Introducing Lions To The Rave Scene: A Revolutionary Idea To Reduce Human/Wildlife Conflict In Kenya

It’s 6am on a cool morning in Kenya’s luscious and green Nairobi National Park. I’ve just rolled out of bed and got ready for the day, sacrificing the morning shower in favour of an extra ten minutes’ sleep, still easing off the jet lag from my arrival in-country a day or so prior. My expedition team – a school group from the UK – are just starting to stretch themselves awake too, presumably still a little overwhelmed by their new environment. We’d transited straight from the airport to our small outpost camp in the heart of the national park and, for many of them, this will be their first taste of expedition travel.

Nairobi National Park is truly stunning. Sitting at about 1500m above sea level, it is considerably cooler and wetter than much of Kenya year-round and its landscape is somewhat peculiar; vast plains of savannah with the prominent city skyline on the horizon. On the periphery of the park, and not separated by fences or artificial barriers, is ‘cultural land’ – in other words, small settlements and lone houses, surviving through subsistence farming and little else.

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Nairobi’s modern skyline sits on the horizon with Nairobi National Park in the foreground. (Rich Holt, 2018).

Think of Kenya and you almost-certainly think of the country’s world-famous wildlife. The mind naturally gravitates to images of elephant, lion, zebra or giraffe roaming free under the hot African sun. A beautiful thought. However, ask a Maasai villager or local farmer what they think of these animals and you may be shocked by their opinion.

“They’re a huge pest,” our camp manager Tony explains, “if you plant a field of potatoes, wait months for them to grow and rest all of your faith in them, you may wake up one day to find an elephant has dug its tusks into the land and uprooted an entire row like a plough in a single sweep.”

The same can be said for lions. As fascinating as they are, they are a predator. Predators need a good, meaty feast. And why bother hunting if just outside the park you can find a herd of fifty goats or thirty cows enclosed in a flimsy chicken-wire and wood ‘boma’ (livestock pen)? It is an easy meal for the taking. Often the lions don’t even need to enter the boma – they simply vocalise their presence from a distance, wait for the livestock to panic and break free, then strike from the shadows.

Following a raid by lions, hyenas or leopards, locals take up arms. They don’t take pleasure in killing the wildlife but retaliation seems to be a necessity. In a country where many people survive on under $1 USD a day a strong cow can be worth $400 USD or a goat about $200 USD. As far as a farmer is concerned, killing the predators is the only solution.

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Children living on one of the small sustenance farms on the park periphery, curiously watching the peculiar group of ‘wuzungu’ (Europeans) undertaking project work on the family boma. (Rich Holt. 2018).
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A snapshot of life in the settlements on the cultural land neighbouring Nairobi National Park. (Rich Holt, 2018).

To try and protect livestock, which stops retaliations too, a cheap and simple system has been devised that has already seen a 99% reduction in lion raids on the farms that it has been implemented. LED Strobe Lights, charged throughout the day by a small solar panel, are fitted to the wooden fence posts of the bomas. As soon as day turns to night the lights begin flashing, turning the entire skyline into a scene not dissimilar to a busy Ibiza nightclub! The purpose of the strobes? To convince lions that a Maasai hunting party has been despatched.

“We found that lions don’t fear static light,” David Mascal, a renowned lion expert and joint-manager of the Lion Lights project, briefs us over breakfast. “They will scope out a static light like soldiers conducting reconnaissance on a target then nail the herd, either by raiding or by creating chaos and waiting for the food to run into them. But when the local boys go out on a retaliation patrol they carry torches and bright lights, waving them around, so the lions bugger off as soon as they see flashing or strobing.”

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Lion conservationist David Mascal briefs us on the assembly of the Lion Lights, a box of electrical parts in his hand. (Rich Holt, 2018).

For Mascal the project is mainly about protecting the lions. They are his calling in life and he has dedicated his entire career to their conservation. But what could be a better conservation project than one that benefits the local community too?

“The idea was first devised by a young Maasai boy called Richard Turere. When he brought it to me I couldn’t say no. Now I work in a partnership with another conservationist and a small team, mostly crowdfunded through a facebook page we run, installing the Lion Lights at as many farms as possible. Farmers can come to me to request my assistance and I record any raids they’ve suffered so I can feed back the evidence of the project’s importance to our donors. So far we’ve installed around a thousand sets and displayed a success rate higher than 99%. It truly is a win-win-win situation. The locals are happy their livestock survive, I am happy the lions survive, and the lions can still hunt freely in the park. I even give a twelve month guarantee to the farmers on the condition they don’t tamper with the system – some of them have diverted the solar power into their house to charge their phones then wondered why they’ve suddenly suffered another lion raid.”

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Mascal assembling one of the lighting units. (Rich Holt, 2018).

On seeing the lights in action right across the horizon at night one could argue that perhaps it is tampering with the natural environment to an extent that animal movement would be harmed or hindered but Mascal assures me there has been no evidence of this being the case in the years that he has been working on the project.

As part of our expedition project work we joined Mascal for a day assembling the system at a farm just a few kilometres walk from our camp. After his briefing we set out on foot whilst he drove the necessary materials over in his truck.

The first stage of the process was to dig a trench around the boma in order to bury the cable. The earth was solid like rock and tough to dig but we had to ensure the trench was at least 30cm deep – as soon as the rains come the fine soil turns into a muddy quagmire and cattle churn it up.

Next, we assembled the lights themselves, fitting them to each wooden post around the boma. Digging had taken most of the morning so Mascal continued to fit the lights whilst I walked my group back to camp for their lunch.

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One of our Camp Kenya in-country team and our guide from The Wildlife Foundation Kenya assist Mascal in demonstrating the installation process. (Rich Holt, 2018).

After lunch we returned to refill the trench and trample it down before Mascal demonstrated the finished product. Covering the solar panel with the cardboard box it had come in, the lights kicked into action, strobing about 1.5 times per second. Mascal explained that the system would probably last five years if not tampered with, though possibly much longer if termites don’t get into the wiring (he coats the cables in termite powder to reduce this risk).

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Camp Manager Tony poses with our guard from the Kenyan Wildlife Service. Armed escorts are provided to expedition teams and ecotourists to mitigate the risk of lion attack. They are issued automatic weapons and tactical equipment because the reality of modern Kenya is that the KWS is waging a counter-guerrilla war against ruthless poachers too. (Rich Holt, 2018).

Since inventing and patenting the Lion Lights concept Richard Turere has gone onto international fame as Africa’s youngest patented inventor, speaking at TED Talks and featuring in documentaries. David Mascal and partners continue to assemble Lion Lights on an almost-daily basis. Throughout summer 2018 approximately fifteen sets have been installed by volunteers traveling on school expeditions with Camps International, an organisation for whom I have the immense pleasure of working as an Expedition Leader.

If you’re interested in the Lion Lights project you can find more information HERE or HERE. When I find the donation link for the project I’ll attach it here too. Thank you to David Mascal and the entire team at The Wildlife Foundation (alongside Camps International’s Camp Kenya team) for their hospitality.

To see more of my Kenya 2018 expedition photos follow my Instagram right HERE.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mistakes In The Outdoors Can Be Our Most Valuable Learning Experiences

DISCLAIMER: Some of the hyperlinks in this article discuss various climbing and abseiling/rappelling techniques. They are linked so non-climbing readers can follow the context of the story without drowning in technical jargon. Readers must be aware that climbing and mountaineering are sports with a danger of personal injury or death. Do not attempt these techniques without appropriate coaching or training. Participants in these sports must be aware of, and accept, these risks and remain responsible for their own actions. Disclaimer paraphrased from the recognised BMC Statement.

Mistakes. We all make them. Nobody is immune and, if you think you are, you clearly need to address some narcissism issues.

Now I’ll precurse this article by saying I don’t think mistakes are good. By their very definition they are acts or judgements that are wrong. But they are valuable. They’re valuable if you take the time to reflect back on them, see where you went wrong (sometimes our natural embedded self worth, or unconscious or conscious incompetence, means we need somebody else to tell us that bit), and learn from them so we don’t make the same mistake in the future.

Nowhere could this be more relevant than in the outdoors. I’ve had (and continue to have) the privilege of learning from some of the UK’s, perhaps even the world’s, most-experienced adventurers and all of them reflect back on poor judgements they’ve made in the past as valuable learning experiences that got them where they are today. Often we have to get out there and cock something up or run into conflict to see what we could do better in the future. Because we’re in the outdoors making those mistakes can sometimes mean dicing death or injury. We have a little more to lose than just making a bad sale or cooking a tasteless meal for a fancy dinner party.

A sequence of errors on a climbing trip…

One mistake I remember as a valuable learning experience happened several years ago when two friends and I decided to go climbing in the UK. Because they’re now established and respected professionals in this fairly small and close-knit industry I’m going to call them ‘Jack and Jill’ so as not to undermine them.

Jack and Jill were committed members of the climbing community. Jack had climbed for about eight years already and was leading Trad E-Grades, Jill about two years and leading at HVS. I was the least-experienced climber having only started a year or so earlier and not quite caught the bug yet. I could lead a grippy Severe on a good day or a VDiff/HVDiff most of the time. At the time I really only climbed the minimum amount to pass the relevant modules on my Outdoor Education BSc. I’ve since done considerably more climbing both personally and professionally but trekking, SCUBA diving, paddlesports, bushcraft and the many facets of geography/geology/ecology remain my ‘preferred’ disciplines.

So, in an effort to drag me out and teach me about how great climbing could be, Jack and Jill declared we’d go for a day on Idwal Slabs.

“Rich, I think the main reason you don’t see its appeal is because single-pitch climbing doesn’t give you the same sense of adventure that summiting a mountain or diving a shipwreck do, so we’re gonna introduce you to multi-pitch climbing. It’ll feel more like proper mountaineering”, was the jist of what they said to me.

It was a chilly February but a fairly bland winter for the mountaineering community. There was no decent snow or ice so we’d be doing ‘summer’ rock climbing. We decided to do a route graded at VDiff. Due to the big holds and grippiness of the rock we chose to ascend in solid winter-mountaineering boots rather than tight climbing shoes. This was within all of our climbing competence.

We set off from Liverpool just before 9am and made a short stop on the way. We got to the Ogwen Valley and hiked up to the base of the slabs by about 11:30am.

Now, any climbers reading this may already see the red flags. It was nearly lunch in a month where the daylight hours are shorter, and we were about to multi-pitch. Due to my relative inexperience (we’d trained to multi-pitch in uni but I hadn’t done it ‘in anger’) we’d decided not to simul-climb. Instead Jack and Jill would take it in turns to lead pitches, bringing me up between them. This adds a little time to the process but we estimated we’d still be fairly fast because they were both exceptionally quick and I was pretty confident at that climbing grade too.

Jack set off first and we made fairly good progress initially. We got a few pitches done just as efficiently as planned. But then my climbing endurance started to waiver and we got considerably slower. Every time Jack or Jill had to belay me their hands started to stiffen up, meaning their progress became slower too.

We decided to anchor up and have a quick lunch at about 2pm. That was when we realised, if we continued at this speed on the current plan, we’d be descending in the dark. Not the end of the world; we’d all done plenty of night navigation and it was somewhat of a specialisation of mine after doing it regularly for the preceding few months whilst attempting to join a fairly tough military reserve unit. A quicker option was preferable though.

We changed our plan. Originally we were going to ascend the full route then descend down the mountain on foot but Jack mentioned there was an abseil ‘escape’ we could take about 3/4 the way up.

“There’s usually a line up there to drop off on”, he said.

So we pushed on. It was hitting dusk as we topped-out on the grassy ledge leading to the abseil a bit further around the mountain. The wind was starting to pick up and we were getting chilly.

At this stage I felt pretty done-in. I wanted nothing more than to be down off the hillside, walking back to the car ready for a hot meal and celebratory energy drink. Despite usually brandishing a stoic mindset, I found myself vocalising how I felt.

We made our way around the ledge to the abseil point. It was dark now and we’d got our headlights out. To our annoyance we found the lines we’d been expecting weren’t there. Looking over the precipice was vast blackness. We couldn’t see the bottom.

“Right, we’ll have to ab off and see if we’ve got enough rope. We’ll be cutting it quite fine I think. If not, prusik back up and we’ll look at our options” Jack declared.

We decided I’d go first. Jack set the system up and I knotted the end of the rope so I couldn’t accidentally plummet to my death if the rope was too short, then tied my prusik. I didn’t particularly want to have to ascend back up; not only was I feeling pretty done but prusiking up a rope can be bloody hard work!

I started to lower myself over the edge, the black void wide open beneath me. I shifted my prusik farther down the rope and fed it through my bug. I gained some confidence and descended pretty quickly. To my joy, the ground appeared beneath me and I felt my feet settle on terra firma.

“SAFE!“, I shouted as I removed myself from the rope.

Jack and Jill followed me down and we retrieved the rope. It was time for the fairly simple task of hiking to the footpath that would lead us out of here.

We got one of our maps out and consulted it. We decided our route and set off. About fifteen minutes into the walk the terrain around us no longer matched what it should have done on the map. Despite all being fairly competent at Night Nav, a combination of fatigue, urgency to get off the mountain and complacency meant we’d gone wrong.

We got together for a chat.

“Well, we’re not trying to navigate to any precise spot. We know we’re heading in the right direction to hit the tourist track, there’s no more particularly dangerous terrain other than a few short rocky steps we might have to lower down, and it’s already dark so time isn’t of particular concern as long as we grizz it out for a bit longer”, one of us said, I can’t recall who.

It was a fair argument. We estimated we were probably 50-60m from where we wanted to be. It was too dark to accurately relocate quickly so we decided to press on and see what we came across.

As expected, we hit a few rocky sections and did some quick ropework to lower off them. After some time (I forget specifically, perhaps about forty minutes) the track came into view. It stood out fairly prominently – a white scar across the black landscape, softly reflecting the ambient light of what had turned out to be a gloriously clear and starry night.

We were ecstatic! The slope in front of us opened out to a shallow, grassy descent and we accelerated towards the prominent footpath. Finally, we reached it. It was all plain sailing from here. The Llyn Idwal path is one of the most touristic in the UK and an easy, rapid descent back to the car park for anybody that knows it. We reached the car soon after and looked back at what an ‘epic’ it had been. Over all, a climb and descent we estimated would take four or five hours had taken us about ten.

As you can see, a considerable sequence of errors was made that day. It will be very easy for more intrepid readers to criticise a lot. I don’t oppose them in doing so. We learnt a lot and have never made the same mistakes. For example:

  • The decision to go when we did. In hindsight, doing that route in February requires a very early start to make the most of the daylight. Starting a multi-pitch when most people would be getting ready for lunch, in the tail end of winter, meant finishing in the dark was almost inevitable.
  • The way we chose to climb. Climbing with three people on one rope is inefficient the way we did it. Simul-climbing is a rapid way of ascending with more than two climbers linked together but is known for being quite dangerous and isn’t for beginners. The climbing method we were using works best in pairs. Ideally we should have invited a fourth climber so we could climb in two pairs or I could have declined the invitation so Jack and Jill could go and zoom up there in their own time. Or I could have gone with just one of them. There was a range of arguably better options.
  • Physical preparation for the climb. It was a mistake on my part to not prepare more thoroughly to go multi-pitching. Due to the aforementioned military training I possessed considerable strength and endurance at the time but, in an ideal world, I would have been able to climb much quicker and longer with a few weeks hammering the indoor walls or single-pitch crags first.
  • Some good calls we made. Choosing to cut our losses and escape the route when we topped-out on the main slab was a good call. Imagine how long it could have taken to continue climbing the next (more difficult) section before navigating our way down the mountain. Beyond that – the inconvenience of setting up our own abseil wasn’t an error, though we would have endured less stress knowing we had a longer rope. One should never rely on the thought of a line being fixed and we hadn’t – we had the right equipment. Knowing the rough size of the abseil and the length of our rope meant we knew we’d be close; we physically had to test it out to see if we could get all the way down. It was well ingrained in all of us to ALWAYS tie a knot in the end of the rope so we could never accidentally abseil off it.
  • Getting complacent in our navigation. Whilst it worked out for us this time, it was a reminder to never get complacent or lazy with navigation. Always check exactly where you are. Never set off without truly knowing. The ‘educated guess’ method has its place to an extent on a glorious summers’ day in easy terrain where features are easy to find and relocation is quick and simple, but certainly not at night when under moderate stress and fatigue. Many good, competent mountaineers and hikers have died because they made simple navigational errors when they were tired or became complacent.
  • Don’t celebrate until it’s over. We were all extremely well versed in the Llyn Idwal footpath, knowing it like the back of our hand. It was like a second home at the time and I’d be confident in saying going wrong once we were on it was pretty much impossible. To that end, we dashed down in a great mood. We wouldn’t have done so elsewhere. Reaching a footpath does not mean you’re in the clear. Take a wrong turn on many routes and you can end up on the other side of the mountain from where you want to be, or on some routes you could still walk yourself to your death (the ever-popular Snowdon is particularly renowned for some hidden killers next to major tourist tracks). Reaching a path should change nothing in your commitment to navigation unless you really know it inside-out.

Over all, I can say I learnt a lot during and after that long day on the hill. Whilst I cringe and cower at the thought of some of our decisions that day, as I imagine Jack and Jill do too, I’m glad for the experience.

Since then I’ve engaged in climbing considerably more and would not repeat the same errors. I no longer let the young bravado or cockiness of ‘winging it’ carry me through in my navigation (or anything else I do in the outdoors). I’m known these days to be a fairly calm character under duress but that is only because I plan and prepare everything to a much higher standard beforehand and have learnt to adjust or adapt my plans accordingly when a situation changes.

Reflecting on every experience in the outdoors – good or bad – is arguably the most critical stage of the learning process. We can assess what went well or where we went wrong. For some that could mean taking notes and reviewing them intensely. For others, a chat or moment’s headspace whilst nursing the post-summit pint will do the trick.

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Thanks for reading!

Rich

 

 

Exploring A Notorious Arms Dealer’s Abandoned Cargo Plane

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If you’ve seen the 2005 Nicholas Cage film Lord of War, you’ll be loosely familiar with the tale of Russian gun-runner Viktor Bout.  Whilst Hollywood chose to rename the movie’s protagonist and fictionalise various events it cannot be denied that Bout was the main influence for the story. Bout now sits in an American jail cell after a long hare-and-hounds chase around the world that culminated in his arrest by US and Thai Authorities in Bangkok in 2008. Weapons and ammunition were not Bout’s only cargo – he flew everything from flowers to electronics too – but it was his willingness to make dodgy gun deals that ultimately led to his demise.

Shortly after arriving in the United Arab Emirates to work for an Outdoor Education company in September 2017 I learnt that the UAE has its own little slice of Viktor Bout’s legacy. Bout based many of his (fully legal on paper) air freight operations out of the emirate of Sharjah, and is said to have lived for a brief period in the emirate of Ras Al Khaimah, the emirate I called home for seven months and may again sometime in the future.

During induction for my role as an Outdoor Instructor and Field Studies Tutor our head of Senior Field Studies, Hugh, told us he had something cool to show us as part of our geography familiarisation. Whilst driving along a desolate desert road in the emirate of Umm al-Quwain, passing a couple of water parks and not much else, the silhouette of a great aircraft appeared before us, behind it a vast runway and a couple of dusty old hangars.

The jet was a Russian Ilyushin IL-76 – the centrepiece of Soviet aircraft engineering – and the aircraft Viktor Bout was known to have operated when he was in business. There’s mixed reports on how the Ilyushin came to rest at the now-abandoned UAQ Airport; some say it was grounded by local forces as the American DEA started to close in on Bout and the British intelligence services requested the UAE to evict Bout (a request the UAE complied with, catalysing the collapse of Bout’s empire). Another opinion is that a private investor purchased the body to use as a ‘gate guard’ for the airport, a more likely theory considering its location at the front of the facility, standing proud over the road. All that can be confirmed on a search of its serial number is that it was once part of Bout’s fleet.

Hugh stopped the truck and we disembarked for a quick snoop around. This initial visit was fairly uneventful, learning a little bit about the socioeconomic impacts of an area expanding beyond its means and poking our heads into a few hangars, then we headed off to conduct another tiresome beach survey. But I knew I had to get back there and explore a little more.

A week after my lust to explore had been teased, I asked around the outdoor centre for a lift to the abandoned airfield. Not long later and I and three workmates were setting off for the 90 minute drive south.

It was approaching sunset as we pulled up in a gravel layby in front of the facility. The perimeter was marked by patches of broken chainlink fence and a lazily-established line of barbed wire. It was evident that this was a popular site for the edgier or more-curious passer-by because there were many footprints in the sand and no real barrier to prohibit entry. Sun-faded “NO PHOTOGRAPHY” signs were sporadically placed along the fence, many hanging limp after years of disregard. We crossed into the facility over a trodden-down section of barbed wire and made a beeline for the huge silhouette of the cargo jet about 300m to our left.

 

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The view from the gravel layby at the front of the facility. (Rich Holt)
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The IL-76 in the distance. (Rich Holt)

 

As we approached the IL-76 we were ecstatic to find its ladder had been left down from its port-side door, meaning entry would be a walk in the park. To our surprise other people were here checking it out too and we nodded a ‘hello’ to them as they made their way back to their car.

Once we reached the plane we took a few moments to enjoy its beauty. At some point in history a hotel had come along and painted their logo along its sides but the sun and sand had blasted the logo out of relevance long ago.

 

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The IL-76 from the front, note my colleague near the belly for scale. (Rich Holt)

 

After two or three minutes we set about penetrating the vast carcass. One by one we scrambled up the ladder and into the door sitting about 2.5m off the ground. It was surprisingly tricky to get in; we each had to ‘mantle’ on the plane floor and scratch at the sides of the door to shift our bodyweight inside or, once somebody was in there, help the next person up.

 

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A friend approaching the top of the ladder. (Rich Holt)

 

The main hold of the aircraft had been torn to shreds; every last bit of its interior stripped. I don’t think it was a move to hide anything nefarious – just the level of degradation to be expected with any accessible abandoned site after long enough.

 

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Inside the main hold. (Rich Holt)

 

Once inside, we decided to check out the front spotter’s area (possibly the navigator’s booth?) and the cockpit, both now coated in several layers of dust with very few of the controls remaining intact.

 

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The lower viewing port, possibly a navigator’s booth. Small metal staircase up to the cockpit in foreground. (Rich Holt)

 

 

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The remnants of the cockpit. (Rich Holt)

 

Once we reached the cockpit we were gifted with an opportunity too good to ignore! Located just behind the pilots’ seats were a series of footholds in the bulkhead/wall leading up to an open roof hatch. It was time to enjoy sunset in style. One by one we each clambered up the holds and heaved ourselves on top of the aircraft. This was a fairly simple task for myself at 6’4 (193cm), the main issue being angling my shoulders and backpack through the narrow hatch, but the big reaches of the 2m climb were a bit of an epic for my shorter pals (who found getting through the hatch itself much easier).

 

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Squeezing my way through the roof hatch. (Jaime Chong)

 

The view once we were on top of the plane was glorious. 360 degrees of endless desert expanse. To the west, or facing aft, the sun was setting over Umm al-Quwain’s mangrove marshes. Treading carefully so as not to slide over the aircraft’s rounded convex edges we made our way to the midpoint of the wings and sat to enjoy the scenery, occasionally standing to grab a few more shots.

 

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Selfie on top of the IL-76. (Rich Holt)

 

 

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Author watching sunset from the midpoint of the IL-76’s huge wings. (Jaime Chong)

 

Once the sun had set we made our way back down through the Ilyushin and decided to get going. A coffee at the nearby Al Hamra Mall was starting to sound rather appealing! Over all, this short hour-long adventure remains one of my best memories from my season in the UAE; it truly did feel like ‘getting off the grid’…

If you find yourself in the UAE this cool feature is located about an hour’s drive north of Dubai, right next to the turn-off for Barracuda Bottle Shop and a short hop from Dreamland water park. I’d advise extreme caution in visiting; it is still technically off-limits and things didn’t go so smoothly when I decided to return in February. I’ll write about that in the future but hint: I got held at gunpoint!

If you’re interested in more travel and adventure content make sure to follow me on Instagram and follow this blog. Thanks!

 

 

The (Blogging) Journey Begins!

So, after years of family and friends hassling me with “Rich, you really should write about your adventures”, I’ve finally caved.

As an outdoor instructor, field-studies tutor, expedition leader and general ‘wilderness educator’, I get to see a lot of the world for a living. Then I spend most of the earnings on my own personal adventures or snazzy camera gear to photograph them with.

Those familiar with my Instagram  will already be aware I’m fond of descriptive captions so I suppose it was only a matter of time before I expanded into storytelling too.

Thanks for joining me on the journey!