We wanted to see Kolkata beyond the curated routes. So we hired a local storyteller named Kauchik to take us off the usual map.

He led us through public parks, winding alleys, the flower market, even a local post office. His stories were elaborate, half-myth and half-history — things like, “In 5000 BC, the great Punjabi warrior wore a flaming mask and led one million men strong as bulls… and that’s why the post office stands here today.” I still don’t know what most of them meant. But I could have listened to him for hours.

Eventually, Kauchik brought us to a riverside bathhouse along the Ganges, now a makeshift home for dozens of families living under tarps. That’s where I met her.

A young girl — maybe 9 or 10 — standing quietly in her school uniform. She never left my side for nearly an hour.

We had brought bags of colourful markers to pass out, the kind of well-meaning gesture tourists are told is better than handing out money. The children swarmed us. The boys were louder and quicker to grab, but Kauchik gently nudged us: “Give them to the girls, not just the boys.”

I wanted to give all of them to this one girl.

She wore a gold pin on her shirt — a badge for being top of her class. She stood a little straighter because of it. I kept wondering: how long will she get to stay in school? How long before the weight of life pulls her away?

And still, I handed her markers. Cheap, cheerful, useless markers.

Everyone says not to give money. “Bring school supplies,” they advise. So I bought a thousand markers at a dollar store and felt noble about it — until I got there. Until I looked her in the eyes.

How do markers help her family eat? Why not money? Why does a stranger halfway across the world get to decide what’s right?

Even as Kauchik praised us, I felt a wave of discomfort. Righteous. Patronising. And powerless.

I keep thinking about how £100 — what Monica and I spent on dinner last week — could probably change that girl’s life.

India does this to me. Every time. It stuns me with its beauty, then kicks me in the gut. It smells like cardamom and sewage, sacred incense and raw pain. It holds joy and injustice in the same breath.

And still, I’ll keep going back. Hoping each time to understand a little more. Hoping, maybe, to find her again.

I was walking along the Corniche in Jeddah when I met them — three elegant women, all smiles and laughter, even though we shared almost no common language. They spoke no English. I spoke the tiniest bit of Arabic. And yet, by the end of our exchange, I was somehow part of their family — wrapped in photos, hugs, and a flood of joy I didn’t see coming.

This wasn’t the glossy Saudi Arabia of international renderings and architectural dreams — not mirrored megacities or flying taxis in giant cubes. This was old Saudi. Jeddah before the rebrand.

The buildings here leaned over the street like they were held together by memory and prayer. It was still deeply conservative, especially for women. But Saudi is full of contradictions — it’s changing faster than most realise. On my last trip, I rode with a female Uber driver. I’ve seen women in government, women on dates, women in boardrooms. Nearly every young Saudi I’ve met — man or woman — holds a degree from the UK or US.

But Jeddah holds tight to its past. So when I’m there, I cover up. I walk quietly. I observe.

That day, walking along the Red Sea during COVID, everything felt hushed. Until I came across these three women — radiant in black abayas, laughing on a bench by the water. They called me over. They wanted to talk. To take pictures. To ask who I was and where I came from, as I tried to string together the few words and phrases of Arabic I know.

I don’t know their names. But I know how they made me feel: welcomed, seen, connected.

Sometimes, that’s more than enough.

After a blur of planes, a 300mph train, coach rides, and taxis, I found myself in six Korean cities over five days — one of which was Daejeon.

After a sizzling dinner of Korean street BBQ, my colleague and I slipped down a narrow alley in search of the elusive Korean “one more” — one more drink, one more moment — before heading back to the hotel. That’s when we stumbled upon a tiny Japanese izakaya.

The restaurant was owned by a couple: Yuki, from Japan, who spoke Japanese and Korean, and her Korean husband, who only spoke Korean. My colleague, armed with some Japanese, asked Yuki if we could stay for just one Terra (Korean beer), even though they were clearly closing up. Yuki asked her husband, who looked unsure.

Then my colleague, knowing tradition, respectfully asked if we could buy the elder man of the house a drink — if he’d be willing to talk with us for a while. That sealed it. He nodded. We were in.

And so the night unfolded — not in one language, but four. My colleague would speak to Yuki in Japanese. Yuki would translate to her husband in Korean. He’d reply in Korean, which Yuki would translate back into Japanese. And then my colleague would translate to English for me. It sounds like a language maze, but somehow, the conversation flowed.

They showed us pictures of their children. The husband, a master sushi chef, proudly shared photos of fish he’d caught, vacations they’d taken, and the stunning Japanese garden behind their home. They’d decorated the restaurant themselves — the dried fish hanging from the ceiling? His own catches. Their pride was palpable.

In keeping with tradition, the elder never poured his own drink. He would speak, sip, and then gently push his glass forward for one of us to refill. Eventually, the Soju came out — tiny shots poured all around.

Time disappeared. And before we knew it, 2am had crept in.

We bowed. Many times. Deeply. Respectfully.

At 7am, groggy and blinking into the daylight, we boarded the coach bound for Sejong and a full day of meetings. As we pulled away, my colleague pointed down the alley.

There they were — Yuki and her husband — already back at it, door open, quietly preparing their izakaya for the day ahead.

In a low-rise building on the edge of one of Pune’s local neighbourhood’s, I met a group of teenagers whose spirit could’ve lit the whole street. They lived in what most of us would call extreme poverty — single-room homes, shared toilets, patchy electricity. But you wouldn’t have known it from the energy in that room.

We talked. We laughed. We took too many selfies.

They were part of a youth development programme, but unlike many I’ve seen in the US or UK, this one didn’t just teach skills. It asked bigger questions. Each young person had to write a mission statement — one for themselves, one for their family, and one for their community.

Not what do I want to be?
But who do I want to become for others?

There was something profoundly humbling about it. They didn’t speak in terms of individual escape. There was no “me first, then maybe the rest.” Everything was woven together — my dream, my people, my place. None of them were naive. They knew the path ahead would be hard. But they still stood there — strong, funny, hopeful.

What we saw was courage. And a sense of responsibility far beyond their years.

They trusted us with their stories.
The least I can do is carry them forward.

Everywhere in India feels like two different worlds coexisting. One of wealth. One of deep, visible poverty. This moment brought both into stark contrast.

We were driving from Pune to Mumbai — about three hours — with a driver who spoke only fragments of English. Every now and then he’d point and shout “MONKEY!” or “STEEL MILL!” — his own version of a tour.

As we neared Mumbai, he took the wrong exit. He grew quiet and mumbled “wrong… wrong…” while pointing back toward the elevated freeway we were now underneath. There were no on-ramps in sight. Just gravel, industry, and then… people.

Dozens of families were living under the highway. Their homes were scraps of tarpaulin and wood, their lives unfolding on the same patch of ground: cooking, bathing, laughing, disciplining children. Just living. In the middle of this underpass world.

I didn’t want to take a photo. I didn’t want to turn someone’s life into a spectacle. But I also couldn’t pretend not to see it. I quietly pointed my phone out the car window and held down the shutter — capturing a burst of images in silence.

One frame still stays with me. A boy crouched barefoot on a concrete ledge, watching us pass. Another child, pantsless, stood beside his mother. A little girl carried a jug of water with practiced ease. I wonder what they thought of us in our clean, air-conditioned car on the way to a five-star hotel.

India forces me to confront myself. Again and again.

After two long years of pandemic pause, I found myself back in motion — suitcase dusted off, passport pages flipping, and that familiar feeling of wanderlust rising in my chest. This was a different kind of return though — my first journey back brought me to the Gulf, to Riyadh, Jeddah, and Doha.

In Riyadh, we veered off the map of gleaming towers and found ourselves in Ad Dinah, the older heart of the city. In the Souk Al Zal, surrounded by rugs and the thick perfume of oud, a honey vendor invited us in. Arabic coffee was poured. His son spoke proudly about the different types of Saudi honey — dark and earthen from the north, light and floral from the south. Before leaving, we hailed an Uber. Our driver was a woman — something unimaginable just a few years ago. She told us some men still refuse to ride with her. We all agreed: let them walk.

Jeddah was harder to hold in one hand. I swam in the Red Sea by morning and watched smoke rise from a drone strike near the port by night. The F1 race went ahead, the Queen’s birthday was celebrated at the Embassy, and life continued. Somehow. In Old Jeddah, where the city has welcomed ships since the 7th century, we wandered under buildings that leaned as if whispering stories to each other. The seafood — rich, fresh, unforgettable — felt like its own act of worship.

And then Doha — ten hours, one speech, and an evening in the Souk. I walked alone, bought a snack, and just watched the rhythm of the place. Excitement for the World Cup buzzed around every corner.

It’s easy to speak of the region in headlines: reform, repression, oil, war. But what I found, again and again, were people — curious, kind, eager to know how they are seen and just as eager to see you back.

In a part of the world many misunderstand, it’s still the people who define the place. Always.

Singapore is a conundrum. A place that holds both the old and the new in a steady, unapologetic embrace — not trying to be one or the other, just entirely itself.

The skyline alone is a feat of ambition. Marina Bay Sands still takes my breath away — absurd, luxurious, gravity-defying. And yet, just behind the glimmering towers, the city folds inward into narrow old streets with wooden shutters, mosques and Buddhist temples sitting side by side, and hawker stalls that somehow still taste like the 1950s even when they’re served in sparkling-clean modern food centres.

I like cities with culture. Not just food and fashion and festivals, but cities with layers. Singapore has layers. And the people — especially the taxi drivers — are ready to explore them with you. They ask where you're from, what you think of their city, and then, without pause, share their own uncensored views of Singapore’s progress, paired with a quiet pride in their little nation that punches way above its weight.

In one moment you’re debating housing policy in the back of a taxi. In the next, you're standing at the Buddha Tooth Relic Temple chatting for 20 minutes with James (the man in the photo), who runs the gift shop, about Nancy Pelosi’s visit to Taiwan and what it might mean for people in the region.

Or you’re at the Writers Bar at Raffles Hotel — a place so unapologetically colonial it makes you wince — ordering a drink from Anthony, a proud Filipino who’s taken a Western name, left his hometown of Cavite, and is now bartending in the land of British nostalgia. He’ll tell you, eyes lit up, that Cavite has the best fresh oysters in the Philippines — five dollars a bucket, but you have to shuck them yourself. I told him I’m more than happy to do the work.

It’s a strange mix, all of it. Cognitive dissonance on display. But that’s what makes it human.

Now I’m at Dubai Airport, waiting for a flight to JFK. The woman next to me — someone I’ve never met — just asked me to watch her bag while she went to the loo. I said yes without hesitation.

She doesn't know me. I don't know her.

But maybe we’re both still betting that most people, in most places, are good.

Another work trip to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia — not to Riyadh’s towers, but to the Eastern Province region of Al Hasa, home to the largest green oasis in the Middle East.

Months earlier, I met Mayor Al Mulla in Singapore, where he shared his vision for Al Hasa’s future. I promised to visit. This was me keeping that promise.

Dr Ibrahim, newly appointed Director of Economic Development, was my guide. Each time I asked for the schedule, I got the same reply: “You will be most welcome here.” No agenda, no briefings. I was nervous it wouldn’t be productive. But I decided to roll with it.

We arrived after four hours across the desert. The city, at first glance, seemed modest. But Dr Ibrahim met us with the warmth of an old friend and said the only way to understand Al Hasa was to meet its people.

That began with a four-hour traditional Eastern Province lunch — Arabic coffee, spiced starters, grilled meats, and the region’s signature ‘red bread.’ Meals here aren’t just food. They’re an exchange of stories. Just when I thought I couldn’t eat another bite, out came the desserts and fresh mint tea.

We walked back through history at the unmarked home of King Abdul Aziz, the first King of Saudi Arabia. A whitewashed door opened onto a palatial courtyard, storerooms, and date cellars — told with reverence as if he still lived there.

In the 400-year-old gold market, a shopkeeper draped a £100,000 necklace over my neck — so heavy I nearly toppled. Generations of families still run these shops, each proud to share their lineage, their designs, and introduce you to neighbours whose ancestors worked beside theirs for centuries.

Then through the Souq — a riot of colour, scent, and commerce. Dr Ibrahim knew everyone. “This man taught me in school… This trader rebuilt the first coffee shop… This family is among the oldest in the province.” It wasn’t just a market; it was his memory lane.

We visited Al Amiriya, the region’s first public school — where his father had studied — and then wound through the Caves of Civilisation in Al Qarah Mountain. Narrow passages, natural breezes, and echoes of children still playing hide and seek. It was stunning. And humbling.

As the desert darkened, I thought we were done. But of course — another meal. We ate beneath the stars, and somewhere between stories, Dr Ibrahim told me I was now his best friend. In Saudi, that means family.

The next morning, it was all business. I met the Mayor and his team. We’re going to help build his vision for Al Hasa — and now, a small part of our own story is written into the fabric of this extraordinary place.

Just before departure, the Mayor insisted we stop for a traditional lunch in the Oasis. Five hours later, we began the drive back to Riyadh — hearts and bellies full.

He stood quietly at the edge of the light, where sun met shadow, in a crisp white kurta that made him seem almost luminescent. A majestic figure on a street our handlers had hoped we’d skip.

This wasn’t the part of Pune they wanted to show us. They preferred sleek new buildings and tech corridors — the promise of development. But this was the India I wanted to see. So after some negotiating, they allowed us to walk while our ridiculous caravan of Mercedes and Land Rovers followed a few metres behind. Not ideal, but a compromise.

The street was alive — children playing, neighbours chatting, a dog trotting by in what looked suspiciously like a sari. The homes were small, each just a single room for families of five to seven. Shoes left outside. No dust. Whitewashed walls. There was pride here — quiet, confident pride.

When I saw the man, I instinctively reached for my camera. He didn’t speak English, but he smiled. I launched into my now-refined routine of exaggerated hand gestures, probably resembling a stoned mime, and began to take his photo.

Then a younger man appeared — his grandson. He welcomed us warmly and told us that his grandfather had once visited Swansea, in Wales. Their family sold glass bangles from their home now, as they couldn’t afford to keep a market stall.

Would I like to try some on? Of course I would.

He called to his father, and within minutes, three generations — plus two curious neighbour ladies — were crowded into their tiny room. The father sat cross-legged on the floor, measured the widest part of my hand with his fingers, and then carefully selected bangles from the wall. One by one, he eased them over my hand, millimetre by millimetre, until eight gleaming glass bracelets circled my wrist.

When I asked to pay, they refused. Over and over. “No money,” they said. “Our gift to you.” I insisted. They grew uncomfortable. So I stopped.

They had given me something not just from their shop, but from their livelihood — offered without hesitation, without calculation. And it made me realise: maybe they don’t have ‘nothing.’ Maybe they have everything that matters.

It wasn’t the plan. I arrived in Ho Chi Minh City only to be told I couldn’t enter. A single digit was transposed on my visa. No amount of pleading about official government business helped. The immigration officer just shrugged kindly and said, “It’s Sunday. It’ll be sorted tomorrow.” Maybe the immigration director spends Sundays with his family. Maybe I should be doing the same.

So, I bought a last-minute flight to Bangkok and had eight hours to kill. What else to do but head to the Pho stand in the airport? I ordered the Wagyu beef pho—no issues there—but apparently also ordered the tiniest Tiger beer ever served. A thimble. Literally.

So there I sat, slurping noodles and sipping micro-sips of beer, staring at a country I couldn’t enter—lush, layered, and crawling with rich green up the hillsides. Then a Canadian couple sat beside me. We struck up a conversation.

He had the largest beer I’ve ever seen. I told him I’d need about twelve of my thimbles to match it. They were from British Columbia, just wandering Vietnam for a month, no itinerary—just going where the wind took them.

We talked about travel. Dubai? No. Singapore? Maybe. Zanzibar? Yes. Riyadh? Not really. Jeddah? Surprisingly yes.

Then they told me about their work: performance artists running something called Legislative Theatre. I’d never heard of it. It’s community-based theatre that reenacts injustices—and then invites the audience to step in, reshape the story, and propose better outcomes. Those changes? They’re documented and, when possible, turned into actual legislative policy. Imagine the potential.

It all stems from the work of Augusto Boal, founder of the Theatre of the Oppressed in Brazil. I scribbled the name down. That’s something I want to learn more about.

So—was it fate? Bad luck? A typo? All I know is that I had a brilliant bowl of pho, twelve tiny beers, a brilliant conversation, and learned something entirely new. Once again, my faith is confirmed: #PeopleAreGood. And we should all keep going, keep learning, and always #TravelTheWorld.

Apparently… I’m off to Bangkok. Onwards.

My friend Anja and I asked for an authentic temple experience. What we got was very India: layered, chaotic, unforgettable.

We asked our hotel driver to take us to a traditional Hindu temple — something local, not the tourist version. He nodded and drove us deep into a pulsing neighbourhood, where “he knew a guy.” That guy met us at the curb and took payment to escort us partway. We wound through food stalls, trinket sellers, and a group of young boys playing poker on a rusty old street cart. When I asked to take their photo, it must have translated to “show me your muscles and karate moves” — which, of course, they did.

Our new guide handed us off to someone else — the shoe guy — since shoes aren’t allowed inside the temple. Payment exchanged. He claimed the next man was his brother. That “brother” would now be our temple guide. Another payment.

Kalighat Temple was packed. Thousands of shoeless devotees surged through narrow entrances. Our “brother-guide” forcefully cleared the way for us, shoving aside anyone in front. I hated that part — the pushing, the privilege of it — but there was no pause button now.

Just before the inner sanctum, he pressed flower petals into our hands and shouted: “LOOK TO YOUR LEFT! LOOK AT KALI! THROW YOUR FLOWERS!”

There she was: the goddess Kali, fierce and small, set deep in a shadowed alcove. We did as told. We threw our flowers and were promptly swept out the other side.

But the journey wasn’t over.

We were ushered into another chamber where a massive tree pierced the roof, its branches hung with charms and offerings. Another man stepped forward — another payment — to place our petals on the tree. Then came the red dots on our foreheads and a solemn declaration: This will help you get pregnant.

Dear lord - lead with that bit BEFORE you give the blessing!

Eventually, we made our way back to the shoe man — who had indeed kept our footwear safe — and returned to the car, where we tipped the driver generously.

Yes, we were clearly taken for a ride. But the truth is, for the few dollars it cost, we got something priceless: a story too strange to invent, a glimpse into real devotion, and a memory I’ll never forget.

I wasn’t sure about this one.

I’m a child of the 70s. One of the earliest photos of me is as a newborn in my dad’s arms, both of us looking stunned beneath his McGovern/Shriver campaign t-shirt. That loss — and what it meant for the war — was formative. My understanding of Vietnam was shaped by my parents’ anti-war activism, black-and-white journalism photos, Apocalypse Now, Kent State (especially for those of us from Ohio), and relatives who served but never speak of it.

And yet… Vietnam is one of those mythic places for modern travellers. Like Indonesia or Malaysia, it tugs at our sense of wonder and wanderlust.

I had four brief days split between Hanoi and Saigon. When I travel, I want to know people — what drives them, frustrates them, what their moms make for Sunday dinner, what they do on Friday nights, what they read, how they feel about the world.

And in Vietnam, I met some of the happiest, most generous, and deeply ambitious people I’ve encountered anywhere — a full contradiction to the Vietnam I thought I knew from history books and family silences.

There was Thuy — journalist by training, tour guide by trade. She splits her time between writing for VNExpress and guiding so she can see more of her country. Her parents are fruit farmers in Binh Duong; her brother, still unsure of what’s next in life, lives at home. Not so different, after all. She dreams of seeing the world, but holding a passport from one of the world’s last communist nations makes that nearly impossible.

Then there was Andrzej, a Polish entrepreneur now living in Ho Chi Minh City, drawn by the promise of innovation. He moved south from Hanoi for cleaner air and a more entrepreneurial scene. He’s focused on transforming the country’s 65 million diesel motorbikes into electric vehicles. Within five minutes of meeting, we were brainstorming potential partnerships. “I’m just really excited by this conversation,” he said. So was I.

Dr. Linh pulled up on a motorcycle in black leather, holding three executive titles and more degrees than I could count. Her lab spans 10,000 square meters and hosts everything from AI to autonomous machines. She spoke like a visionary on fast-forward. She was already WhatsApping ideas before I’d even left the building.

Mr. Huong, my UK Embassy driver, has chauffeured diplomats for 30 years. He takes immense pride in that role. He also once played for the Vietnamese national football team. When his contract ends next year, he’ll ask his body if it’s still up for the job — if yes, he’ll keep going.

And then there’s Phi Mai, my handler for the week, who felt like a little brother by the end. A computer engineer by training, he took this job to explore the world before deciding what’s next. His grandfather, a radio technician for South Vietnam during the war, was offered a chance to emigrate to the U.S. afterward. He stayed—for love of country, and a desire to rebuild. Phi Mai arranged my meetings flawlessly, briefed me like a pro, and toured me around Saigon on his scooter — the only real way to see this city. He’s coming to London soon, and I plan to return the favor with a proper Sunday roast.

After my trip, I reached out to a family friend — a Vietnam War vet who served on a swift boat in the Mekong. I asked if he wanted to see a picture of the river. “Sure,” he said. “But I’d rather see the people.”

So I sent him photos — the vendors, the streets, the faces. “They look good,” he replied. “That makes me happy.”

And I told him the truth. They weren’t just good in the photos. They were good — period. Generous, funny, ambitious, kind. And that made me happy too.

These three beautiful creatures belong to Aryan, an Indian man living in Malaysia. Today, Aryan and his temple group had gathered at the Batu Caves Temple just north of Kuala Lumpur to offer something special: free meals for all who came to pray.

It’s a tradition they uphold once a year, every year — serving hearty, home-cooked mee goreng to hungry pilgrims, asking nothing in return. The smell of spice and warmth filled the air, a comfort to strangers who lined up under the limestone cliffs.

While the adults handed out plates, Aryan’s three sons played behind them, chasing bubbles that drifted across the temple steps. I don’t like taking pictures of people’s children without asking, so I approached Aryan and told him his boys were gorgeous — could I take a few photos? He smiled and said something in Malay to them, which I understood as, “let this crazy lady take your picture,” and they all burst into laughter. I snapped away as the bubbles caught the light and the boys posed with quiet joy.

I offered Aryan 50 Ringgit as a small donation — something to help with next year’s meals — but he refused, kindly but firmly. I said it wasn’t charity, just a gesture of thanks, a way to help them keep doing this beautiful thing. But he insisted: “Absolutely not. We give and get love, not money.”

There was nothing left to say except thank you. I offered my heartfelt wishes and moved along, letting the boys return to their bubbles, the scent of fried noodles still clinging sweetly to the air.

It’s never easy being sick when you travel — the ache for familiarity, the uncertainty of where to go, the instinct to just power through. But when I came down with a terrible chest infection in Addis Ababa, I did what I knew I had to: I found a health clinic.

That’s where I met Nurse Hanna.

She was everything a nurse should be — calm, thorough, and full of grace. Her touch was gentle, her voice steady. I told her I was in Africa for work — helping cities grappling with massive urbanisation think differently about how technology and innovation can serve their people.

She nodded, and then I asked her what she thought Addis Ababa’s greatest challenge was when it came to urbanisation. Without missing a beat, she shifted into what I now think of as her nurse-advocate mode: “Family planning,” she said. “We need better services, better education, better support.”

Then she told me a story that I will never forget.

Every day on her walk home, Hanna sees a woman with a 4-year-old boy. The child works the cars, begging at traffic lights. One day, Hanna saw the woman hit the boy. Hanna stopped her — not in anger, but with compassion. She asked why. The woman said her son hadn’t brought in enough money that day. So Hanna did something remarkable. She hugged the woman.

The woman flinched, surprised. “Why are you hugging me? I’m dirty,” she said. But Hanna just held her. Then she gave the woman her phone number and some money. And she told her: “If you need anything, anything at all, call me. And promise me one thing — don’t hit your son. Hug him instead.”

Since that day, Hanna says the woman has changed. She greets Hanna with a smile. She hugs her son often. Her face — Hanna says — looks lighter. Brighter. More at peace.

When the woman asked Hanna why she helped her, Hanna’s response was simple, powerful, and impossible to forget:
“Because you are my sister, and I love you.”

That was it. A sentence that cut through poverty, hardship, and struggle — and landed in truth. Hanna didn’t say it to be noble. She said it because she meant it. And now, as far as I’m concerned, Nurse Hanna is my sister too.

(As an aside: she also gave me a prescription for two medications. The clinic visit was free. The medicine cost me about £2 total. And I am already feeling so much better — physically, and frankly, emotionally too.)

People are good. All over this world. And sometimes the medicine we need most is the reminder of that.