Guest Post - Atlantic to Pacific by Lindsay Bamfield - Bookish World Cup - Costa Rica

We arrived in Cahuita, a small town with a Caribbean flavour, on the local bus. The highlight here was the snorkelling. My daughter wouldn’t let me pussyfoot around and took me far beyond my timid forays off the boat. The reward was well worth my former conviction that I would die a watery death.  ‘The best thing about my country,’ said our fixer, Ron, ‘is you can swim in the Atlantic in the morning and the Pacific in the afternoon.’ He was right but we had other places to see before we hit the Pacific rollers.

Sarapiqui was our next call where we learned why it’s called rain forest. It wasn’t a time to stay indoors reading though; we wanted to see the forest’s flora and fauna. The rain had brought out tiny frogs by the dozen. ‘Don’t pick up these red ones,’ warned our guide displaying one on his hand. ‘They’re poisonous.’

 Another bus journey took us to Arenal with its conical volcano hiding its head in the clouds. Here we ate at local restaurants, one of which boasted an impressive array of books for swapping. They were, of course, in Spanish but Maria, Ron’s 14 year old daughter, told me people loved to read English books too.

   ‘I’ve read all but the last one of Harry Potter,’ she said. I didn’t happen to have the missing copy on me but I left the paperback I’d just finished on the shelf instead. I obviously wasn’t the first visitor to do so. There were a couple of English language copies of Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park, and The Lost World which are set in a fictitious Costa Rican island.

After exploring Arenal and clambering over large chunks of volcanic rock a fair way up the volcano, we headed off the Monteverde Cloud Forest. Here, in spite of the whole town being a tourist resort, you can see virgin forest for miles. They take conservation seriously so certain areas have limits on the number of visitors per day.Costa Rica was once at least 75% forest but by the 80s this has been depleted to around 25% or lower according to some estimates. Reforestation schemes have restored this to some degree and it’s now just over 50%. This provides natural habitat for its incredible 500,000 wildlife species including jaguars. We heard plenty of howler monkeys and saw white-headed capuchins, who outwitted tourists by working in groups. While one posed for photos, others nipped to the tourists’ bags to steal food.Coatis would also investigate tourist groups for handouts. Sloths, some curled up in the high tree-tops, others making their way slowly, slowly up and down trees or even across telephone wires in the town, were a never-ending delight. Costa Rica is a paradise for ornithologists with its numerous bird species, from toucans to jewel-coloured hummingbirds and we were lucky enough to see several beautiful, but rare, Resplendent Quetzals.

   Zip-lining over the forest canopy was thrilling but we were so busy concentrating on controlling our speed on the zip-lines we couldn’t always appreciate the stunning panorama beneath. A more leisurely walk over the canopy bridges gave a detailed view of the forest’s wonderful diversity.

Finally we reached the Manuel Antonio National Park on the Pacific coast where the mighty rollers rolled. You need to be a strong swimmer to brave them so I sat in the shallows for three minutes before heading back to the beach while my daughter scared me to death, disappearing beneath the waves for what seemed hours on end. I had a book with me but I couldn’t read it as I was too busy peering at the ocean.

 ‘Costa Rica doesn’t have a very long tradition of literature, not like Britain,’ Maria told me. ‘It doesn’t go back much before the beginning of the last century. We’ve learned that there are five generations of literature but I can’t remember them all. From the 1960s it was the Urban Generation. Then from the 80s it’s The Generation of Disenchantment. The phases relate to our country’s politics and the recent one reflects a lot of dissatisfaction. I think the Urban Generation was the most interesting, that’s the one I want to study. We also read lots of books from other South American writers.’

 I asked if she knew of any books that had been translated into English. ‘Cadence of the Moon, it’s a gruesome murder mystery based on a true story,’ said Maria. ‘It’s by Oscar Núñez Olivas, but my dad won’t let me read it.’

Thank you to Lindsay for sharing with us this amazing trip, I am a huge fan of coatis after sharing a hotel with them in Mexico! 

About Lindsay Bamfield 

Lindsay Bamfield has written a number of short stories and flash fiction pieces as well as non-fiction articles. She has been published in Hysteria 6 Anthology, Stories for Homes 2, Greenacre Writers Anthology, Mslexia, Writers’ News and Writing Magazine as well as on several websites. Prizes include Hysteria 2017, Great British Write Off 2106 and Words with Jam competitions.

She blogs on www.lindsaybamfield.blogspot.co.uk and is on Twitter @LindsayBamfield.

Guest Post - Five Days in the Life… by Lindsay Bamfield - Bookish World Cup - Russia

The train passed an abandoned Siberian prison camp. Its bleak architecture and the razor wire atop the walls brought back the starkness of a book I’d read many years before in my teens, The Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn. Apart from Animal Farm and 1984, it was the first political novel I’d read and it’d had a profound effect on me.

I’d dreamed of making a Trans-Siberian railway journey since I was 12 and now I was gazing at its ever-changing view. The Russian part of the journey would be five days long from Moscow to Ulaanbaatar in Mongolia. Boarding at Yaroslavl Station my rucksack contained several books. I’d debated taking the Great Russian Novel, Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace, but when you’re back-packing, weight is all important – this was before the advent of the Kindle – so it stayed on the shelf at home next to Anna Karenina. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky was another contender but again was too weighty so the slimmer Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgenev accompanied me along with Henry V both of which were on my syllabus that year for my Literature degree. There was also some lighter reading just in case!

Our train was a Mongolian one so I was disappointed to find boring electric urns in place of the romantic samovars I had read about. Instead of fearsome Soviet provodnitsas, our carriage attendants were two charming Mongolian ladies. Ours was the ‘de-luxe’ carriage with compartments for two instead of the four or five that most locals used. There was a toilet at each end of the carriage with a tiny basin providing only cold water. To ensure this wasn’t wasted the tap operated by pressing an awkward lever upwards. There was no shower but a helpful drain hole in the middle of the floor would ensure a DIY version with the help of hot water from the urn and a plastic mug. Luxury travel this was not.

Neither my companion, who’d packed Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita, nor I read as much as we’d anticipated because there was so much to see. We passed endless birch woods interspersed with dachas and small farms boasting haystacks and vegetable crops. Approaching the towns we saw bleak Soviet concrete apartment blocks and industrial sites. Looking out of the back of the train we could see miles of the dead straight track and watch fabulous sunsets. The landscape changed as we crossed the Bokara Steppe with the pines, spruces and larches of the taiga stretching away into the distance.

On our first visit to the restaurant car we were shown an impressively long menu, but only a few items had prices pencilled next to them. This indicated what was actually available and items were crossed off daily as supplies dwindled. Breakfasts were tomato and cucumber salad with a huge dollop of soured cream, rye bread and for the first couple of days sliced cheese or a hard-boiled egg. Lunch was soup made from ham, sausage, onion and picked cucumber with more sour cream. Dinner consisted of rice or pasta topped with goulash or a burger with tinned sweetcorn and peas. With the addition of Russian ‘champagne’ which was very acceptable and incredibly cheap we feasted royally especially on the days we bought fresh berries or bread at the stations. No matter what time of day or night we arrived at a station, be it Kirov, Perm, Omsk, or Novosibirsk, the locals would be waiting. 

Here the Mongolians on the train would trade the piles of goods they had acquired in Moscow. Light fittings and umbrellas were popular along with shoes and clothing. In return the locals offered travellers bread, dried fish, fresh berries and, at one station, voluminous pink nylon underwear.   

The train stayed on Moscow time as we passed through five times zones. We ate breakfast in midnight darkness and my bedtime reading about Nikolai Petrovich, Arkady and Bazarov was conducted in sunlight. One morning, at first light, we plunged into a tunnel. On emerging we saw our first glimpse of Lake Baikal, the world’s oldest and deepest lake. In spite of its reputation for being near freezing, even in summer, several people were bathing in its blue water. Perhaps in the hope, according to local legend, of prolonging their lives. For me it indicated we would soon reach the Mongolian border and my Russian odyssey would be over. I still had two chapters of my Russian novel to read. 

Thank you so much Lindsay for sharing this experience with us.  Must have been a once in a life time trip, although not sure how keen I would be to do it.


About Lindsay Bamfield 

Lindsay Bamfield has written a number of short stories and flash fiction pieces as well as non-fiction articles. She has been published in Hysteria 6 Anthology, Stories for Homes 2, Greenacre Writers Anthology, Mslexia, Writers’ News and Writing Magazine as well as on several websites. Prizes include Hysteria 2017, Great British Write Off 2106 and Words with Jam competitions.

She blogs on www.lindsaybamfield.blogspot.co.uk and is on Twitter @LindsayBamfield.

Guest Post - Wanderings in Senegal by Lindsay Bamfield - Bookish Guest Post - Senegal

The wind was whipping my hair into my eyes as the ferry crossed from Dakar to the island of Goree. I tied a scarf over my hair to control it but before I’d secured it the lady next to me grabbed the scarf and knotted it into a gele (local style head-wrap). In return I must buy one of the bead bracelets she was selling! Unfortunately, unlike her own elegant design, I looked like Mrs Mop. 

Goree is a beautiful colonial town, now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, with a dark history. Every visitor to the island must see the former slave house, with its infamous Door of No Return, from where, it is said, many Africans last set foot on their native soil before being shipped to the Americas. How many passed through this prison is debatable, and many slaves held here were for Africa’s own market but, whatever the details, the building is now a museum to remind us of a deplorable chapter in history. It doesn’t require imagination to appreciate the appalling conditions in which people were held here and the displays leave one in no doubt.



Today Goree is a happier place with artists and artisans hoping to make a living from the increasing number of visitors. As we wandered its alleyways we were spoiled for choice in beadwork, sand pictures, textiles and paintings.

Leaving Goree and travelling north we reached the island city of Saint-Louis, another UNESCO World Heritage site, a picturesque town with its own darkness tucked away in its history. We encountered several groups of youngsters who spoke to us. 

‘Education is very important to us,’ one young man told us in impeccable English having ascertained where we were from. ‘I intend going to university, then if I can raise the money I wish to study in England or America.’ 

‘What do you hope to study?’ 

‘To be a doctor to work here in my country,’ he replied. On learning that one of us was German, he addressed him in flawless German. He spoke five languages ‘…and a bit of Italian.’ 

Another young man, evidently less well off, told us that he too wanted to travel to England. His friend looked less enthusiastic but nodded in agreement. 

‘They give you a job and a house there,’ he explained. We told him gently that it wasn’t quite as easy as that and encouraged him to stay in his own country until he too had got a bit more study under his belt. We were all aware of the disastrous journeys some youngsters undergo in the hope of reaching Europe. 

But, as in many countries, the population of Senegal is becoming more urbanized and jobs are few. Education isn’t affordable for many and schools are underfunded. Our local guide, Baba, was passionate about education. He had set up a charity to help fund rural schools in Senegal and his native Gambia. ‘It’s the only way our countries can develop,’ he said. To access books children must learn French in addition to their native languages as relatively few books are provided in Wolof let alone the 34 lesser spoken local languages. Literacy rates in Senegal have increased in recent years and are currently around 55%.

The other chief cause of migration is the persistent desertification of Senegal’s Sahel regions. We passed an area of land being cleared of scrub. 

‘It’s a development to grow tomatoes for the sun-dried tomatoes trade,’ Baba told us.

‘That’s encouraging, more local work,’ said one of the group. 

‘The problem is,’ said Baba, ‘it’s not long term. The land is leased by an European country and while it will provide some work, the profits won’t be seen locally. The ground will be overused and exhausted leaving it too barren in later years for local people to work.’ 

Fortunately there are other more positive projects including The Great Green Wall that will hopefully flourish to improve the environment in the Sahel and job prospects for young people such as those we met. 

I travel to learn more about a country as well as enjoying its geography and food – in Senegal it’s mostly delicious, especially the seafood. 

‘What Senegalese books can you recommend?’ I asked Baba.

He answered promptly: ‘So Long a Letter by Mariama Bâ. It’s been translated into English,’ he added with a grin. He’d heard my attempts at French. 

Other suggestions:
The Belly of the Atlantic by Fatou Diome
The Abandoned Baobab (The Autobiography of a Senegalese Woman.) by Ken Bugul

Thank you so much Lindsay for this fascinating look at Sengal.


About Lindsay Bamfield 

Lindsay Bamfield has written a number of short stories and flash fiction pieces as well as non-fiction articles. She has been published in Hysteria 6 Anthology, Stories for Homes 2, Greenacre Writers Anthology, Mslexia, Writers’ News and Writing Magazine as well as on several websites. Prizes include Hysteria 2017, Great British Write Off 2106 and Words with Jam competitions.

She blogs on www.lindsaybamfield.blogspot.co.uk and is on Twitter @LindsayBamfield.