I’m no festivalgoer. All that mud, all those drunks. It’s not my bag, not in the hardcore sense, at least. I drove to Oxegen and drove home Saturday night, rather than have my head stepped on in my sleep, or have to brush my teeth with the end of a flagon of Linden Village. But a festival in the Sahara has a certain appeal. Gimme a cotton tent, some rebellious desert nomads, a few hundred camels and toilets with no water and I’m all set.
Sunday Business Post, February 20, 2005
For the smug, self-satisfied world traveller, nothing brings on a smile like a heavily-stamped passport. Above that, the greater goal is stamps that say ‘I’ve been there and back’ on the road less travelled. The trump of all passport stamps must be that inked in the fabled city of Timbuktu. Continue reading “Desert Trolley”