Step by Step

by Simon Reeve

  As we were getting a parking ticket in China next to the temple, despite the loud protestations of our drivers, I noticed a large permanent sign on the wall nearby which our translator (when he had also stopped shouting at the police officers) interpreted for us: ‘I’m your district police chief, and if you have a problem please get in touch.’ The police chief was a woman, as were both her deputies, who were also pictured underneath. Three female law enforcement officers in charge of the borough of a massive city, complete with their names, direct phone numbers as well as their email addresses. That police plaque was not evidence of a faceless bureaucracy. It might not be Denmark, which remains one of my benchmarks for an inclusive and well-run society, but it was hardly 1984.

  Yet there are of course many lines that cannot be crossed in China. You certainly wouldn’t want to be an opposition activist, or a bookseller offering anti-Party material. Amnesty International is clear: ‘Freedom of expression is severely restricted in China and anyone who speaks out against the authorities faces harassment, arrest and detention. Torture is widespread across the country and justice is elusive for many.’ Investigating corruption is forbidden, as is questioning the rule of the Party or China’s ownership of Taiwan.

  Back in the mid-2000s in Beijing before heading to Taiwan I took some time out to wander around the magnificent Forbidden City, which was home to the emperors and their households for almost 500 years. Then I did something I try never to do in my programmes: I went to see a government man in a suit.

  ‘Taiwan has never been a country,’ said the senior official, who had the task of leading Chinese policy on Taiwan. ‘It is still not a country. The Chinese people will not allow Taiwan to be separated from the Motherland. The Chinese people will safeguard their sovereignty and territorial integrity and we have the ability to break any intention to make Taiwan independent.’

  It was couched in a bit of official-speak, but not much. The sentiment was strong. But how far would China go? I wondered. I asked him whether the Chinese government was concerned that a conflict between China and Taiwan might involve the United States.

  ‘I don’t believe the American people will be prepared to spill their blood for Taiwanese independence,’ he said.

  For many years Chinese plans for the invasion of Taiwan were jokingly referred to as ‘the million-man swim’, because the Chinese navy was so weak compared to the Taiwanese forces. In the last decade, however, China has upgraded and rebuilt a powerful military machine, complete with aircraft carrier and submarines.

  Chinese policy back in the mid-2000s was to get Taiwan back, and it remains the policy now. Nobody should be under any illusions. China is still ready and willing to go to war over Taiwan.

  Visiting places that don’t exist left me wide-eyed. They are quite literally off the map, with eccentric customs, the energy of upstarts, and with patriotic locals desperate for the rest of the world to recognise their existence. It had been a series of incredible journeys and adventures.

  Going to Taiwan, in particular, made me realise I could make a travelogue exploring the light and shade of life almost anywhere. It wasn’t a style that only worked in a country that was dark, poverty-stricken or at war.

  We just needed to find moments that were quirky and countered a prejudice or revealed something telling about a place. Often that could come from a jokey interaction with someone. But it could also come from something I spotted and identified to the camera. In Taipei, for example, I realised that telephone junction boxes were works of art: local artists had been commissioned to paint murals on the street-side green boxes. A place that can think about beautifying street furniture is clearly at an advanced stage of development.

  Taiwan might be better run than Switzerland, but there was still darkness to explore, as there is everywhere. Wherever I go now part of my aim is to look for the alternative to whatever stereotype dominates the perception of a place. This could be something positive or even fun in a troubled country, perhaps playing kabaddi in poor Bangladesh; or the opposite in an affluent country, such as discovering a dark rubbish island in the otherwise paradise world of the Maldives. The point is to overturn preconceptions, starting with my own.

  Taiwan worked for me as a destination for a documentary because I explored the place with my eyes open. If I had gone there just looking at history, or landscapes, there would have been fewer dimensions to the journey. Getting off the beaten track and learning more about the places we visit – both the light and the shade – always makes for a more interesting experience, a more rounded adventure. I don’t think travellers need to ignore darkness. I haven’t been anywhere where people won’t talk about issues or problems. For most people it’s cathartic to share with outsiders.

  Other travellers might not be mad keen to copy some of my hairier journeys, but I still think many could benefit from injecting a few elements into their next holiday. Apart from exploring the light and the shade, my trips have been memorable, for me at least, because they combine adventure with a clear plan and destination.

  More of us should try turning a break into a proper adventure with a healthy dose of purpose and meaning. It almost guarantees a lifetime of memories. You could follow a river from source to sea or start a trip in one location and then head to another, exploring along the way. Taking chances is often where the best memories are, and the richest rewards in life come from a bit of risk-taking. We can all benefit from pushing ourselves, our partners, friends or family, out of our respective comfort zones. On a holiday that can be as simple as not wasting your life lying horizontal by a swimming pool. Personally, on any trip I try to push myself a little and follow a simple set of rules: go to strange places, take chances, ask questions, do things that are exciting, eat strange foreign food, and dive into the culture of the world and embrace risk.

  A proper adventure is now more possible than ever before. You can go almost anywhere and do almost anything. We are often sold a vision of the world as a dangerous and frightening place. In reality the world is friendly and astonishingly hospitable. And the further you go from the tourist traps the warmer the welcome and the more authentic and unforgettable the experience. Some people think the ‘Golden Age’ of travel was when steam wafted from trains, crystal clinked in dining cars, and air stewardesses wore long white gloves. I think the real Golden Age of travel is actually now, when it is cheaper and safer than ever. It’s also a guaranteed way of tingling your senses, enhancing your life and gifting you a huge stock of memories, encounters and experiences.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Exorcism at the Monastery

  I came back from filming Places That Don’t Exist and began plotting a new adventure, this time around the equator. It was a much longer, more ambitious journey than I had attempted before, and the first programme we shot did not end well. I spent a couple of weeks sleeping and recovering from malaria, and a couple more considering whether to continue the journey. Anya and I talked about it not just in terms of career options, but from the perspective of my health. I’d had a brush with death and I felt I would never be the same again. She wanted me to take at least a moment to consider the future.

  As I mooched around, friends and family came to see me, offering commiserations about my illness, and then ribbed me about my trips as if they were holidays.

  I started talking about the hardship, the dangers, and the endless pieces of heavy camera kit which daily need to be lugged in and out of four-wheel drives and dodgy hotels. ‘These journeys really aren’t holidays,’ I said earnestly.

  Then I regaled them with tales of sleepless nights in godforsaken villages, scuzzy hotels and even unmade beds in part-time brothels. I offered up a couple of recent experiences, like the joy of sleeping head to toe with colleagues in a tiny African hut, where the smell from our pile of unwashed sweaty clothes was enough to ward off all local insect life.

  I moved on to the Groundhog Day experience of eating identical meagre meals together with three colleagues day after day
and week after week. I droned on about one of the most difficult aspects of filming while travelling: the fact we’re constantly on the move. On every journey I make there are always half a dozen places where I would love to pause to savour the surroundings. Filming in Bukhara, for example, I would have given anything for a chance to relax for a few days and explore. If I was travelling for pleasure I could simply have decided to halt the trip and unwind. But on filming trips we have the briefest of stops to shoot, then we’re back on the road.

  I say ‘road’. On many trips, roads were often just connected potholes. Travelling for months meant I was spending large chunks of my life being bounced around in small cars. The result was backache and spinal pain that earned me a loyalty card from my local osteopath. Finally, I would tell friends and family about the bureaucracy and paperwork. It’s an aspect of the journey we never show on TV, simply because it is hideously boring. But the meetings we have to attend and forms we have to complete just to be allowed into a country to film are enough to try the patience of a particularly calm nun.

  But who was I kidding? Filming trips certainly aren’t a holiday, but they are still a glorious treat. Filming for the BBC opens doors. I have seen and done things and gone to places most folk can only imagine. I have met some of the most incredible and inspiring people on the planet. Filming a TV series while on a journey is one of the most spectacular ways to travel. It is enlightening, entertaining, and it provides a purpose and reason for adventure.

  How could I turn my back on the madness? How could I turn my back on the light and shade? Even the first part of Equator had been magnificent. I spoke to the BBC about my illness and what should happen next. A lot of time and money had been spent planning Equator and they were keen for the journey to continue. But they were still concerned for my health. It was up to me. I thought about it briefly, but I knew there was no way I could turn my back on a chance of adventure and experiences, or the near-guarantee of meeting people I would remember forever.

  Within two months of returning home in the aftermath of malaria, I was flying back south from London to continue my journey following the equator eastwards across Africa. It would become one of the most humbling journeys of my life.

  I felt fragile and mortal. I had no idea if I would sicken again, and I was flying to the Democratic Republic of Congo, one of the most dangerous countries in the world, a nation the size of Western Europe, where medical cover was extremely limited.

  But the team were brilliant. Sophie Todd, the producer-director who helped save my life in Gabon, had agreed to take me back on the road. A tough and adventurous sort ready for a challenge, Sophie was joined by an assistant producer called Jamie Berry, a great shooter who was young but enthusiastic and rarely fazed.

  We arrived into Kinshasa, capital of the DRC, and together met up with Brian Green, a South African war cameraman who had flown in from his home in Johannesburg. Straight from the off it was clear Brian was a bit of a card, in the best possible way. Witty, brave and resourceful, Brian had dodged bullets and artillery shells during the Bosnian War, was marvellous at using humour to dilute tricky situations and would amuse us all by slipping into the kitchens of slow cafés to help cook the food when we were in a rush. He owned a shopping centre in South Africa but loved the excitement of an adventure and the chance to record a moment of history.

  We had a briefing chat in Kinshasa with officials from the United Nations, who seemed determined to put the fear of God into us. They explained there was still fighting in the east of the DRC. Following the equator would take us through an active conflict zone, but first we went north towards the small city of Mbandaka in a tiny Cessna Caravan plane flown by a missionary called Dan from Colorado.

  Flying through blue skies we tracked along the vast Congo River, a mirror for low, fluffy cotton-wool clouds. It was just a tiny corner of the DRC, the largest country in sub-Saharan Africa, but it was breathtaking. Endless green forest stretched in every direction, broken only occasionally by remote villages and dirt tracks. My eyes were glued to the view, my mind following every slope to a peak and every curve along the river. Everything was fascinating; everything was wondrous. To be a stranger in a strange world such as this, as travellers have for thousands of years, keeps wonder alive. It exercises astonishment, even awe.

  I looked out of the window to the west, towards Congo-Brazzaville, a separate country, and also crossed by the equator line. The Ebola outbreak in Congo-Brazzaville had actually worsened since I was in Gabon, and we had no option but to avoid the country altogether and land on the outskirts of Mbandaka in DRC. The moment I stepped off the plane I knew I was back on the equator. I had forgotten how hot it could be. The sun was merciless.

  By this point in the mid-2000s I had explored several dozen countries, recognised or otherwise. But everywhere new still felt different and surprising. Each country still does today. I have never lost the sense I am doing something exceptional. Perhaps the reality of my past is part of the reason. Hardly travelling when I was younger, let alone exploring exotically, helps ensure these experiences feel remarkable as an adult. I have never felt jaded. On each new journey I sense possibility, discovery, and most especially in a country like DRC, enormous challenge.

  Emery Makumeno, a wonderful, warm and softly spoken fixer, was to be our guide and translator in the DRC. Somehow he had managed to find us four-wheel-drive vehicles in one of the poorest areas of Africa, and we set off to find a place to stay.

  Mbandaka, like the rest of the country, was desperately, appallingly poor. There were hundreds of people walking and some cycling on the dirt roads, but very few cars, and those were mostly UN vehicles travelling in convoys. There were no hotels to speak of, and no running water or public electricity.

  The DRC was, and remains, in a desperate state. Two wars had ravaged the country. They were often described as civil wars, but they involved forces from nine countries and perhaps two dozen armed groups. They were Africa’s world wars. The death toll was simply astonishing. By the time I visited in the mid-2000s at least 4 million people had died since 1998.

  We stopped in the street in central Mbandaka and I looked around. I had been focused too closely on my own selfish recovery and personal journey. Suddenly the reality of where I was hit home. There was a dirt road, busy with people walking and cycling past, balancing metal pots on their heads and long pieces of thin timber on shoulders. To the sides were old one-storey concrete buildings and shanty huts, in front of which weary women ran basic stalls selling vegetables, clothes and single-use sachets of washing powder and shampoo.

  It might sound perfectly pleasant, but there is rarely anything romantic about poverty. Most people had next to nothing. Children looked ragged and malnourished. The country was staggering from crisis to crisis. Some there told us it was cursed.

  Yet there were few obvious scars of conflict. No bullet holes like I had seen everywhere in Somalia. Often the weapons of choice during the conflict in the DRC, as neighbouring ethnic groups attacked and hacked at each other, were machetes.

  We found rooms in a spooky, semi-abandoned monastery. At dusk we lit candles next to our wooden beds and incense coils to drive away mosquitoes. I dug out my travel kit, covered myself in natural repellent, screwed my mozzie net into the ceiling and unrolled a black plastic sheet and sleeping mat. Then I grabbed my head torch and went off to find a toilet.

  If you really want to feel like you’ve travelled and experienced a completely different culture, you need to bid farewell to bleach and flushing loos. A bit of personal discomfort actually helps to create priceless travel experiences guaranteed to linger in the memory. Travelling abroad and realising it is all a bit mucky helps put our own lives into context and reminds us how lucky we are to have running water at home.

  But the toilet in the monastery was astonishing. Round the side of the main building I followed the remains of a path to a derelict outhouse with a small platform and a huge pit. The fumes were so overwhelming and so com
bustible I nearly collapsed into the black swamp.

  For sheer danger that experience competes strongly with a coastal village in Indonesia I reached later on my equator journey. I was shown to a drop toilet in a small outhouse made of rotting branches perched precariously over the sea. It was low tide, and as I attempted to let nature take its course an entire pack of enormous, ravenous pigs fought their way up through the hole in the floor, their sharp teeth snapping at my undercarriage. Children watching outside giggled, but I very nearly lost more than my dignity.

  I can hardly complain. Experiencing and briefly enduring the reality of life has been an education. That night at the monas-tery scores of local villagers began to gather in the overgrown grounds. At first we thought it was for a church service. Then the darkness was pierced by a series of bloodcurdling screams, flaming torches were lit, and a terrifying exorcism began. It all came as something of a shock. We wanted to start filming.

  ‘No, that would not be a good idea,’ said Emery calmly. ‘I think we should try to find a way of locking our doors.’

  When the sun rose every one of the villagers had vanished. Sophie and Jamie did some yoga in the grounds, which made all of us feel much better, before we set off for a community on the equator that had suffered during Congo’s endless fighting. I wanted to see what life was like in the aftermath of the deadliest conflict on the planet since World War Two.

  Beyond Mbandaka we passed an old colonial mansion that had long since succumbed to the jungle. Surrounded by grassland, trees had taken root in verandas before twisting around pillars and porticoes to break through tiles on the roof. It was close to the Botanical Garden of Eala, once a lush and tended reserve home to thousands of trees, flowers, shrubs and bushes. But that was long ago. Many of the trees had been felled for firewood and what was left was neglected and astonishingly overgrown. Standing by the entrance track the reserve had an end-of-the-world feel, as if civilisation had vanished and left just a few survivors.