, I’d say.

Luang Prabang Night Market Magic

After dark, the town comes alive at the Night Market, and it.is.fabulous.

As the sun dips behind the mountains, the main street transforms into a glowing ribbon of red tents. I can smell grilled meat, but I’m more intrigued by a little stall selling coconut pancakes. So good!

Fresh papaya shake, whiskey optional

The hum of friendly bargaining and the genuine smiles of the vendors make this market feel both intimate and enchanting. A great place to buy some souvenirs (fridge magnets aplenty), grab a bowl of khao soi or grilled chicken skewers, and watch the slow rhythm of Lao nightlife happen.

This is not just a shopping experience, this. It is an all-round sensory one. I love the kaleidoscope of colours here. The handmade textiles, bamboo crafts, silver jewellery, the traditional lanterns, all lit by the warm glow of streetlamps.

One stall gets my attention. Metal rings, key rings, other trinkets, all made from bombs. Unexploded ordnance. I buy a key ring with a metal map of Laos, and decide to read up on this.

The UXO Centre and the American War on Indochina

Turns out I can do more than just read. The next day, I take the 20-minute walk to the UXO centre.

UXO, if you don’t know (I didn’t), means unexploded ordnance: bombs, shells, grenades, landmines, and other military munitions that were meant to detonate, but didn’t. They are found in rice fields, school yards, on hillsides, in rivers, along roads, and even in the middle of villages and town centres. They can go off at any time.

Laos holds a unique and tragic place in modern history as the most heavily bombed country in the world. During the American Secret War on Indochina (1964 – 1973), the USA dropped over 2 million tonnes of bombs on Laos. That’s about a planeload of bombs every 8 minutes. 24/7. For nine years!

The point of this campaign was to disrupt the Ho Chi Minh Trail, a network used by North Vietnamese forces to move troops and supplies into South Vietnam. Rural communities were heavily affected, and UXO remains a danger even today, impacting farming, schools, daily life.

Luang Prabang was one of the most impacted provinces, but all around Laos, locals have to deal with injuries and deaths from UXOs on a regular basis, even today, 50 years later.

At the excellent little UXO Lao Visitor Centre, I see this sobering history through maps, photographs, videos, and bomb casings. I read survivor stories.

Metal skeletons

Clearing efforts

I also learn about the efforts to remove unexploded bombs to make the land safe, including all-female clearance teams, (here’s a short film about one such heroine) – and I come away wiser, with a deeper understanding of the lasting effects of a war being forced upon you.

 The UXO Centre is free to visit; they appreciate donations, which you can leave in a box by the door. You can buy souvenir items created from UXO metal here, as well. (Expect UXO Christmas presents, folks).

A Place to Pause

In Luang Prabang, locals smile at you, and monks chant softly. I enjoyed exploring the temples, strolling through the markets, and hiking up to the waterfall. What made the greatest impression on me, though, was learning more about the tragic history and the remarkable resilience of the Laotian people.

This town has quickly jumped to a spot amongst my top 5. It’s lovely and lively, and has a special rhythm. Life moves slower here, without being boring. And that’s saying something. My boredom threshold is, ahem… on the low side. Next time, I am taking the kids, and the little ones. They will adore this town.

Luang Prabang practicals

• Best Time to Visit: November to February for cool, dry weather; June to October for lush greenery and more power in the waterfalls.
• Getting there and getting around: Direct flights from Bangkok, Hanoi, or Siem Reap, or take a scenic slow boat along the Mekong River. I met a couple of fellow Norwegians who arrived by train from Kunming on the new high-speed LCR (Laos – China Railway). Luang Prabang is walkable, even at night. (Just mind the traffic). Many hotels have bikes guests can borrow, and you can rent scooters. Open-air taxis are cheap and fun.
• Where to Stay: numerous cute little places: French colonial guesthouses, riverside resorts, boutique hostels, or family-run homestays.
• What to Eat: Luang Prabang is brimming with cafes and restaurants. My favourites: street food at the Night Market and coffee and croissants at the Indigo Cafe.
• What to wear: Modest dress in the temples.
• Money: There are plenty of cash points/ATMs by the night market and around the town centre, fewer out in the country. This is largely a cash community, so make sure to carry Lao kip (LAK). Also, you’ll feel like a millionaire. 1 million kip = ca 40 EUR/46 USD.

Town of Luang Prabang is a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Here are more UNESCO World Heritage sites we have visited around the world.

Luang Prabang: where time slows and beauty flows is a post from Sophie's World

Manila has a reputation for being busy, bustling, blaring… and just plain loud. I have recently come from Dhaka, also loud, as well as chaotic, crowded, with heavy traffic and car horns honking 24/7, so I am not really up for a repeat of that today. Maybe next time. Do I really HAVE to go into the city?

Should I catch this bus?

Or this one?

Nope, I do not have to.

You see, I have found out fun can be had here, right next to the airport. A good amount of lively – and convenient for the airport tomorrow. Win!

A rainy stop-over in Manila

After landing at Terminal 3, I simply walk across a footbridge called Runway Manila, and come out in Newport City. 10 minutes later, I check into the Savoy hotel. (There are several others as well, from budget to very high-end.) Super accessible!

A quick shower and shine, and I am on my way out for a bit of, in the words of Patsy Stone, food…things. Lots of restaurants in Newport Mall, but the street food along the way is more tempting. Satay, anyone? And one of those fruit juices from Clem’s? Yum!

I have not done any research, cause I have been sleeping on the plane. So I ask around for things to do, sights to see, places to go.

Take a look at what’s on at the Newport Performing Arts Theatre, folks say.

Nah… sounds like too much effort just now. Is there anything more relaxing?

How about the casino, then?

Eh? Casino? Relaxing?

I am curious enough to stick my head in the door. Turns out, it is lively, but not overly so. I am not even remotely interested in gambling, so I plonk down on a comfortable chair in the bar/lounge, have a drink, listen to the music and basically just sit and people-watch. Relaxed.

Now what?

Walking from the airport to the hotel, I remember passing by a church near a McDonald’s. Casino – church: sounds like an interesting combo, no? Let’s have a closer look.

Turns out, this is the Santuario de Santa Teresa de Jesús – the Shrine of St. Therese. Modernistic and a bit boring on the outside, lovely, golden, and surprisingly big on the inside. Pop in if you pass by.

Wandering back towards the Savoy, there are several outdoor patios and cafes. A lazy coffee in mellow surrounds, then bed.
I am enjoying the thought of not having to get up early and beat the traffic. No stress about getting to the airport in time when you are simply walking.

Next morning

My flight is late afternoon, so I could head into the city centre, but I just cannot be bothered.

Well, says the concierge. There are other options to check out as well, close by.There is a museum, and I could do a spot of shopping at the Mall of Asia. Nah…

I could have breakfast at the Savoy, but hotel breakfasts, well, they are costly if all you want is a coffee and a croissant.
One of the cafes outside, then. Chilling out with my devices.

I end up at Starbucks. Not exactly an exciting choice, but they do have decent wifi – and so it’s me, the Mac, catching up on a bit of work – and a mocha Frappuccino.

2 hours before boarding time, I amble over to the Runway Manila and the airport.

Check in, breeze through security, and board all relaxed.

Nice!

Have a stopover in Manila? Gotcha covered. is a post from Sophie's World

Easier said than done, it turns out. Much of Rakhine State is restricted, even closed, as a result of the ongoing conflict. A permit to travel to this state is compulsory and difficult to get. Furthermore, requirements frequently change without notice. Add to that, locals strongly advising me to stay away from Rakhine. Foreign government’s advice (including my own) is one thing; listening to locals is another.

Bagan, then?

Bagan is beautiful – and safe, according to those same locals. However, trouble is brewing, of a more natural kind. A typhoon is headed this way. Unless I have oodles of time to sit out flight delays and cancellations, better move on.

Oodles of time. If only! 

I book a flight out for the next morning. Myanmar, on the whole, will have to wait.

But Yangon is right here, right now. And I intend to make the most of it.

Yangon

Yangon is a city that rewards wandering. Especially the kind of wandering where you think you are going to see one thing, and then three minutes later you are ankle-deep in incense smoke, calculating the Burmese kyat equivalent of a ‘bargain’,  and accidentally buy a small carved elephant.

My wandering begins at the Shwedagon Pagoda and ends, improbably, at a peculiar place called Happy World. In between is a delightful surprise. In gold, of course.

The Shwedagon’s Golden Gravity

Shwedagon Pagoda is the most famous landmark in Yangon, probably in all of Myanmar.

Yangon’s soul glows from the top of Singuttara Hill.

The Shwedagon pagoda doesn’t just sit on a hill; it practically exerts a gravitational pull. You round a corner, and there it is: glowing, serene, and radiating the kind of energy that makes you rethink your relationship with jewellery.

It is wrapped in 24k gold, this pagoda, and crowned with diamonds and rubies. It shimmers differently throughout the day, a local who works a cart across the street tells me. ‘Warm at sunrise, fiery at noon, and celestial at dusk,’ he says. Quite poetic, he is.

Its presence is immediate. Not just visually, although no other structure in Yangon quite commands the horizon like it, but in the atmosphere around it. Even before I reach the platform, it hits my senses: vendors arranging small mountains of jasmine garlands, monks in maroon robes quietly murmuring mantras, the scent of incense drifting down the stairways, the ringing of spinning prayer wheels across the plaza, and not least, gold as far as the eye can see – on the pagoda itself, and on dozens of smaller shrines. Everywhere, groups of people are chatting in open pavilions, a few even out in the rain. Some are praying or meditating, others are resting or reading. Devotion mixed with everyday life.

Me, I’m just standing in the rain, watching all the gold against the grey foreboding sky.

Birds and more birds

Across the street from the pagoda, I spot a lake. And pigeons. Full battalions of them. In fact, if the Shwedagon has an unofficial animal mascot, it must surely be the pigeon. They assemble on the rooftops, swirl over the markets in dramatic spirals, and parade across the ground like tiny, feathered security staff. If they could wear hi-vis vests, they probably would.

But not only pigeons.

Along the street, I see vendors selling tiny birds in tiny bamboo cages: sparrows, mynas or finches, hopping restlessly inside. They are sold for the Buddhist practice of merit-release, where a person frees a living creature as an act of compassion. It’s about gaining merit while symbolically easing suffering. Originally, this was a gentle, spontaneous gesture: rescuing an animal that was trapped or in danger.

In this modern urban setting, though, the practice has shifted. Many of the birds are now caught specifically to be sold and released, in a never-ending cycle where they are recaptured again and again. For many locals, this is a small, important ritual of hope and blessing in daily life. For the vendors it means livelihood.

It is an ethically complicated issue, this. Conservation groups in Myanmar are concerned about the stress on wild populations and the health risks for the birds.

Similar merit-release practices are found in Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam, and parts of China, where birds, fish, or turtles are released as symbolic acts of compassion, often with the same mix of spiritual intention and ecological concern.

Meanwhile, the pigeons have declined to participate in this cycle. They are fully unionised and entirely self-employed.

Forming musical notes above the pagoda.

The park, the monk and the monument

A monk in a maroon robe approaches me, offering to show me around. I normally prefer to walk around by myself, and must have declined hundreds of ‘guides’ through the years. But there’s something about a Buddhist monk. Something slightly intriguing. So I give in. Fully expecting him to ask for a tip at the end. And he does. Only he calls it a donation to his monastery. Is it? Buddha only knows. Either way, fair enough.

I follow him, and soon find myself in a little green oasis: a calm lakeside park, with reflective waters and scattered benches. The air is softer and the traffic less noisy here. I can hear my own thoughts again.

The pigeons follow along. Perhaps out of curiosity, perhaps to supervise.

The view of the Shwedagon Pagoda across the lake: unmatched!

Some of the caged-bird sellers have set up near the park entrance, where pilgrims buy a bird to release over the lake with a whispered prayer. I watch the little creature burst out of the cage, and flutter over the water. A brief moment of freedom.

The monk then directs me to a monument. Golden figures around a tall, stone obelisk, a heroic tableau of collective effort. The monument is in honour of collective labour, he tells me. And national unity.

Teamwork: captured mid-pose and coated in gold

Spot the plaque on the right? In Burmese script, it says something along these lines:

This park is for public well-being. It exists thanks to the diligence of workers and the guidance of civic leaders. This monument symbolises the shared strength and cooperation of the people. May this place bring benefit and rest to all who visit.

Back on the street, pigeons are organising a conference in the middle of the road. Traffic halts, natch.

Not your ordinary shopping mall

Just past the Shwedagon Pagoda, is this unusual structure.

Another temple, going down a hill and across the road?

Not quite.

On the inside it looks like a royal reception hall that somehow has accidentally become a shopping arcade:

Golden columns. Carved teak ceilings. Huge framed paintings of the Buddha, lining the upper balconies. A sense of grandeur so theatrical, I expect a king to descend a staircase with two attendants and a pair of well-trained elephants.

Mais non! No king, no elephants. Instead, hair scrunchies, monk robes, jade bracelets, lacquerware, plastic toy swords, little Buddha statues, and a man insisting I need a giant folding fan. (I manage to resist.)

Across the street, the stairway continues:

This market hall is a temple-adjacent bazaar that is part devotional supply shop, part tourist souk, part fever-dream interior design experiment.

Why do pagodas have markets?

In Myanmar, major Buddhist sites have always been community hubs. Pilgrims need offerings. Families need a place to buy snacks and umbrellas. Monks need robes. Tourists need fridge magnets. Over time, the makeshift stalls solidified into full-blown pavilions so ornate they could double as palace sets in a historical drama. So temple markets grew organically, in the time-honoured way markets do:

1. Someone sets out a tray of flowers to sell.
2. Someone else thinks, ‘Well, if he’s selling flowers, I’m selling peanuts’.
3. Suddenly there are 200 vendors and someone’s great-uncle is renting out space on the steps.

Over time, these ad-hoc stalls were formalised into actual buildings. Here, the result is something spectacularly overbuilt for its function, in a very cool way: a bazaar that looks like it should be hosting a coronation rather than selling keychains.

The artwork above? Scenes from the Buddha’s life, animals, kings, celestial beings. Basically, it is a 360° illustrated manuscript, in the middle of a shopping area. Only in Yangon do you buy a bag of peanuts beneath a mural of Prince Siddhartha taming an unruly elephant.

Loving the layered contrast here:

• Above me is a museum-worthy gallery and a forest of golden columns.
• Around me are people bargaining enthusiastically.
• Beneath me are tiles that must absolutely have seen some things through the years.
• Inside me is the sinking suspicion I am about to buy something I do not need but will hopefully cherish anyway.

It is noisy, warm, crowded, and gloriously, delightfully chaotic.

No shoes, no socks, no shorts, no mini-skirts, no running, no begging, no noise, no Tik-Tok, etc – definitely not your average shopping centre

Everyday Yangon

The rain has let up. I walk past leafy residential streets, and small side streets where laundry is swaying in the wind. Small teashops with wobbling plastic stools, rattle with spoons and conversation. Along the street, vendors are arranging pyramids of oranges and dragonfruit. Steamed peanuts, grilled corn, and fresh sugarcane juice are for sale. The soft hum of daily movement is all around me.

I pass monasteries where young novices sweep courtyards, shaded parks, and open fields where kids are playing football.

And then, somehow, Happy World

A small amusement park appears. Inside, it feels oddly in limbo between decades.

I’m weirdly drawn to these cute and creepy creatures

Families wander between small rides, children run around, teenagers exit joyfully from what looks like a ghost ride with skeletons suspended above.

My experience of Yangon, in a nutshell

Yangon, it turns out, is a city that doesn’t ask you to choose between serenity and energy. It offers both, in one easily walkable stretch from the majestic Shwedagon Pagoda to the retro charm of Happy World, two landmarks that could not be more different, yet feel surprisingly connected.

Sacred gold and whirling lights in Yangon is a post from Sophie's World

My journey from Dhaka, the wild and relentless capital, to Cox’s Bazar, home to the world’s longest natural beach and more than one million Rohingya refugees from neighbouring Myanmar, has been a ride through contrasts: concrete and coastline, noise and silence, pandemonium and peace.

Dhaka: the city that never sleeps

I begin in Dhaka, a city that is very much alive. In fact, it feels like all the 10 million lives here are on the move, simultaneously. It’s everything at once, this city: colourful, exasperating, loud, almost hypnotising. It doesn’t ease you in; it throws you into the deep end and dares you to swim.

The air hums with rickshaw bells, calls to prayer, and most ear-shattering of all, a non-stop cacophony of car horns. If you are inside one of those cars, in a seemingly forever-lasting traffic jam, headphones will serve you well. But not if you’re out walking in all this madness. Then, you’ll need your wits about you.

It is overwhelming at first. But as so often in life, if you stop trying to control it and just go with the flow, the rhythm of the city begins to make sense. And there’s something defiant about this place. It’s interesting.

Dhaka University

First stop is Dhaka University, the intellectual soul of Bangladesh, with a sprawling campus, all leafy and serene. A striking contrast to the rest of the city. The university has been closed down several times as a reaction to student protests.

The Red Fort and the ghosts of Mughal days

Built in the 17th century by the Mughal prince Muhammad Azam, Lalbagh Fort, better known as the Red Fort, is a stunning reminder of Dhaka’s past.

Long red-brick walls surround the landscaped grounds, with modern-day Dhaka as a contrasting backdrop. In the middle of the property, is the melancholic mausoleum of Pari Bibi, whose tragic death left the fort unfinished.

Pari Bibi was the favourite daughter of Shaista Khan, governor of the province back in the 17th century. When she died unexpectedly, her father was heart-broken and built this mausoleum in her honour: 8 rooms, with the tomb in the middle – all marble, glossy tiles, and a copper dome. A pink Taj Mahal.

It’s quiet here this morning. A few families have picnics in the grass. Kids are chasing pigeons. Ambling slowly through, I imagine I’ve time-travelled back 300 years, passing Mughal nobles along the paths.

Wandering through Old Dhaka

My time-travel continues outside the fort, in Old Dhaka, the historic core. It is a labyrinth of narrow lanes, crowded and full of life, a maze of spice shops and faded century-old buildings with peeling shutters, that seem to lean in to listen.

The place is buzzing: the sound of fruit carts pushed along the asphalt, hawkers shouting prices in rapid-fire Bangla, the smell of freshly fried water chestnuts. Rowdy, and atmospheric.

I stop by Shankhari Bazaar, all jewellery shops and Hindu temples hidden between houses. From hand-carved doors to intricate bangles, the artistry here tells centuries-old stories.

The Pink Palace by the river

Moving right along, my next stop is Ahsan Manzil, the Pink Palace. Faded grandeur at its finest. The rosy façade glows beautifully in the afternoon light.

Now a museum, this oh-so-photogenic landmark along the Buriganga River was once home to, and official seat of, the Nawabs, Dhaka’s royal family.

Inside are opulent rooms, filled with chandeliers, antique furniture, and old portraits that seem to look right back at you, always a bit disconcerting. Out on the balcony, I hear the low whir of boats and ferries on the river. Dhaka in motion.

Life along the Buriganga

It is a country of waterways, this – with more than 700 rivers. In Bangladesh, it is as natural to get out on the water, as it is getting on a train in India. An integral part of the experience.

Boatmen steer small wooden sampans along, traders load goods, commuters crowd on the ferries, children play along the banks. Like the Ganges River, the Buriganga is sacred to Bangladesh’s Hindu population.

At Sadarghat, the port, ferries, cargo boats, and tiny sampans compete for space with movement, always movement. It is oddly mesmerising. The ferries and old steamers bring people – tourists and locals alike – on journeys along the river to the Sundarbans National Park and other locations around the country.

 I’m reminded of the ships along the Nile, docked one next to another, so you have to go through other boats to go ashore.

Sadly, the Buriganga is not as idyllic as it looks. It used to be drinking water, now it is massively polluted. Rubbish of every kind: chemical waste from factories, household refuse, medical waste, dead animals, sewage, and not least, the forever-present menace that is plastic… most of it ends up in this river.

I try not to think about that, as I watch the water glisten under the fading light.

It is getting late. Rush hour. A distance that should normally take about 20 minutes, takes nearly 2 hours. Give me strength!

Cox’s Bazar: the calm after the storm

After a few days in the whirlwind that is Dhaka, it is time to head south. A one-hour flight later, and I’m on the southern edge of Bangladesh, by the Bay of Bengal. In Cox’s Bazar, everything slows down, and the land gives way to the sea. Salt is in the air. The horizon stretches forever. City madness fades into waves and wind.

 Rickshaws waiting for customers at Cox’s Bazar airport

After the frenzy of Bangladesh’s capital, the rhythm of the ocean feels like exhaling after holding your breath for a while. Long, slow exhales.

For the days here in Cox’s Bazar, I have traded solo travel for company. We are a small NomadMania group, about to explore this part of the country. Part of our journey here – and my main reason for travelling to Bangladesh in the first place – is to visit a Rohingya refugee camp.

The camps are sensitive, protected environments, and visits are highly restricted.  Unauthorised entry puts us and the refugees at risk, so no one can just waltz in on their own.

Map of the many Rohingya refugee camps that stretch over the hills near Ukhiya and Kutupalong.

We must go through the proper legal, ethical, and humanitarian channels, and obtain the necessary permit from the Office of Refugee Relief and Repatriation Commissioner in Cox’s Bazar. Journalists and influencers are not allowed to visit the camps. Good thing I’m neither…

As it turns out, we get a limited permit for the next day, allowing us to visit one of the camps and market only. Any closer contact is off limits. Better than nothing, I suppose.

Dinner is at Ocean Dine, across the street from our hotel. Tastes like Indian food to me, but then I don’t claim to be a foodie. Peculiarly, food is served as it is cooked, so everyone at the table is served at different times. Patience is required.

Good night, Cox’s Bazar

The Reclining Buddha

Next morning, we start the day easy, with a stop in Ramu, a small Buddhist village about 10 kilometres inland from Cox’s Bazar, filled with pagodas and monasteries. It’s Friday afternoon, and the atmosphere here is tranquil and reverent, but also lively.

The highlight is Buddha, all 30 metres of him. One of the largest reclining Buddha statues in the world, this giant golden figure is lazing amidst lush greenery, gleaming in the sunlight.

Monks walk quietly along the temple paths, saffron robes vivid against the forest backdrop. The smell of incense pervades the air.

A glimpse into the Rohingya refugee camps

It’s time to travel to the refugee camp. I feel a need to see and understand, mixed with an ever so slight apprehension. I have worked in the field before, and know this will probably be both interesting and uncomfortable.

These refugee camps exist because more than a million Rohingya people have been forced to flee their homes in Rakhine State in Myanmar, after decades of persecution, discrimination, and repeated waves of violence. They are a Muslim minority, denied Myanmar citizenship, the right to move, and any kind of basic protection.

In 2017, Myanmar’s military launched a large-scale crackdown, described by the UN as having genocidal intent. As a result, more than 700,000 Rohingya fled across the border to Bangladesh, where they are sheltered in large, densely populated camps, primarily here in Cox’s Bazar.

Home in Myanmar, the political and security situation for the Rohingya remain unresolved, so here they are, and here they will stay for the foreseeable future, stateless and homeless.

You can imagine what that does to people. Hundreds of thousands living in extremely dense conditions, with very limited clean water, food, sanitation and healthcare. Frequent outbreaks of various diseases, malnutrition, especially amongst children. Few, if any, opportunities to work and be self-sufficient. Hardly any schooling for the kids. High risk of domestic violence and human trafficking, as well as environmental risks, including landslides and flooding. And most pervasive of all: uncertainty. No prospect of a stable future.

Being aware

We, just passing through, need to be aware that these camps are home to traumatised people. No interviewing refugees, no photos of people. No handing out money or gifts, or enter anyone’s shelters.

As expected, it is a challenging visit: tens of thousands of makeshift shelters, children playing in the dust, women carrying water under the blazing sun… bearing witness to this is overwhelming enough. My imagination does not stretch far enough to picture being in their shoes.

Yet, amidst all the hardship, there is resilience and creativity. From experience, I know donated clothes abound, so much, it’s sometimes necessary to put a stop to receiving.

When I spot donated clothes and backpacks re-sold at the market here, I have to smile.

Couldn’t help myself

As we leave the camp, I need a minute to clear my head. I close my eyes and disengage from the conversation in the van.

South to Teknaf

Continuing further south, we head to Teknaf, the last tip of mainland Bangladesh where the Naf River marks the border between Bangladesh and Myanmar. Along the winding coastal roads, we pass green hills, and glimpses of fishing villages.

At Teknaf, small wooden boats cross the grey-green river, water shimmering under the sun. There’s a quiet melancholy here, a sense of standing at the edge of something vast and uncertain. What would it be like, fleeing from the other side of the river here, not knowing when, or even if, you will ever be able to return to your home, your country…

Teknaf is also the extreme southeastern part of Bangladesh, and a DARE region (Distinctive Alternative Remote Extremes) on NomadMania, so that’s a fun little extra for travel geeks.

The longest beach in the world

Back on the sightseeing circuit, Cox’s Bazar has the longest natural sea beach in the world, a 120km stretch of golden sand. It seems to go on forever, merging into mist where the sky meets the water. The sound of waves mingles with that of seabirds, the aroma of grilled fish is in the salty air.

At night, it is a different story. As the sun sets, the whole beach glows amber, and families stroll along the surf. Lots of laughter and photo snapping. Our pale faces are coveted motifs.

Sunset over the world’s longest beach

We end the day on the hotel rooftop.

Birthday cake. And Sprite. It’s Friday.

Final day

Earlier in the post, I said getting out on the water is an integral part of experiencing Bangladesh. Better follow up on that, then. The last morning in Cox’s Bazar, we visit the fish market –

– and take a boat –

– across to Moheshkali Island, home of 400,000 people and a Hindu Temple, dedicated to the god Shiva.

Adinath Temple

Back in town, we have a final lunch together, and yet another birthday cake for me.

Pedro, organiser extraordinaire 

Reflections: two sides of the same country

From Dhaka’s dizzying chaos to Cox’s Bazar’s gentle waves, this trip across Bangladesh has been a journey of striking differences: turbulence and tranquility, struggle and grace, modern ambition and ancient calm. It doesn’t try to charm you, this country. It just is, raw and real.

Dhaka is dense, noisy, and alive any which way you turn. Cox’s Bazar is wide open, and meditative. Between the two lies a story of resilience, humanity, and heart, and I am reminded travel isn’t always about being on the move. Sometimes, it’s about presence: watching, listening, and letting a place reveal itself at its own pace.

If you ever find yourself wanting an authentic and unfiltered experience, start in Dhaka, end in Cox’s Bazar, and let Bangladesh surprise you.

A few Bangladesh practicals

Getting there and getting around:

• Daily one-hour flights from Dhaka to Cox’s Bazar with US-Bangla, Biman Bangladesh and Novoair, or
• 10–12 hours by bus or private car: scenic but tiring
• CNGs (rickshaws on compressed natural gas) are inexpensive and easy to flag down, both in Dhaka and Cox’s Bazar

Where to stay:

• In Dhaka, I checked out The Way and Grand Palace, both good, though I’d recommend the latter, it’s in the midst of the food and fun scene.
• In Cox’s Bazar, we stayed at Ocean Paradise hotel, also good – and on the beach.

Best Time to Visit:

• November – March is sunny and pleasant.
• June – September is monsoon season.

Bangladesh: from the chaos of Dhaka to the calm of Cox’s Bazar is a post from Sophie's World

Late afternoon in Lima’s historic centre feels almost cinematic. The sun dips low, painting the façades of colonial buildings in amber light. At first, the air hums with that unhurried rhythm that only cities by the sea seem to have.

That’s about to change very soon.

This time, I am stopping over in Lima just for an evening, so better make the most of it. And you know world heritage sites intrigue me, so Lima’s historic centre it is. My plan is to walk along El Jirón de la Unión, from Plaza San Martin to Plaza de Armas.

It’s a late Sunday afternoon in September; the weather is pleasant… I expect the old-town pedestrian thoroughfare to be lively. However, it seems to be lively on a different level today. Getting livelier by the minute, actually.

At Plaza San Martín, elegant white buildings curve around the square like an open-air theatre. At its centre stands General San Martín, high on a pedestal. The bronze figure of Peru’s liberator catches the last glow of the day.

At one end of the square, people are flocking around a man with a microphone. More and more join. I move towards the edge of the crowd to see what’s going on. On the ground in front of me, is this sign:

Together against the dictatorship (slightly misspelled, but I get the drift). In defence of the homeland, life and freedom. Only the people can save the people.

Those are words I can get behind.

I don’t catch his full message, but I hear words like corrupción, exigir, pensión, repreción, libertad…  It doesn’t take much to guess their beef with the government.

I’m half expecting to see the ghost of Che Guevara just behind him, and get a little caught up in it. Have to keep myself in check. I’m not a rebel. Not today. Move along.

Lima’s Historic Centre: from San Martín to La Merced

Back in the present, shopfronts gleam beneath carved balconies, and the scent of fresh pastries mingles with music from street performers. Michael Jackson imitators are particularly prevalent. Quite a few good dancers here.

A few blocks along, I spot an unusual pink and white building with a delightfully over-the-top entrance. This is Iglesia y Convento La Merced, a Baroque masterpiece.

The façade is a swirl of columns and statues, the details so intricate they seem to ripple in the fading light. It’s a very cool effect that can’t really be captured by a still shot.

Should I go in? Religion and politics all in one late afternoon… Yeh, why not!

As I step inside, the world changes. Suddenly, there is silence!

The atmosphere is hushed. And luminous! Golden altars gleam beneath high vaulted ceilings, and flickering candles cast soft shadows across the marble floor. It looks ornate – and a bit somber.

A quiet pause from the outside

Towards Plaza de Armas

As dusk settles, I continue towards Plaza de Armas, Lima’s historic core, said to be one of the most beautiful squares in South America. I can’t really tell you – or show you, because it has been cordoned off, armed guards at every entrance.

So no Cathedral of Lima to be seen by yours truly today. No Government Palace or glittering fountains.

Instead, I stop by Casa O’Higgins, where the Chilean hero lived and died. An art exhibition is on, Economia Creativa, and I’m drawn in by all the pinkness.

Lima After Dark

Returning to Plaza San Martín, the protesters seem to have given up. Or so I think…

By evening, the city feels transformed. The statues stand tall in the glow of the streetlamps; the colonial buildings shimmer, and somewhere nearby, I hear a guitarist playing in the night. A waltz. My feet take on a life on their own, and I’m not alone. 1-2-3, 1-2-3!

The square looks prettier in the dark. Even the general seems less foreboding up on his horse there.

Lima’s historic centre doesn’t sleep, it seems. It glows, and invites me to linger just a little longer before the night truly begins.

Young protesters in Lima’s historic centre

But I have a plane to catch and head back to my lodgings. Then things happen…

It appears those anti-government protesters didn’t go home. Instead, they are on their way to the Palacio de Justicia, which happens to be just across the street from my hotel. I’m right behind them, keeping a distance.

Even from my room high up, I can hear the shouting, and step out on the balcony. Fighting is going on. Smoke. Bombs going off. All of a sudden, the top floor doesn’t seem so safe, so I go downstairs. More join. More shouting, more confrontations. Anger, frustration, shouting turning to shoving. The atmosphere becomes increasingly chaotic, more and more scuffles breaking out.

I’m on my way out the front door, when the concierge stops me with a ‘please don’t’. I reckon he has seen this before and knows what he’s talking about, so I obey; counter intuitive as that is.

Then the police arrives in full force, with sirens blaring. On foot, on motorcycles, in cars, in busses. First time I have seen police busses.

Protesters are now throwing firebombs at the police, who responds with sprays of tear gas and pellets to control the crowd. Through the glass doors, I see people covering their faces.

After a while, the protestors are outnumbered. Can’t help but wonder what happens to them at the police station – or wherever they are taken.

Things calm down, and I can finally sleep. The next morning, I read about clashes between thousands of young people demonstrating against the government, fuelled by issues like private pension reform (enacted yesterday, 20 September), political instability, and rising violent crime. More here.

An unexpected twist – and a learning experience – to end my Andean journey this time.

Homeward-bound

Historic Centre of Lima is a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Here are more UNESCO World Heritage sites we have visited around the world.

Lima’s historic centre at dusk: a walk with a twist is a post from Sophie's World

So what to do with a few days instead?

Where, within reasonable travelling distance, have I not yet been?

Quito in 18 stories

Ecuador, that’s where! 15 minutes later, flights are sorted.

No sooner said than done

That turns out to be a great decision. Hidden high in the Andes, at nearly 2,850 metres altitude, Quito is one captivating little city, and the second highest capital in the world (only beaten by La Paz).

Looking for culture, history, and a little sweetness on the side? Look no further. Quito is the place for you. It is compact, easy to get around, very walkable, with fab architecture and dramatic mountain views all round.

Quito’s Old Town: colonial splendour meets Andean charm

Quito’s beating heart is Centro histórico, the old town, one of the most beautiful and best-preserved colonial districts in all of Latin America. In fact, it was one of the first two cities in the world to be declared a UNESCO World Heritage site back in 1978 (alongside Kraków), and it is not hard to see why. Many colonial cities have traded that old-world charm for nondescript modernisation, but not Quito, oh no! She has fiercely protected her history.

It is a vibrant, chaotic maze of narrow cobbled streets, Baroque churches and colonial houses in bright white or shades of pastel.

The heart of the beating heart is Plaza Grande. You could spend several hours walking around here alone. I do, gawking at colourful balconies dripping with geraniums, and drinking juice at the many outdoor cafes – trying every juice on the menus, in fact. Watermelon is a favourite. And papaya. And mint.

I snap hundreds of photos, browse through shops, cheer on street performers, walk past old monasteries (cause you simply cannot go inside everyone, it’s that many). I get lost in the side streets and hidden courtyards, and most of all, observe life as it passes by this busy square.

There are lots of uniforms here – metropolitan police, national police, tourist police, military, and various patrol guards. The heavily guarded Palacio de Carondelet, the Presidential Palace, is no exception.

My Quito accoms

Got lucky with my accommodations in this city. I booked a room at Friends Hotel & Rooftop for the first night, simply because there was no availability for the following nights.

This friendly place (pun intended) is a few blocks’ walk from Plaza Grande, on a quiet side street, and feels more like a hostel than a hotel – in the best possible way. (And no, nothing sponsored here – or anywhere – in Quito.)

Spot the little blackboard? Gotta love it!

The next day, I move on to Patio Andaluz, an upscale boutique hotel in the middle of it all – at a last-minute inexpensive price. It is located in a gorgeous 16th century colonial building just off Plaza Grande – and it has a chocolate shop with free tastings!

The indoor patio is lovely, the chess tables placed along the balustrade challenge the holiday laze, and the sunroom on top makes me want to stretch like a cat in a sun-warmed spot.

The golden glow of Quito’s churches

Quito is a city of churches. Many, many churches. They are all over the old town, and they are not just places of worship, they are architectural wonders. It is quite difficult to choose which ones of these golden masterpieces to step inside for a closer look.

But choose I must. First, I stop by Iglesia de el Sagrario, because as I walk past, it kinda draws me in.

Then, the majestic Quito Cathedral on Plaza Grande seems the logical choice.

La Iglesia de la Compañía de Jesús: the even more golden church

Yale, the friendly receptionist at Friends Hotel has recommendations, and one in particular: La Iglesia de la Compañía de Jesús.

Jesus’ own church is shining. Literally! The interior of this Jesuit church is almost entirely covered in 23-karat gold leaf, more than 50 kg of it! Add intricate carvings, dramatic altars, twisted columns, and patterns that remind me of Morocco… this is jaw-dropping Baroque excess at its finest.

A guide that is included in the entrance fee, shows me to a lift and soon, we are on the roof, surrounded by gorgeous green and white ceramic-tiled domes.

This is the place to see Quito in 360°: red-tiled roofs, narrow streets, colonial plazas. If the weather is clear, you might even see the peak of Cotopaxi, one of the highest volcanoes in the world.

From the roof, I spot El San Francisco – a huge Franciscan complex: 13 cloisters, 3 churches, 3,500+ religious art pieces, and a library with thousands of books and historic documents. And a spacious plaza. Phew!

And here is Basilica del Voto Nacional, the largest neo-Gothic cathedral in all of the Americas.

Still more records: On the horizon, I see El Panecillo Hill and Mary with wings: she is the tallest aluminium statue in the world.

A sweet pause at the coolest eatery in Quito

All this history, all those churches. I think a sweet break is in order.

I have heard raving tales about Heladeria San Agustin, and go looking for it. The name suggests it is near Iglesia San Agustin, which I have passed a few times already. And the address is Calle Guyaquil, one of the city’s main thoroughfares. It should be easy enough to find this quirky ice cream shop, but you know me… I can get lost in my own back yard. I walk up and down the street a few times, both sides of it, before the door is staring me in the face.

There it is: a 167-year-old ice cream shop!

This traditional ice cream parlour in Quito’s historic centre has been serving helado de paila for generations.

I adore the interior: tiled floors, polished wooden counters, vintage mirrors, nostalgic details, all in a warm, timeless atmosphere. It feels like I have been transported back to the Belle Époque in this kaleidoscope of old-world hues and textures.

The real stars here are helado de taxo (banana & passionfruit), naranjilla or guanábana – local fruits turned into creamy scoops of joy, the ancient Andean way: hand-stirred in copper pans over ice.

But they also have a comprehensive lunch menu. Which suits me just fine.

Chicken and virgin mojito

When I go to the counter to pay, Friar Andres hands me a sweet; looks innocent enough…

Sweet and boozy keeps the demons away

Quito practicals and fun facts

Transportation: I’m walking everywhere, but other travellers I meet tells me Uber is the thing here in Quito. It works well and is usually cheaper – and safer, especially at night – than hailing a taxi along the street.

Altitude: You’re high up, so take it easy to begin with. Stay hydrated and stay away from alco until you are acclimatised.

***********

Fun Fact 1: Quito is the closest capital city to the equator. The imaginary 0° latitude line passes through the northern parts of the city.

Fun fact 2: Because of the altitude, water boils at only about 90°C instead of 100°C.

Fun fact 3: Since Quito lies in a narrow Andean valley (over 40km long, but only a few km wide), the streets and neighbourhoods are long and winding.

Fun Fact 4: Dollar coins. US dollar coins, that is. Turns out they are not used much (or at all?) in the USA. Can’t think why not. Coins are much more efficient than paper.

3 days is normally fine to get a halfway decent first impression of a city. Would have loved to stay a few more days in Quito, though.

Could’a, would’a, should’a stayed a bit longer. 

City of Quito is a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Here are more UNESCO World Heritage sites we have visited around the world.

Time did not forget Quito is a post from Sophie's World

High in the Bolivian Andes, where the air is thinner and the light turns everything to gold, is Lake Titicaca, the highest-altitude navigable lake on this planet.

I have hopped on a bus from Puno on the Peruvian side of the lake, towards its Bolivian shores. Along the way, the bus stops at a money exchange, quaintly named Your Small Bank, so I can get some bolivianos. Cash still rules in these parts.

My first glimpse of Lake Titicaca from the Bolivian side. Even a border town looks pretty with that view.

Border formalities are easy enough, if a bit time-consuming. It’s a popular crossing.

I am here to hike on Isla del Sol, so let’s head out in the lake, to the first ever place the sun appeared. So say the Incas. And why not? It is no less plausible than claims by any other religion.

But first, the gateway.

Copacabana

On this side of Lake Titicaca, is cute and colourful Copacabana. The original one, that gave name to the beach in Rio, centuries later. Copacabana – or kata kahuana – means view of the lake.

This chill little town is more than just a stepping stone to the mystical island, though. It’s a place I would have liked to linger for a while.

Life on the lakeshore

In the heart of Copacabana is the so-white-it-hurts-your-eyes Basilica of Our Lady, a striking blend of Moorish arches and Andean devotion. Pilgrims come from across Bolivia and Peru to honour the Virgin. She performs miracles, yo. Just like the one in Medugorje.

Outside, locals bring their cars to be blessed! They drape them in flowers, ribbons, and tiny bottles of champagne.

 Next stop is the market, where fresh fruit abounds. I’m curious about the red bananas. Turns out, they taste of raspberry, and brim with betakaroten, iron, potassium and Vitamin C.

Moving right along, we find Paseo de las Pasancallas, where you can buy… why, pasancallas, of course. This popcorn-like local snack is so popular, an entire street is dedicated to the trade.

Look up, and you’ll see a cross high up on a hill. This is Cerro Calvario, named after Calvary Hill, just outside Jerusalem, where a world-famous execution is said to have taken place, some 2,000 years ago.

My guide for the day, Rudi, tells me the path up to Calvario winds past small shrines, marked by offerings and flickering candles. From the summit, Copacabana spreads out below like a painting: whitewashed walls, terracotta roofs, the shimmering lake. That little trek would have been a perfect prelude to what awaits across the water. I wish I were staying in town overnight.

The Road to Calvary

But my time is limited, so a stroll to the lake front will have to do. That, and lunch. A 3-hour bus journey makes you hungry.

Along Avenida 6 de Agosto, Copacabana’s main street, hostels, cafés, and craft stalls line the road, selling handmade textiles, steaming bowls of quinoa soup and everything in between.

Lunch is at Juyra, this cheerful little restaurant along the avenida. I can recommend Lake Titicaca trout.

Crossing to the home of the sun

It’s 13.30 and time to catch the boat.

Down in the harbour, the air is crisp, and the blue lake looks like glass, surrounded by rolling hills and faraway snow peaks. It’s silent out here; all I hear is the gentle putter of the engine. On the horizon, the water merges with the sky. I can see why the Incas believed this place was sacred.

After 1.5 hours, we dock at the southern end of the island, where the only way onward is a steep hill with stone steps carved out.

‘Ready to climb to the top?’ asks Rudi, reminding me to take it slow, as we’re at 3,800-metre altitude.

‘It will only take 1 hour,’ he says. ‘Maybe a little more. Although,’ he continues, ‘I hiked with a man a few days ago. It took 3 hours to the top. But then he was almost 60.’

Hm, maybe I should have mentioned…

Up we go! 

That is our boat down there

Templo del Sol

A ways up, is the Temple of the Sun, on a western ridge above the lake.

Rough stone walls aligned with the sun’s path, overlook the endless blue below. The structure is simple yet oddly powerful, despite the missing top floor. It collapsed, possibly due to looting in the era of the Spanish conquistadores.

Standing there in the wind, I imagine an Inca priestess lighting fires at dawn, greeting the day, as the first rays of sunlight rise over Lake Titicaca.

View from the temple – and food for the imagination

Along the path are stone terraces and patches of greenery. The air smells of eucalyptus. And earth.

On top is Yumani, one of two villages on the island. It looks like a relaxing place to hang out and just take in the views. Terraces curl around the hillsides, herders guide donkeys…

Did the climb in 40 minutes!! Altitude sickness, you’ve got nothing on me. (Never mind, my legs feel like jello.)

 The Sacred Spring and the Escalera del Inca

We wander along, and soon reach an ancient stairway with uneven steps, each one polished smooth by centuries of feet.

About halfway down, is the Fuente del Inca, an old Inca fountain built into a mossy stone wall.

Cool water pours from three carved spouts, each representing one of the Inca’s guiding principles: ama sua, ama llulla, ama quella. Do not steal, do not lie, do not be lazy, in Quechua.

I’m a bit surprised the last one isn’t ‘do not kill’. Being lazy is a worse sin?

Locals say the water has healing powers. Drinking it can bring good fortune or even eternal youth. I’ll settle for listening to the sound of the steady trickle of the spring. It’s an inviting little nook here. I could easily lose track of time.

But I have a boat to catch. Last one of the day. Before I walk down the Inca Stairway, I stop for a final look at the landscape below: terraced fields, adobe houses, and a sweeping view of the lake that glimmers all the way to the Andes.

 Back in the day, the Inca Stairway was used for ceremonial processions. It connected the sacred waters below with the temples in the hills above.

Along the escalera, stand the mythical Manco Cápac and Mama Ocllo, children of the sun good Inti, siblings (and spouses), who, according to Inca legend, emerged from Lake Titicaca to bring order and civilisation to humankind. And thus the Inca kingdom was born.

Down at the dock, the lake spreads out before me, still and shining. There are no cars on the island. No engines, no noise, just the wind and the sound of footsteps.

Returning to Copacabana

Between the sacred stories, the sapphire lake, and the quiet rhythm of the island, well, it certainly feels like there is something ancient and enduring here, a quiet reminder to slow down enough to notice it.

The boat journey back to Copacabana is also quiet. For the whole trip, I am all alone on the roof of the boat.

The sun slips lower, painting the water in gold and violet. From the deck, I look back at the silhouette of the island, and think of the Inca legend about the sun. And suddenly it doesn’t seem so far-fetched that it could have been born here. Or is it the altitude talking…?

Back in Copa, I wish I had time to stop by the middle terrace there. Doesn’t it look cosy?

But the bus to Puno waits for no one. Onwards to the border!

The border gate between Bolivia and Peru

Copacabana and Isla del Sol practicals

• Getting to Copacabana: Busses run from La Paz (about 4.5 hrs) and Puno in Peru (3 hrs with a stop at the Peruvian-Bolivian border).
• Isla del Sol: boats depart Copacabana twice daily, at 08.30 and 13.30. The trip takes 1.5 hours each way. You can buy tickets at the dock for 40 Bolivianos return – ca 5EUR/6USD. (Price as at September 2025)
• Where to Stay: In Copacabana, there are guesthouses and comfortable hotels. On the island, you can stay in simple hostels in Yumani on the south side or Challapampa on the north side.
• Best Season: April – October (dry season) for clear skies and calm water.
• Bring: Water, sun cream, layers, solid shoes, and cash (no cash points/ATMs on the island).
• Altitude: 3,800 – 4,000 metres. Walk slowly and stay hydrated.

PS Isla del Sol is a NomadMania DARE region (Distinctive Alternative Remote Extremes).

Hiking the sacred Island of the Sun is a post from Sophie's World

Although I have read lots about Titicaca and the floating reed islands, I am not prepared for the surreal, quiet beauty of this mythical lake.

Puno: A city in the sky

I fly from Lima to Juliaca. Five minutes after landing, I’m on a bus to Puno. On board, a passenger manifest is passed around, to write our names, nationalities and passport numbers. Not sure why. Perhaps for statistical purposes.

I am the only non-local.

After an hour or so, the long-awaited sight of Lake Titicaca is just below me. Magic!

As I get out of the bus, the air is crisp and fresh. It practically invites a run towards the lake. Seems I have forgotten that Titicaca is higher than 3,800 metres above sea level. Soon I have trouble taking deep belly breaths. I need a minute. A walk around the city centre is in order.

Puno is not exactly glamorous. It’s a bit gritty, actually. Chaotic. Still, it is charming in its own way, with cheerful markets, dusty streets, music everywhere, and people in traditional dress going about their daily lives. It feels like a place of transitions, between land and lake. Old and new. Ordinary and mystical.

Festividad Virgen de la Candelaria is an annual cultural/religious festival here in Puno, declared Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity by UNESCO. It is celebrated in January/February, but the sign is up even now, in September. Probably permanent. And no wonder. Looks vibrant and happy.

On Lake Titicaca

But I am here for Lago Titicaca, the highest navigable body of water in the world. Top priority: find someone to take me to those enigmatic floating islands. I wonder how islands can float. Islands where people live, that is?

Within an hour of arriving in Puno, I jump aboard a boat, the first one I find in the harbour.

It is noon, and the sun is bright in the sky. Sitting on the boat roof, I suddenly remember I have forgotten sun cream, something I will pay for later. After all these years of travelling, I still make rookie mistakes.

We are about 10 people up here, mostly Germans and Swiss. None of them are overly loud and chatty, so the boat journey is lovely and peaceful. Above, the sky stretches endlessly. Underneath, the water shines like glass, with the distant mountains reflected on the surface.

The water soon turns into a canal of sorts, with floating vegetation all around. We pass people collecting reed. Then a colourful sign, wishing welcome!

In Aymara, Kamisaraki = How are you; Waliki = Fine, thank you

– and another one signalling a control post. No speeding here. And also, if you’re in a private boat, buy a ticket.

Then boats appear – traditional reed boats – out on the lake.

I’m reminded of my fellow countryman Thor Heyerdahl, who set off from here in Peru, to cross about 8,000 km of the Pacific Ocean to French Polynesia, on a raft made of balsa wood. You may have heard of it, the Kon-Tiki.

More islands come into view. Little patches of land floating on the water, made entirely of reed. On top are tiny little houses, watchtowers, even boats, everything made of reed, hand-crafted. Everything here feels otherworldly.

Walking on reed

We are greeted by a man and a woman in colourful dress, who help moor our boat. Warm smiles, curious eyes.

Stepping onto the island feels… weird. The ground is soft and springy, like walking on sponge.

The chief demonstrates how they build the islands. The reed is layered and replaced every few weeks. Looks like they won’t be out of work anytime soon.

The Uros have kept this way of life going for generations. One might wonder why they continue to live like this, why they don’t move to the mainland. I suppose it is in everyone’s interest to keep the lifestyle going, to attract visitors. And the production does feel a bit touristy. He has clearly told this story many times before.

But there is also something real underneath it all. They live here, these families. This unsteady island is their home. And they have chosen to open it up to people who come from far away, like me, so I can see – and understand – this lifestyle, which is so very different from mine.  So what, if money is part of the motivation…

The islanders have self-made works for sale. Woven blankets, alpaca jumpers, model houses.

Not a hard sell, though. I spot a little model of a reed boat and have to ask to buy it.

Taking it easy on a floating island

Reed boating on Lake Titicaca

Time to get out in a reed boat, a smooth, slow glide across the water. Motorised, but still…

We head for Hanan Pacha, meaning Celestial World in Quechua, self-proclaimed capital of the Uros.

There are cafes and even accommodations. Two of the Germans, a young couple, are so enthralled, they decide, spur-of-the-moment, to spend the night here.

With this little resident –

– and these surroundings…

Can’t say I blame them. 

Reflections and Realisations

Travel always teaches me something, even if I don’t necessarily realise it in the moment. Here amongst the Uros, I get a lesson in  human adaptability. There are so many different ways we can shape our world, to survive, and thrive.

Also, I am thinking about preserving a culture vs. tourism. A double-edged sword. How does a community keep their traditions alive without turning it into a performance? There’s a fine line, isn’t there? Very apparent here.

Puno and Uros Islands practicals

• Acclimatise first
• • Do as I say, not as I do: do not run the moment you get off the bus. Puno is high up. I mean really high. 3,800 metres is no laughing matter, so best to ease in. And keep drinking water.
• Bring layers – and use sun cream
  • The sun is strong during the day, but it gets proper chilly after sunset. And use the sun cream, don’t just keep it in your room. I speak from experience.
• Keep an open mind
  • Yes, it is touristy in a sense. But there is also meaning and beauty here; keep your eyes and your mind open.
• Support local artisans
  • My little reed boat is right here, a tiny reminder of this strange, other-worldly place.

My little model also reminds me of the Ra. After the Kon-Tiki expedition, Thor H. set off from Morocco to Barbados in the Ra, a boat made of reed. Papyrus reed, not Totora reed like the one here on Lake Titicaca, but its Egyptian cousin.

My Ra! The tiny thrills of life.

Will I go back?

I will, I will!

I want to see more of this enchanting lake, especially the islands further out – Taquile and Amantaní. I would like to spend a night on one of the little reed islands, staying with a local family.

And also… the feeling of walking on the springy reed ground. Unsteady at first, but once you get the hang of it, it’s like, well, floating. Exhilarating.

Meanwhile, I’m off to the other side of Lake Titicaca tomorrow, which happens to be in another country. On the Bolivian side, I will explore the island where the sun god was born, and where the sun first appeared, according to Inca mythology. And I will do a proper uphill hike. Reckon I’m all good with altitude by then.

Preview of next morning

Waking up to this magically gorgeous view from my hotel room window in Puno at 06.00am. Now imagine a slight frost in the air, crisp and clear, and early morning quiet.

Don’t you just want to run down to the lake? I do. It’s Day 2, all acclimatised. Yippee!

Waking dreams on water: Puno and the Uros Islands is a post from Sophie's World

What I couldn’t see from the train, however, was the engineering wonder that is the Landwasser Viaduct. So when I was in Liechtenstein last week, and realised it was only a one-hour drive away, well… why not?

Driving from Vaduz via Chur, I arrive at the carpark at the start of the trails. From there, you can walk in different directions to see the viaduct from various angles. I choose the way to the Landwasserviaduktaussichtspunkt (Landwasser Viaduct viewpoint), a 15-minute walk.

It’s a nice wander in the early autumn landscape…

…but I’m here for the viaduct – and the train.

Before I know it, I hear a roar above me. I look up and to the left, and soon spot a red train crossing a railway bridge up high. Is this the famed Landwasser Viaduct already?

It is not. This is the Schmittnertobel Viaduct, not as famous, but an equally striking high bridge along the same line, spanning a deep gorge. Schmittnerobel is often overlooked, but railway enthusiasts adore it. Get up close, and you’ll have similar photo opportunities and hardly another soul about.

Then, a few hundred metres on, I come to a clearing with a kiosk and a picnic area to the side – and the massive Landwasser Viaduct in front.

All fired up, ready for your barbecue

What Makes the Landwasser Viaduct So Special?

This 65-metre-high railway bridge spans across 136 metres of the Landwassertal (Landwasser Valley), on six symmetrical limestone arches.

It is a major feat of engineering, especially considering it was built 123 years ago, without modern scaffolding. And today, more than a century later, it is still in active use. Preserved legacy in motion.

What sets Landwasser apart from the other tall viaducts along the line, is the way it loops dramatically into a tunnel carved directly into the sheer cliff face. That is one jaw-dropping visual seen from down in the valley here.

The stone structure, with the graceful curve and daring cliffside tunnel, is part of the Rhaetian Railway. It is so extraordinary it was added to UNESCO’s World Heritage list in 2008.

Graubünden

But beyond this architectural masterpiece lies a region rich in culture, language, and hidden delights waiting to be explored.

The Landwasser Viaduct is more than a bridge, you see. It’s a symbol of alpine heritage, a living piece of history, and a window into the multilingual soul of Switzerland. Seeing the red Rhaetian Railway train sweep across this triumph of design, against a backdrop of towering peaks and ancient language, well, it’s simply unforgettable.

At the picnic spot by the viewpoint, I notice the writing on the tent. It is in Rhaeto-Romansch! Not often you see that.

Parc Ela – iql pi grond parc natural dalla Svizra = Parc Ela – the largest natural park in Switzerland

Looks elegant, doesn’t it – all symmetrical and curvy.

Rhaetian Railway practicals

Getting there

• By train: Take the Rhaetian Railway to the closest station, Filisur. From there, a footpath leads to the Landwasser Viewpoint (ca 25 min). The path is accessible in most seasons. Fantastic views of trains crossing the viaduct.
• By car: A 45-minute drive from Chur via A13 and Route 3. There’s a car park at Filisur train station, and one near the trailhead which I used. From there, the viewpoint Landwasserviaduktaussichtspunkt is a short walk away. (Also, don’t you just love German compounded words…)

Ways to experience the Landwasser Viaduct

On it: Take the Glacier Express or the Bernina Express – iconic panoramic trains that cross the viaduct slowly, with stunning alpine views any which way you turn.

Below it: Hike to the viewpoint for a perfect, elevated angle of the viaduct. Best photo light in the early morning or late afternoon.

Bahnmuseum Albula: The railway museum in Bergün, ca 10 minutes away by car (or train), has interactive exhibits on the history and construction of the Albula line, including models of the viaducts and tunnels.

Tips

1. Spring and autumn is great for hiking and photography, and winter gives you that snowy magic. Trains run year-round, twice every hour.
2. Don’t miss the Schmittnertobel Viaduct.
3. Remember that mountain weather changes fast. Use good shoes and layers of clothing.

Rhaetian Railway in the Albula/Bernina Landscapes is a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Here are more UNESCO World Heritage sites we have visited around the world.

Landwasser Viaduct: nature, culture and engineering is a post from Sophie's World