Most journeys have a clear beginning, but on some the ending is less well-defined. The question is, at what point do you bite your lip and head for home?
As a travel writer I've specialized in gritty, fearful destinations, the kind of places that make a reader's hair stick on end.
For me, a journey to Damascus is an amazing hunt from beginning to end, a slice through layers of history in search of treasure.
Where does one go in a tremendous city like Calcutta to find insider information? I recalled India's golden rule: do the opposite of what would be normal anywhere else.
One senses that, in these conditions, no amount of wet-wiping could bring true hygiene.
The very fact that a Frenchman was prepared, after two minutes of conversation, to be so friendly towards anyone, especially one who had come from England, made me restless.
In some peculiar way, indeed, the rules were now beginning to seem quite logical. It was then I knew that I had been in India long enough.
I was becoming addicted to Bombay. There was squalor and poverty, but I had begun to realise my good fortune and would never again forget it.
Spend sixteen weeks in the jungle and you being to question your own sanity, especially when you are the one goading everyone else ahead.
Usually, there is nothing more pleasing that returning to a place where you have endured hardship.
On a harsh expedition, there's no space for anyone who does not intend to finish.
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