From Cartels to Crypto Bros: El Salvador’s Divisive Plot Twist

“A few years ago, you couldn’t be here” the Salvadoran taxi driver told me, as we rattled through the colourful, crumbling streets of Santa Ana.

“You see that?” he asked, wide-eyed, pointing towards a young woman walking alone, eyes glued to her phone. “A few years ago that would not have been safe. Not possible”. It was as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. The people of El Salvador are riding a wave. There's a sense of newfound safety and it's largely credited to one man: President Nayib Bukele.

“So, you support what the president is doing?” I asked - already anticipating the answer - and he almost crashed the car into an oncoming chicken bus, such was the enthusiasm of his response.

© Ryan Chapman

President Bukele is enjoying hero status in El Salvador right now. Approval ratings through the roof; a democratic mandate most leaders can only dream of; t-shirts and magnets displaying his portrait for sale everywhere, should you want a picture of his face on your chest and/or fridge. And why wouldn’t you? He has, after all, performed a miracle.

His so-called miracle? Turning El Salvador from one of the world’s most dangerous countries into one of the safest in Latin America. From a country where murders were commonplace to one where people genuinely feel safe. In just a few years.

But of course, there’s a catch.

I’d heard the headlines, but it was a guy called Hector who filled in the story during a walking tour of Santa Ana. Hector, in his early 20’s, is bright-eyed, tattooed, and brimming with pride for his hometown. But five years ago, he fled it. Four of his five best friends had been murdered, and he had every reason to believe he was next.

© Ryan Chapman

In an effort to tackle the gang problem Bukele declared a nationwide state of emergency in 2022, granting security forces sweeping powers. And since then, 85,000 people have been arrested and thrown into El Salvador’s infamous mega prisons. That’s 1% of the population newly incarcerated. The only way out, according to the justice minister, is in a coffin.

But here’s the thing: most of those people have never had a trial. And Amnesty International estimates that around a third of them are innocent. 

Still, with gang members either locked up or lying low, Hector felt it was safe enough to return to an increasingly gringo-friendly Santa Ana to start his walking tour business. And survival is no longer his only goal. Now, he wants to make enough money from tours to open a bar. Because as much as he loves tattoos and storytelling, he loves tequila and dancing more.

But he also lives with a risk. Bukele’s trawler net approach means more innocent people will be jailed. Wrong street? Wrong tattoo? Wrong time? Anybody could vanish at any moment.

“Somebody could call the gang hotline today, and tomorrow I’ll be gone” Hector told me as we walked through the striking neo-Gothic cathedral. That hotline however, meant to collect anonymous tips, is sometimes used to settle personal vendettas. And not only that, there’s one gang-like tattoo in particular on Hector’s leg that has nearly gotten him arrested on more than one occasion. He’s playing with fire every time he wears shorts.

I probed Hector gently on Bukele’s human rights abuses. “Human rights?” he scoffed. “What human rights?”. It wasn’t defiance, it was resignation. He knows freedoms are being sacrificed, but for many - and I suspected for Hector, too - it’s a price worth paying.

After a few days I left the grittiness of Santa Ana behind and wound my way into the mountains.

© Ryan Chapman

I hiked up Volcán de Santa Ana - a volcano with a recent violent past all of its own - and watched as a man had to be rescued after a gust of wind sent his hat flying towards the sulphurous crater lake. In a rather ill-advised move, he had given chase, skidding down loose stones towards the emerald-green water. Water which can reach temperatures of up to 500 degrees. Nearby, a dog looked on, seemingly pondering the superiority of its species.

I visited every sleepy village on the scenic Ruta de las Flores (Route of the Flowers) and drank more coffee than was probably wise, fuelling further hikes to hidden waterfalls and more volcanic crater lakes.

© Ryan Chapman

© Ryan Chapman

And then I headed towards the coast. A 2 hour drive that took the whole day thanks to a combination of delays, roadworks and detours. “Welcome to Bitcoin Beach” read the sign as I finally approached the surfing town of El Zonte, and I died a little bit inside.

As part of Bukele’s grand vision to reinvent El Salvador, he had recently made Bitcoin an official currency. And while only a tiny - and shrinking - fraction of Salvadorans actually used it, this coastal enclave had become a haven for crypto bros. I witnessed a man wearing an “I ❤️Bitcoin” t-shirt attempting to pay for bananas at a roadside stall with cryptocurrency.

The vast majority of the population don’t have a bank account, let alone a crypto wallet. And according to a recent poll, only 15% of the population even trust Bitcoin as a currency. I overheard the banana guy ask his friend if he had any dollars on him, and I couldn’t resist a sassy comment as I walked past: “Cash is king, eh?”

I passed the time in El Zonte consuming copious amounts of grilled fish and pupusas, washed down with either coffee or margaritas, depending on the time of day. Occasionally I'd spend twenty minutes in the ocean letting waves knock me over, and then I'd find a spot to dry and read a book before doing it all over again.

© Ryan Chapman

On my last night of the trip, I headed to the Sunset Bar for a beer or two, hoping to dodge the Bitcoin evangelists who’d spent the past few days relentlessly chewing my ear off. As I watched the natural phenomenon for which the bar is named I got chatting to an American ex-pat and I braced myself for another lecture on decentralised finance. To my relief, he wanted to talk about El Zonte. Specifically, how safe it feels compared to when he moved here several years ago.

“The miracle has come with a price though” he said, gesturing towards the homes around us. “Every one of those families has lost someone. Many innocent people are locked up to make this happen”.

It’s no surprise then, that Bukele has his critics. Like the outspoken lawyer who called him a dictator on live TV earlier this month. She’s since been arrested, which if nothing else, rather proves her point. But her remarks echoed something Bukele once said about himself, when he updated his Twitter bio to: “The world’s coolest dictator 😎”. Satire? Probably. A red flag? Certainly.

© Ryan Chapman

Bukele has also said “there will always be innocent victims in any war.” Which, while probably true, won't be very comforting to hear for the thousands now sitting in mega prisons, sometimes 70 to a cell, awaiting trials that may never come.

It’s hard, from a European perspective, to grasp just how bad things were in El Salvador before President Bukele came along. That’s why it’s equally hard to judge the extreme measures being taken to fix them.

I was only in El Salvador for a short while - a side trip, really, following a few glorious weeks in neighbouring Guatemala - but I glimpsed a nation gripped by transformation and driven by hope. Go, and not only will you find warm smiles and exceptional coffee, you’ll witness a complicated story unfolding in real time.

Earthquakes and muscle aches

Kathmandu was just as I expected: a filthy, chaotic clusterfuck of a place. All-encompassingly captivating and unrelentingly exhausting.

Temples and shrines sit curb-side on pollution-choked roads where porters, hawkers and street dogs jostle for position. Entire streets look like they could collapse at any second, but somehow they stay standing, and somehow Kathmandu’s tired, exhaust-blackened heart keeps beating.

© Ryan Chapman

The Nepali capital had been on my radar since I was about eight, thanks to Cotton-Eyed Joe - the 90’s hit that took school discos by storm. Where had he come from? Where did he go? Well, for reasons that remain a mystery, I thought the answer was Kathmandu.

This misheard lyric had marked Kathmandu on my conscience indelibly, and it wasn’t until I’d booked my flights nearly 30 years later that I googled the words and noticed my mistake. Oh well, too late now. Luckily in the proceeding three decades I’d developed other motivations for visiting Nepal. Namely, to trek in the Himalayas and eat as many momos as humanly possible.

© Ryan Chapman

I had a week to mooch about before the trek so I swung by Chitwan National Park for a couple of days of reasonably successful rhino and elephant spotting, before heading to the lakeside city of Pokhara. People raved about this place but I wasn’t a huge fan. I found it to be just as dirty as Kathmandu with none of the charm (stick that in the brochure!). Sure, lakes are nice, but perhaps try fishing out the plastic bottles before attempting to coax me onto a pleasure boat.

One evening in Pokhara I was sat in the only bar I’d found that made a passable whiskey sour, daydreaming about effective waste management in the developing world, and considering a midnight momo dash. There was a live rock band playing classic covers so loud that no one noticed the earthquake. At least I certainly didn’t, but to be fair the sours were not only passable; they were strong. 

The next day it was the talk of the town. At least 150 people had died in rural areas to the west. The deadliest in Nepal for nearly a decade. And so then when it was time to head into the mountains, I did so with earthquakes on my mind.

© Ryan Chapman

The trek was - perhaps unsurprisingly considering the Himalayas is home to 9 of the 10 tallest mountains in the world - relentlessly up. Up literally thousands of stone steps, up winding forest trails, up zig-zigging hillside paths. Occasionally followed by a little bit of down, but then twice as much up again. Even the flat bits weren’t really flat. The joke amongst trekkers and mountain guides is that the flatter parts are merely ‘Nepali flat’. I politely laughed at that pithy observation more times than I can count.

I had mostly put the earthquake to the back of my mind, but as I was checked into a my room on the first night of the trek I was suddenly all too aware. I couldn’t help but wonder how well this flimsy looking guesthouse, clinging to the side of the mountain, would hold up. Well, I was quite literally about to find out.

© Ryan Chapman

I’d barely put down my trekking poles when the room began to shake. And it was then I realised I didn’t really know what to do. I’d heard something about door frames being a safer place if there were no tables to get under, and there were definitely no tables in my tiny concrete and ply wood cell. I ignored the door frame thing and swiftly left the way I’d just come in. For a split second I considered running, but I didn’t want to cause a scene.

No obvious damage had been done - apart from to my already fragile confidence of not dying in an earthquake - but the next day I read an article with a warning from scientists that the two tremors of the previous three days could be a sign that a “massive earthquake is imminent”. I really didn’t like the sound of that so I drank some local ‘wine’ to take my mind off it. It tasted like barely diluted methylated spirit, but sure, we’ll call it wine.

© Ryan Chapman

I had originally set off with just a backpack and a mountain guide called Chandra, but bonds with other trekkers formed quickly on the trail. I bonded with an old German couple as we bitched about the huge group of obnoxious Chinese trekkers barging and yelling their way along the trail, then bonded with a family from the Czech Republic as we drank beer and played cards. I bonded with some Brits over something about the weather and then told one of the Chinese blokes that if I saw him kicking a dog again I’d kick him back twice as fucking hard. Relationships that I’ll treasure forever.

With each night of the trek, as we got deeper into the Himalayas, the accommodation got more rustic and by the last night I was checked into a rabbit hutch with a wooden plank for a bed, dirty quilts, and gaps around the window that my finger could fit through, let alone the chilly mountain air.

But every single moment of discomfort was worth it for the sunrises. Words could never do them justice. One morning, after an especially early rise, I stood in stunned silence for over an hour watching the sunlight slowly creep across the mountain range, completely ignoring how cold I was. I was well and truly hypnotised and officially under the Himalayan spell.

© Ryan Chapman

After the trek, against my better judgement, I boarded a local bus back to Pokhara rather than the more tourist-friendly jeep option. Sure, the winding pot-holed mountain roads with sheer drops at every turn looked like a death trap, but how bad could it really be? Turns out very, very bad.

I could just about handle being squeezed in to a bus at least three times over capacity with people practically sat on my lap and others with elbows pressed against my head. I could just about handle the heat. And the dust billowing through the open windows. And I could just about handle being violently thrown around, clattering against a metal pole, and involuntarily shoulder-barging old ladies as we bounced along the mountain track.

But then, two hours into the ordeal - I guessed about half way - as I grimaced through the discomfort, there was an explosion right beneath me, followed immediately by a gushing hiss. For a few seconds I thought we were about to careen off the road into the valley below as the bus swerved side-to-side, the driver battling to regain control with only three of the four back wheels intact.

We didn’t immediately grind to a halt but when we did I wondered how long we’d be stuck there while they replaced the tyre, or even if they had a spare at all. To my horror, however, the bus had only stopped to let more people on and was apparently going to limp on regardless. Well, this was the final straw. I looked behind me and through the dirt of the back window I could just about make out my saviour: a man standing by his taxi waiting for a fare. I was off that bus quicker than you can say Cotton-Eyed Joe.

The following day, with my calf muscles screaming and barely able to function, I boarded another bus back to Kathmandu. Depending on the source it was going to take anything from 8-14 hours due to a miserable cocktail of holiday traffic, landslides and road works. I sat there wondering why I find any of this fun.

© Ryan Chapman

Back in Kathmandu it was festival time. Shopkeepers were decorating their storefronts with strings of marigolds and everyone else hung garish fairy lights stuck in strobe mode. Kids set off fireworks whenever the mood struck them, which often coincided with when you were least expecting them. As if Kathmandu needed a reason to be more chaotic.

The second day of the annual five-day long festival is dedicated to dogs, who luckily didn't seem to mind the fireworks. They were all glammed up with garlands and tilaka markings and plied with biscuits all day to thank them for their loyalty. At least, most of them were. I began feeling sad for the dogs I saw getting no attention, so I went to a Hindu temple to witness an open air human cremation ceremony to lighten my mood.

© Ryan Chapman

All festival-ed out - and having seen one too many human corpses being ceremoniously set alight for one day, thank you very much - it was time to leave the clamour of Kathmandu behind. As my plane took off I surveyed the Himalayas from my window seat wondering which peak was Everest, reflecting about life and earthquakes. But mostly earthquakes. There’s nothing like a hefty registering on the Richter scale to bring the power of Mother Nature front of mind.

A month later and 40,000 people who survived the earthquake are still living under sheets of tarpaulin. This, in places where the temperature at night is basically zero. People - including mothers and their newborn babies - are dying in the cold. Simply put, Nepal is too poor to rebuild. The earthquake may have been deadly enough to get a Wikipedia page, but not quite deadly enough to garner sufficient international sympathy. I’m not judging - there’s enough going on.

So, um, give if you can..? I didn’t plan to end like this, but it’d be remiss of me not to share this link where you can support the ongoing relief effort. And then I guess the other thing you could do is give Nepal your tourism. Sure, for the food and for the culture, but mainly for those sunrises.

Cocaine, no gain

There’s so much more to Colombia than drugs and violent gang warfare, despite what concerned relatives might think. It boasts an abundance of natural beauty, vibrant cities and some of the warmest people you’ll ever meet. And I really wish I could say good coffee, but most of that is exported.

Cocora Valley, Colombia © Ryan Chapman

As for the drugs, Colombia maybe synonymous with cocaine, but the majority of Colombians are desperate to shake free from the narco state connotations.

And as for the violence, Colombia currently enjoys a fragile peace. A fragility that was emphasised by a divisive referendum in 2016 in which Colombians voted marginally against a peace agreement between the government and the armed revolutionary group, FARC.

It wasn’t rejected because people would rather live in a war zone, but because the terms of the deal compromised too heavily with the rebels, letting many of them off the hook. And the prevailing attitude was ‘hell no, farc them’.

As the New York Times put it, “the peace deal was always a tug of war between peace and justice. And the demand for justice won.”

Hummingbird © Ryan Chapman

Justice may have won the battle but it was at the cost of compromise, without which peace will seldom win a war. And no where is that more evident than in the city of Medellin and its once notorious district Commune 13. 

Until recently Commune 13 was a no-go zone. Not just considered one of the most dangerous neighbourhoods in Colombia, but the world. Ruled by Pablo Escobar’s Medellin Cartel, it was trapped in a seemingly endless cycle of gang wars, military interventions and corruption.

Commune 13, Colombia © Ryan Chapman

Today, thanks in large part to art, music and dance, it’s a vibrant forward-looking community hellbent on social transformation. It’s the sound of hip-hop beats not gunfire echoing around the labyrinth of streets, and the once bullet hole-ridden walls are awash with colourful street art.

According to our guide for the afternoon however, despite its new look, Commune 13 never completely ridded itself of gang influence. “If we have a problem we don’t call the police, we call the gang” she admitted, before hinting this service doesn’t come cheap. 

That’s the compromise that residents of Commune 13 have settled on in exchange for peace. I asked her if the aim was to one day rid the community of gang culture altogether and her response wasn’t exactly filled with optimism.

Commune 13, Colombia © Ryan Chapman

In Medellin this yearning for peace and regeneration - at any cost - is tangible, and a trip to Commune 13 sets it in stone. In urban areas like this memories of a brutal past do still lurk in the shadows, but exploring the rest of Colombia the violence seems like it’s from another era. 

After all, what can be more peaceful than trotting through the verdant Andean foot-hills on horseback and stopping for a red wine picnic; or relaxing in thermal spas under naturally heated waterfalls; or sipping cocktails while the waves of the Caribbean splash onto surrounding palm trees. 

Palomino, Colombia © Ryan Chapman

Most peaceful of all, though, is the warmth and hospitality of the people. Perhaps in a conscious effort to counter the country’s negative stereotypes, but I suspect simply because they’re just really nice. Always welcoming, always polite, always going out of their way to help.

Any attempt to glorify Pablo Escobar is likely to be met with a frosty reception, but avoid the narco tourism and Colombians will warm to you like you've already warmed to them.

[Film] Vitae Shelter: From the Ashes

In a past life Vitae Shelter was a notoriously wild party hostel — now it’s on the frontline of humanitarian aid.

I first met Ian as a fresh-faced backpacker in the summer of 2009, when he checked me in to his hostel Carpe Noctem. He made me a cup of tea and spent 15 minutes telling me about Budapest, including all the ways we were going to ‘seize the night’.

Carpe Noctem was well on its way to winning Hostel World’s ‘Most Fun Hostel in the World’ award, so I knew to expect a party. But it wasn’t until I arrived that I realised what the name actually meant. I hadn’t learnt any Hungarian before visiting Budapest, and I sure as hell hadn’t learnt any Latin.

Over the next decade I checked in to that hostel about 20 times, seizing in excess of a hundred nights. It wasn’t long before I felt part of the furniture and I’d often book my next trip before I’d even finished the last. As the sign warns above the door: you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.

Carpe Noctem soon gained siblings and Budapest Party Hostels was born, growing to an empire of six hostels, comprising of over 500 beds. And although Ian is far too humble to admit it, there’s no doubt the hostels he co-owned helped propel the city of Budapest to one of Europe’s top backpacking destinations.

But then along came Covid to ruin just about everything. And a couple of years later along came Putin to ruin it some more.

In February 2022, when Russia invaded Ukraine and refugees began pouring over the Hungarian border, Ian wanted to do something to help. “People wanted to go and fight Russians” he told me, with the hint that by ‘people’ he really meant himself, “but I think everyone realised they’d just get shot in the first week”.

Ultimately, Ian decided that his talents lay elsewhere. “Making beds and filling them with people - that’s probably the only thing I’m actually qualified to do which is any use at all.” So he decided to use one of the empty hostels that had been a casualty of Covid and turn it into a refugee shelter.

My film Vitae Shelter: From the Ashes not only tells the story of the shelter itself and some of the people who found refuge there, but also of its previous life as a hostel, and draws an unlikely parallel between the two.

Vitae Shelter: From the Ashes is online here:

If you'd like to donate the shelter’s GoFundMe page is still live. Alternatively, there’s the Red Cross Ukraine Crisis Appeal. 

The Liechtenstein Trail

Liechtenstein has that small town feel: everyone in their twenties has left and it’s completely dead after 6pm. Those remaining all want a chat at the bus stop and the bus driver isn’t content with a mere hello and goodbye - they want to know how your day is going and what you’re up to at the weekend (which really stretched my German).

As a result of being surrounded by all that geniality I caught myself assuming all 38,000 Liechtensteiners must know each other. Which is a wild assumption to make considering I live in a village of 5,000 people myself and know significantly more dogs by name than humans.

© Ryan Chapman

Anyway, I had little time for small talk. I was there to hike the 50-mile Liechtenstein Trail that snakes its way through the tiny Alpine nation from the Swiss border in the south to the Austrian border in the north. 

You could walk the entire length of Liechtenstein in less than a few hours - the furthest points are only 15 miles apart, after all - but it’s fair to say the trail takes a more scenic route. In fact it barely leaves any stone unturned as it twists and turns through farms, forests and villages, annoyingly skipping anything else I can think of beginning with f.

© Ryan Chapman

The official guide recommends you take five days. I did it in four. But even three would be doable at a stretch. If you have some unexplained desire, as I did, to visit Liechtenstein and see it literally all in one go, then I would recommend it. Here are five things to consider:

1. Liechtenstein is expensive.

Even more so than the most London-y places in London. One evening I paid £16 for a chicken doner from a kebab van because the only restaurant I could see nearby wanted over thirty quid for some Bolognese. And I have a limit.

To save those precious Swiss francs each morning I smuggled a picnic out of my hotel's breakfast buffet to have later. Fortunately, cheese and tomato rolls washed down with fresh ice-cold Alpine water direct from the source is exactly what I fancied for lunch each day anyway.

2. Stay in one place

Every section of the trail is well connected by bus, so you can easily stay in the same hotel for the whole trip and just bus your way back to where you finished the previous day.

I stayed in Trisenburg, which turned out to be ideal.

© Ryan Chapman

3. Don't be tempted to cut corners

Due to the meandering nature of the trail you will be tempted to cut some corners. And, to be honest, some of the more suburban parts are fairly dull. But the scenery often changes quite abruptly, so you never know what you might miss around the next corner. So don’t!

Plus, if you haven't slogged around every single inch of the trail yourself, how would you ever look at yourself in the mirror ever again?

4. The Liechtenstein Trail is a gateway drug to Alpine hiking

By Alpine standards, the trail sticks to relatively low ground, and below the level of any lingering springtime snow. So it might leave you wanting more. Luckily, Liechtenstein can provide it.

On my last day, with several hours until my flight, I took the bus up the mountain to Malbon and Steg which were absolutely jaw-droppingly stunning, and I had them entirely to myself.

I find it odd that more people don’t come to these places out of skiing season. For one, you don’t have to pretend to enjoy hurtling down a mountainside to your almost certain death. It was just me and a family of marmots frolicking in the spring sunshine.

© Ryan Chapman

5. The end is an anti-climax

On the final day of the trail itself, as a glorious afternoon turned thundery, I entered the final mile with a hint of a skip in my step.

When I approached the Austrian border I looked around for something that marked the end of the trail. I wasn’t expecting a welcome party but at least a fucking plaque. There was nothing. Just a couple of border guards glaring at me suspiciously and a few flags blowing enthusiastically in the increasingly stormy breeze.

I had 6 minutes until the next bus back into Liechtenstein. Just enough time for the anti-climatical feeling to wash away before going to find somewhere to get a celebratory beer or five. Well, actually just the three when I saw the price of them.

[Film] Priced out of existence

Here’s a short film I made for Kidney Care UK’s 'Priced out of existence' campaign:

I visited Phoenix at his home in Coventry and shot this film in his living room, which doubles up as his dialysis treatment room. 

Phoenix has kidney disease and is required to perform home dialysis five times a week to stay alive. For each session the dialysis machine runs for nine hours, which has a significant impact on his electricity bills. 

The cost of living crisis is taking its toll on families up and down the country and many people are being forced to choose between heating and eating. But for some, the situation is even worse. With the cost of energy soaring, and having already turned off his heating, Phoenix is left wondering where the extra money is going to come from to keep running his dialysis machine.

He feels like he, and others like him, are being priced out of existence.

On the day of the shoot his wife was at work and his daughter was at school. I arrived to find him in the company of his two small dogs and the apparent leader of the pack, a cat. (All three of them colluded to remain quiet and restful until the very second I'd finished setting up for the interview and pressed record, just for a laugh.)

My visit was during the first warm spell of the year - that week in early March when everybody including the daffodils were fooled into thinking spring had arrived. But during dialysis Phoenix is never warm. As blood leaves his body to be cleaned it is cooled by the pipes of the machine, which means he is always on the edge of being cold. No matter how many layers he piles on and how many blankets he huddles under. 

Kidney Care UK's 'Priced out of existence' campaign aims to raise money to help plug the financial gap for those performing dialysis at home.

Read more here: https://www.kidneycareuk.org/get-support/cost-living-hub/priced-out-of-existence/

Being a cheese tourist in Cyprus

I had a week free to disappear somewhere. And while Cyprus was a contender for its shit-hot November weather and lax Covid entry requirements, I chose it primarily for the halloumi.

A sign from the halloumi Gods affirmed my choice just prior to the trip as a Tesco order at home arrived with 21 packs of the stuff - 19 more than we thought we’d ordered. It turned out we’d changed our minds on quantity mid-order, but hadn’t deleted the ‘1’ before adding the ‘2’. Hence unintentionally ordering 21 (it was a boozy Sunday afternoon, what can I say).

2021 had just happened to be a big year for halloumi with the EU awarding Cyprus and its famous cheese a PDO (Protected Designation of Origin). This basically means halloumi must be made on the island otherwise it can’t be called halloumi. Just like roquefort must come from Roquefort, gouda must come from Gouda, and Diarylea triangles must come from the Dairylea Triangle (like the Bermuda Triangle but cheesier).

Cape Greco National Park

So, Cyprus.

I wanted to experience Cyprus like I imagined Cypriots do: eating so much halloumi it starts oozing out of their ears. (Note to self: that’s a pretty disgusting image, although interestingly it hasn’t put me off in the slightest).

I began in Larnaca which can appear tired and tacky if you stick to the sea-front, but literally only one block in-land there’s some really nice places to eat and drink. One day I managed to squeeze in seven different halloumi dishes, washed down with about twice as many Keos. That was quite a day, I can tell you. The seven dishes included classic grilled halloumi, halloumi bread, halloumi and fig salad, chicken breast stuffed with halloumi, halloumi and smoked pork calzone… I could go on.

Larnaca

Seven in one day turned out to be a record for the trip, but to be honest I didn’t attempt to break it. Let’s face it, three would have been enough to make my point.

After a few days in Larnaca I then headed in-land to the divided capital city of Nicosia. Street maps on the Greek side don’t even name the streets on the Turkish side and roads are barricaded off with oil barrels, barbed wire and armed soldiers.

If you stick to the coast and don’t come to Nicosia you’d be forgiven for forgetting that Cyprus is a proper country with such things as traffic jams, an Ikea, and deep-rooted political division.

I’d had a confused image of Nicosia in my mind since seeing Arsenal play Omonoia Nicosia at Highbury in 1994 (3-0 with two goals from Ian Wright if you're wondering). I remember thinking ‘right, so it’s not in Greece, but they’re kind of Greek, but also half Turkish?’. It was way too convoluted for my eight year-old brain to process and I hadn’t thought about Nicosia much since.

After a halloumi pie for breakfast - which was delicious but left unfinished because it was huge and saltier than a Himalayan salt lamp - I passed border control into the Turkish zone and had an afternoon off halloumi - instead filling my face with baklava. I decided there and then that baklava tourism was my next thing.

Nicosia

After Nicosia I spent a couple of nights in Paphos which I didn’t particularly like but at least I could rack up a few more halloumi dishes. Although you’re more likely to find Cathedral City grated over ham, egg and chips than anything authentic (fucking hell, cheese snob alert - I actually like Cathedral City!).

In a week I ate a total of 19 halloumi-based snacks and dishes, 13 of which were unique. I think that's pretty good going. And am I sick of halloumi now? Well, yes actually, a little bit. But do I regret eating all that halloumi? Well, now I mention it, it probably was a bit excessive.

‘So what was the best halloumi then?!' I hear you cry through watering mouths.

The best snackable halloumi was probably fried halloumi covered in sesame seeds and dipped in honey, served as a starter from a restaurant called Stoano Kato in Larcana.



The most interesting was probably the bacon and egg pancakes dripping in a halloumi sauce from a hipster brunch cafe called Onar, also in Larnana.



And the best overall halloumi experience probably has to be the wrapped gyros stuffed with grilled halloumi and chips with an extra serving of grilled halloumi on the side, from a ‘quick eats’ kind of place called Souflavki. Which was again, in Larnaca (a Larnaca hat-trick).



I’m saying ‘probably’ a lot above because it was all great. It turns out halloumi is just brilliant in all its forms (with a special shout out to halloumi bread).

Anyway, I hope you’ve found this halloumi-nating. A nice little pun there to reward you for getting to the end.

Happy New Year!

I rebranded as an octopus at the end of last year. Happy New Year from Videoctopus! 🐙🎥

Like an octopus, Videoctopus has three hearts: producing, shooting and editing. 

Also like an octopus, Videoctopus has eight arms. From documentary to branded content. You can read more at www.videoctopus.co.uk.

Until we can meet again, stay safe, sane and healthy 😘

Norfolk seals - in pictures

Think of Norfolk and you might think of Sunny Hunny, Cromer crab, or windmills on the Broads. Personally, my mind jumps immediately to seals (although a delicious dressed crab comes a close second).

Thousands of grey and common seals call the Norfolk coast their home, and they make excellent subjects for some low effort wildlife photography. They can't fly away, they're too lazy to be fussed by your presence and they tend to strike a variety of poses.

© Ryan Chapman

© Ryan Chapman

When they're not fishing for cod they're either sunbathing or settling territorial disputes, but whatever they're doing, they're usually pretty happy to be photographed from a distance.

If you stay low and move slowly you'll probably be able to get within six or seven meters before any seal will relieve themselves of your company. So you don't need a massive telephoto lens. All of these photos are shot on my 70-200mm.

© Ryan Chapman

© Ryan Chapman

There are two key locations to see Norfolk's seals:

Blakeney Point

There's plenty of information online that suggests you can only see the seal colony at Blakeney Point if you go on a boat trip, but I beg to differ. If you park up at Cley Beach you can walk the few miles west along the shingle beach. 

Just keep walking. And just when you're about to give up - after the third or forth time you mistake a distant piece of driftwood for a seal - you'll reach them.

© Ryan Chapman

© Ryan Chapman

Horsey Gap

The colonies at Horsey Gap are much easier to access on foot. The seals here are far more considerate to their human admirers and tend to hang out within ten minutes walk of the car park. 

I came in July when the whole area is free to roam, but the beach is closed for birthing season in the winter and you're asked to stick to the viewing platforms.

© Ryan Chapman

© Ryan Chapman

Happy sealing.

Vietnam Part 2: Here today, Saigon tomorrow

Continued from Part 1: Mopeds and pig heads.

Call it Western bias but when I first came across the Vietnam War being referred to as the American War it took me a moment to recalibrate. But, I know, obviously they wouldn't call it the Vietnam War in Vietnam. It was a bit like when I first discovered they don't call it the English Channel in France. (I mean, how dare they! It's the English Channel for English fish!)

Here though, I'll just call it 'the war'. And the memories of it became ever more tangible as we continued south from Phong Nha through Quang Tri province. Today, this area is mostly typified by lazy water buffalo bathing in muddy rivers, but scratch the surface - even just a little - and you may wish you hadn't.

The US dropped more explosives during the war than were used by all sides in World War II. Quang Tri province bore the brunt of it and a huge proportion - some estimates say up to 30% - didn't detonate.

As a consequence, since the war 'ended' - in inverted commas for good reason - over 100,000 Vietnamese people have been killed or maimed by explosives that didn't get the memo. Efforts to clear the country of unexploded ordinance is still very much a work in progress: a mission around 300 years away from completion, at the current rate. Ah, the legacy of war.

To avoid US airstrikes entire communities took their lives underground in hastily built tunnel complexes, with hollowed out maternity wards, classrooms and everything else a village needs to function. We crouched our way through one of these subterranean ghost towns, blown away by the sheer desire of the Vietnamese people not to be murdered by imperialist invaders.

Hue © Ryan Chapman

Leaving Quang Tri behind we crossed the bridge from what was North Vietnam to what was South Vietnam, stopped for a night in Hue, before hopping back on the Reunification Express for the coast-hugging train to Hoi An. The first part of the trip had been pretty hectic, but in Hoi An our hotel had a pool and we had the best part of a week with very little planned. A cooking class here, a cocktail there. A quick dip in the pool there, a cocktail here.

It is said that Vietnamese people can be straight-talking and abrupt. Not in a shock-jock, rabble-rousing, Nigel Farage way, but in a sweet, endearing way. I experienced this first hand when I went to do what every male tourist does in Hoi An: have a suit tailored.

Hoi An © Ryan Chapman

On the first measuring appointment a friendly, well-presented lady took me to one side and unravelled her tape. I clocked the cheeky glint in her eye. "Ah, I see you have no arse" she said, looking me up and down, before wrapping her tape around my waist and commenting on my "little flabby side bits". If it's a sales technique, it worked. And the suit fits like a glove. Even around my little flabby side bits.

This encounter with the seamstress reminded me that I'd promised myself I'd do some exercise while away. Which was hilarious to me. I'd even gone as far as to pack some running shorts. It's honestly as if pre-holiday me and on-holiday me inhabit entirely different universes. I pondered the absurdity of running in the tropical heat, before ordering another drink.

Hoi An © Ryan Chapman

Hoi An seemed a lot more on the beaten path than we'd expected. Mostly on account of the hoards of cruise shippers coming into town to sit in Western style bars with other cruise shippers. In contrast, the path to our next location - another several hours down the train line - was so un-beaten there literally wasn't one. A short traipse across a sandy beach being the only way to access the only accommodation in the village.

Nhon Hai is real Vietnam. Unfortunately, in real Vietnam there aren't hotels employing people to clean the beach. So, in reality - although the people are super friendly and the papaya salads are out of this world - real Vietnam is somewhat tainted by rubbish washed up by the South China Sea. To counterbalance this though, the papaya salads really were that good. So good that every time I got a bit depressed about ocean plastic (because, you see, I'm a massive snowflake who cares about things like that), I just ordered another papaya salad and let the spicy, peanutty goodness wash my woes away.

Nhon Hai © Ryan Chapman

Nhon Hai © Ryan Chapman

After a couple of days tip-toeing around a fucking exhibition of plastic packaging it was back on the Reunification Express for the final sixteen hours to Ho Chi Minh City. Or, as I - and most locals, apparently - prefer to call it: Saigon. (I mean no disrespect to Uncle Ho, but naming cities after revolutionaries is just a bit too Commie. Even for me. Besides, the name Saigon evokes exotic images of rickshaws and fiery sunsets. All the name Ho Chi Minh City evokes are images of some old geezer with a beard.)

Saigon is a surprisingly contemporary and cosmopolitan city. Surprising to me, at least, because I was expecting it to be like Hanoi on steroids. But, although they have an identical soundtrack of horns and mopeds, they're very different.  For a start, I've never seen so many roof top bars in one place. And I can assure you, I'm not complaining. 

Saigon © Ryan Chapman

We had four days in Saigon, which were mostly taken up by eating. However, we also found the time to spend an afternoon at the War Remnants Museum (a must do); explore the city's club scene (thus significantly increasing the average age); and even partake in a spot of karaoke, Vietnam's national sport (Yes, there are videos. No, you can't see them).

No wonder Saigon is home to so many expats, with its plethora of hipster hang-outs and its incredible and diverse food scene. It's a city I would certainly spend a lot more time in, if only RyanAir would find a way to make it a couple of hours away from Stansted.

And so, with a global pandemic just getting into the swing of things it was almost time to come home. But not before five more days in full-on holiday mode on the island of Pho Quoc: Vietnam's answer to Ko Samui. Pho Quoc is exploding in popularity, for good reason. And, judging by the sheer number of construction sites, is trying its damnedest to keep up.

Pho Quoc © Ryan Chapman

By the end of the trip coronavirus anxiety had hit fever pitch. We were sat in the back of a taxi and, I swear, I didn't even cough. I merely cleared my throat. But the driver - eye-balling me in the rear view mirror - simultaneously opened all four windows, gave his steering wheel a rub with a wet-wipe, and insisted on driving us to a pharmacy to buy some face masks. I managed to convince him we were leaving Vietnam later that day, but I don't think he believed me.

And then, on our internal flight back to Hanoi, a woman took her seat next to me on the plane wearing a full-body hazmat suit. She had the lot: gloves, goggles, mask. PPE quite literally from head to toe. She took a small bottle of disinfectant from her handbag and sprayed herself like it was perfume. Then she sprayed her tray table, and then proceeded to spray me. It was time to come home.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hoi An tips: climb aboard Uncle Dai's boat bar for pre-dinner drinks, dinner and/or post-dinner drinks with friendly cats, dogs and humans (it's not entirely clear who owns who). The Hoianian for something a little less rustic. Kimmy for tailoring. 

Saigon tips: pay-as-you-go karaoke at iCOOL. Incredible tapas at Octo. Saigon Cocktails or The Gin House for afters.

Pho Quoc tips: we stayed in Ong Lang which seemed the best of all worlds. Eat and be merry at the Bittersweet Bistro. Mango Bay for something special.