Hitching down the Tanzam Highway to Lusaka 1974

From Dar es Salaam I headed inland, hitch-hiking down the newly constructed Tanzam Highway. At the roadside just out of Dar, I teamed up with Sami, a Japanese lad who was heading in the same direction. The first day we got as far as the town of Morogoro where we spent the night in a building under construction. The next day we spent several hours fruitlessly trying to hitch a ride out of Morogoro and it wasn’t until the early afternoon that we were eventually picked up by a large lorry transporting two large cast-iron collars to a copper mine at Ndola in Zambia. It was an interesting ride as Sami and I scrambled into the collar to find ledges and cross-struts which were ideal for us to sit on and watch the passing countryside and the game as we passed through the Mikumi National Park.  At the unusual hilltop town of Iringa our Indian driver and his mate insisted that we saw the Yul Brynner Western ‘Catlow’ with them in the local cinema. That night Sami and I slept on the back of the lorry in one of the collars.  

The lorry developed some mechanical problem, but this was fixed at the town of Mbeya and after crossing into Zambia we drove overnight in pouring rain with Sami and I huddled in the back. It was a hell of a night. My sleeping bag was thoroughly saturated with rain-water, and water thrown up by the lorry’s wheels which splashed through gaps in truck's flatbed.  In the morning the heavy rain eased to heavy showers and I managed to partly dry my sleeping bag. I had bought this very lightweight sleeping bag in London, feeling it would be suitable for Africa. It was not much more than a space blanket (metallised polyethylene terephthalate [MPET]) in a nylon cover. This was then new space-age technology, developed by NASA in the 1960s and designed to prevent body heat loss. Through most of the trip it had been adequate, but this was the first time I found that it didn’t keep out heavy rain – both from above and below!

I rode for around 1500 kms down the Tanzam Highway in the collars on this vehicle

Late that same afternoon we were dropped off at the small town of Kapiri M’Poshi when the driver turned off the main road to Lusaka to head to Ndola. A heavy shower of rain at dusk forced Sami and I to seek refuge in a small roadside building that was under construction. It gave us good shelter but first we had to appease the local watchman who, in a nervous high-pitched voice was screaming ‘Get out! Get out!’ when he first saw our shadowy figures, but his whole demeanour changed when he saw that we were non-African. He was, I noted: ‘a funny little character who prattled on in a mixture of English and Swahili – it didn’t matter to him whether we understood or not.’ He insisted we join him in a supper of ‘mealie-meal’, the staple maize flour of southern Africa, and dried fish cooked on a charcoal burner. It was quite tasty. We slept on the hard, concrete floor and in the morning Sami and I bid our funny friend farewell and hitch-hiked on to Lusaka.

Lusaka, capital of Zambia, was a big modern city and in the crush of the midday crowds I lost sight of Sami as we crossed busy Cairo Road. He just seemed to disappear and I never did see him again. I spent the night at the Lusaka camp ground before hitching south to Livingstone, receiving lifts from interesting ex-pat English residents who had emigrated to Zambia before independence when it was still Northern Rhodesia. That evening I walked along an illuminated path through the forest from the Livingstone camp ground to the mighty Victoria Falls on the Zambezi River. To say I was awe-inspired was an understatement.  The thunderous plunge of the deluge creating wreaths of swirling spray, lit by spotlights gave the entire scene a mystical effect and what was most remarkable is that I was the only person there that night. I was also the only person staying at the Camp ground, sleeping in my sleeping bag under a baobab tree, braving the wandering hippos and elephants. I never saw the campsite sign warning of these dangers until the next morning!

The Victoria Falls from Livingstone, Zambia

© Neil Rawlins  text & photography

Excerpt from the book One Foot in Front of the Other - First Steps now availbale in paperback from Amazon Books

Discovering Arthurian Legends, Tintagel 1972

I hitch-hiked and walked to the pretty coastal fishing village of Boscastle in Cornwall, which has a Museum of Witchcraft but more importantly is the beginning of a 5-mile walking track along the spectacular Cornish coastline to Tintagel, an area steeped in Arthurian Legend. I began the coastal walk, passing through Rocky Valley, an impressive slate canyon eroded by the small Trevillet River, in misty rain which fortunately did clear and though wet from the knees down, I enjoyed the walk immensely even though I was carrying my back-pack.

Rocky Valley on the coastal walk between Boscastle & Tintagel

In Tintagel I checked into the Youth Hostel which had once been the office of a slate mine and was situated on a spectacular site high above the rugged Cornish coast. I immediately liked Tintagel which, in 1972, was not yet widely visited. In fact I had only heard of the town a few days before during a discussion with fellow travellers at the Bath youth hostel. The small bay at Tintagel is dominated by a large headland upon which are the remains of an old castle, most of which dates from the 12th century but earlier ruins, perhaps a Celtic monastery and a former fortress, date back to the 6th century, which certainly fits in with the time frame of Arthurian legend. According to the 12th century historian, Geoffrey of Monmouth, Uther Pendragon, a king of post-Roman Britain, had a fixation with Ygerna, wife of Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall. With the connivance of the magician Merlin: By my drugs I know how to give you the precise appearance of Gorlois, so that you will resemble him in every respect.  The disguised Uther Pendragon travelled to Tintagel Castle while Gorlois was away at war: The King spent that night with Ygerna and satisfied his desire by making love with her. … That night she conceived Arthur, the most famous of men, who subsequently won great renown by his outstanding bravery. Next morning news was received that Gorlois had been killed in battle. Uther Pendragon then took Tintagel Castle and married Ygerna, thus legitimising Arthur’s birth.

Site of what is supposedly King Arthur's Castle, Tintagel

Beneath the Tintagel Castle headland is a large sea cave known locally as Merlin’s Cave. Uther had died before Arthur’s birth and according to Alfred, Lord Tennyson in The Idylls of the King Merlin is said to have rescued the baby Arthur here:

Wave after wave, each mightier than the last,                     

Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep         

And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged       

Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame:                 

And down the wave and in the flame was borne         

 A naked babe, and rode to Merlin’s feet,               

Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried ‘The King!  

Here is an heir for Uther!’ And the fringe                 

Of that great breaker, sweeping up the strand,        

Lash’d at the wizard as he spake the word,               

And all at once round him rose in fire,                        

So that the child and he were clothed in fire.

 

Tintagel Cove from Merlin's Cave

The cave, accessible only at low tide, spurred my imagination and I wrote in my diary: ‘It is not terribly hard to picture the bearded Merlin in his robes and peaked hat, casting spells over a cauldron in the cave.’ Guess I had been overly influenced by Disney in those days! I spent a couple of days exploring the castle ruins, Tintagel village and this dramatic section of the Cornish coast. Tintagel was just beginning to cash in on the Arthurian legends and there was a rather tacky ‘sword’ stuck in a stone, alongside a bar called, tastelessly, ‘Excali-bar’!  The old stone-slab post office, then a small museum, was an interesting structure.

The old stone Post Office in Tintagel, 1972

 The days were sunny and warm, and I spent time along the cliff tops near the youth hostel, scrambling down one morning to a small rocky bay for a dip in the Atlantic. It was a very quick dip as I was surprised at how cold the water was. It was also the first time I had come upon small globules of crude oil, washed up on the rocks. This was a legacy of the Torrey Canyon disaster which took place on a reef off the coast of Cornwall in 1967. The wreck of this super tanker was the world’s first major environmental oil spill and, to date, Britain’s worst. Five years on, small amounts of the tar-like crude oil still remained on this otherwise pristine coast.  

The spectacular Cornish coastal scenery near Tintagel

© Neil Rawlins  text & photography 


An execrpt from my book One Foot in Front of the Other - First Steps now available in paperback from Amazon Books 

Ladakh - the Roof of the World

My first tour to Ladakh coincided with the Hemis Festival which, in 1983, was held in the latter part of June. This festival of masked dancers celebrates the birthday of Padmasambhava, also known as Guru Rinpoche, believed to have been incarnated as an 8-year old child in a lotus flower (the meaning of his name) floating on a lake in Swat Valley in the 8^th century. In Tibetan Buddhism he is the most important manifestation of Amitabha, the Buddha of Infinite Light. Each morning of the five-day Hemis festival a large ‘tanka’ of Guru Rinpoche is placed on display in the courtyard of Hemis Monastery. 

Greeting the Head Lama, Hemis Monastery, Ladakh 1983

The highlight of the colourful ceremonies are the masked monks, representing both good and evil, dancing and swirling to the thunderous booming of large tympani, clashing cymbals, the mystical droning of the long Tibetan alpine horns along with an eerie, disjointed cacophony of sound from horns and trumpets. In the alpine setting of Ladakh it was an unforgettable, mystical experience.

Dancing masked monk, Hemis Festival, Ladakh  1983

Leh is the capital and largest town in Ladakh. Situated at an elevation of 3524 metres, Leh is around the same elevation as Lhasa, the capital of Tibet. The old town is dominated by the ruins of the former palace of the Namgyal dynasty, abandoned since the mid-19^th century and, higher up, the Leh Gompa, or monastery. At first sight most of the mudbrick buildings look broken-down and empty, but closer inspection soon shows that this is not the case. Even the most ramshackle building appeared to be occupied.

Jumble of buildings in the old city of Leh, Ladakh

 I scrambled up to the old fort and the view was magnificent. The upper Indus River meanders between the distant snowy-capped Zanskar Mountains and the town. The amazing jumble of mudbrick dwellings I could see below was the old town through which runs a large mani wall. On this wall Ladakhis place prayer stones, usually with the mantra “Om mani padme hum” (“Behold, the jewel in the lotus”), inscribed in Tibetan upon them. Mani stones are found in strategic places near all the monasteries in Ladakh and Tibet. 

The former Palace of the Namgyal overlooks Leh, Ladkah 

      The Explore groups stayed at the Yak-Tail, one of the oldest hotels in Leh, which was just a short walk from the bustling town centre. I remember the hotel was comfortable but little else about it.  As well as having plenty of time to explore Leh, we also visited other Monasteries in the area. The most spectacular was Thiksey, a magnificent construction emulating the Potala Palace in Lhasa. 

The Potala-like monastery at Thiksey, Ladakh

Although the Monastery had been constructed in the 15th century, its most imposing feature was the huge modern golden statue of Maitreya Buddha, the largest in Ladakh, which was erected to commemorate the visit of the 14th Dalai Lama to Thiksey in 1970. The Monastery had many associated temples, chapels, stupas and living quarters, mostly painted white which was accentuated against the very dark blue sky that is an indication of high altitude.    

The Zanskar Mountains from Thiksey Monastery, Ladakh

© Neil Rawlins  text & photography
   

An excerpt from my book One Foot in Front of the Other - Full Stride  Now available in paperback from Amzon Books

Across the Sahara in 1973

There is something about deserts that I love. It is the dryness of the landscape, the spectacular barrenness of the countryside where, to use the words of the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley: ‘the lone level sands stretch far away’. The Sahara shattered all my preconceptions of a desert. Far from being a vast area of featureless sand dunes and nothing else, I found the countryside was remarkably varied. The sand seas only occupied a small area of our crossing. Much of the Sahara consisted of rugged rocky mountains, such as the Tassili N’Ajjer, which although lacking hardly any form of vegetation somehow seems to support an amazingly large population. 

The oasis town of Ghardaia in the Algerian Sahara

I remember one incident when we were deep in the desert. We had been driving all day, having not seen another vehicle or passed through any form of settlement. Several of us were sitting on a dune well above our camp site in what was a very black night. I thought I glimpsed, from the corner of my eye, a slight flicker of light in the next valley, as if someone had lit a cigarette. I immediately dismissed it thinking my eyes were playing tricks. Half an hour later we had returned to our camp, scaring our rostered ‘guards’ in the process – they hadn’t realised some of the group were not in camp - and settled in for the night. Just a short time later two shadowy spectre-like figures ambled into the camp. This time the guards thought it was another attempt to scare them until a voice called out: “H-hang on, guys, they’re real!”  The two intruders were Tuaregs, the nomads of this part of the Sahara and, out of curiosity, were paying us a friendly visit. It appeared we were camped by one of their tribal wells. Language was a barrier, but we were able to communicate in pidgin French, and after offering them a cup of tea, they disappeared happily into the desert as silently as they had appeared.

Sand dunes in the Sahara

  As we drove into the Sahara, towns just seemed to appear out of the desert. Why were they here? No doubt water was the key factor and places such as Tiaret, Laghouart, Ghardaia, and Ouargla would once have been on caravan routes. We stopped at the market at Ouargla which was full of what are colloquially known as ‘desert roses’. These are gypsum crystals naturally welded together into rose-like shapes, some quite large. Many of these were for sale with a few other uninspiring crafts. I commented, more than once in my diary that I wondered how people survived out here: ‘Herds of goats and the odd Tuareg or two seem to appear in almost every small area of tussock which appears capable of supporting nothing!’   

The road heading into the Desert town of Ouargla, Algeria  1973

In the desert south of Ouargla we passed the oil flares of the refinery of Hassi Messaoud and the next day, out of the heat and sand of the Grand Erg Oriental we came upon a cluster of small huts, as remote from civilisation as could be found anywhere. 

Refinery fires of Hassi Messaoud, Algeria

This was the tiny settlement of Bel Guebbour, a refuelling stop along the road which stretches off into the shimmering mirages of an even bleaker, more barren region of the Sahara. Sleepy lethargic Algerian men sat or squatted in shady doorways; we never saw any women. In the cool interior of a hut which seemed to double as the village shop, one of the group asked, without much hope, for a beer. Beer! We had hardly seen a bottle since we had been in the country and it was also Ramadan, the Moslem period of abstinence. Bier, no problem said the sleepy shopkeeper and pulled an ice-cold beer from the depths of his refrigerator. We were amazed – here in the middle of nowhere in the depths of the Sahara we were able to purchase a beer – and a cold one at that!  Just a few kilometres out of Bel Guebbour we found an sulphurous, artesian spring with a concrete trough which gave us a welcome opportunity to wash, watched on by a number of bemused camels.

Camels at a waterhole in the Sahara, Bel Guebbour, Algeria

As we drove further into the desert, the settlements became more basic with places like Fort Polynac, now called Ilizi, and Fort Gardel having been outposts of the French Foreign Legion. Sparse huts and nomad tents had sprung up around the original forts and, over time, a small trading town would form. I remember Ilizi having a main street, replete with pavements and relatively modern street lighting, which did not now work as the lights were broken or just had wires dangling from the standards. There was one shop from which I bought a small tin of sweetened condensed milk. Lethargic Tuareg, in their signature bright blue garments, turbans and veils, lay or sat in the shade of walls, or house doorways, sheltering from the hot midday desert sun.  

Tuareg desert dwelling near the town of Ilizi, Algeria 1973

© Neil Rawlins  text & photography

Excerpt from my book  One Foot in Front of the Other - First Steps available from Amazon Books.  An account of travels in the Pacific Islands, Asia, Europe & Africa in the late '60s early '70s. My second book & companion volume  One Foot in Front of the Other - Full Stride continues my travels in New Zealand, USA and my experiences as a tour guide on the Asia Overland routes & as a special interest tour leader in Rajasthan, Kashmir, Jordan and Turkey. 

Afghanistan in 1970

Kabul in 1970 was still a peaceful place and an important stopover on the hippy trail to Kathmandu. The tragedy that became Afghanistan was still a number of years away. King Zahir Shah ruled the country and my first impression of the people was positive, they were friendly. Even now I find it hard to believe how the Afghanistan I first visited in 1970 could degenerate into the lawless, terror-haunted country it now is.  All thanks to foreign interventions.

The Kabul River flows through the Afghan capital of Kabul  1970

Kabul appeared relatively modern although I noted in my diary that the state of the roads left a lot to be desired, with no proper pavements and, after the heavy rain of the previous days, very muddy. Early March was the tail end of winter and it was cold, with snow sitting on the hills around the city. During an excursion down Chicken Street, a well-known shopping area, I purchased one of the Afghan wool-lined leather coats that were fashionable in the late ‘60s and ‘70s.  I commented at the time that many of the coats had a definite ‘aroma’ to them, possibly because the leather was not treated as well as it could be. My coat, lined with the local karakul wool, seemed OK, but some months later it began to go mouldy in the damp London weather and I surreptitiously left it behind in a flat … somewhere!  It was in Kabul that I first saw women in full burqa and I was fascinated by the turbaned tribesmen who wandered the streets. I noted in my diary that there were many soldiers and that Russian influence, even then, was very noticeable. Food in Kabul was good and I ate one night at the Khyber Restaurant, an institution in those days that every Western traveller visited and on another night, I had a turkey meal at the Spinazar Hotel which cost 60 afghanis (about 80cents NZ). I wrote in my diary that this was the best meal I had had since I had left home - and the cheapest!!  

Kabul appeared a relatively modern city in 1970

    After leaving Kabul we drove through a snow-covered landscape as we headed toward Ghazni. The day was clear but cold and a stop was made for the many Australians in the group who had never been in snow. Of course, there was the inevitable snow-ball fight!

Snow covered the landscape as we head down the main highway to Ghazni & Kandahar

 Ghazni was the former capital of an Empire, established in the 11^th century by the rather vicious Mahmud of Ghazni, that once encompassed Iran, Afghanistan and much of northern India.  In 1970 Ghazni was a small town with muddy streets, horse-drawn carts and disconsolate donkeys. The town was dominated by an ancient mud-brick fortress occupied by the Royal Afghan Army. We lunched at Sultan Mahmoods, a local restaurant, enjoying a local rice dish which was cheap and tasty, before heading on to Kandahar.  

The muddy streets of the town of Ghazni, Afghanistan  1970

Kandahar is the second largest city in Afghanistan and, in recent years, has been a hotbed of Taliban activity, but in 1970 it was a rather quiet little town with not a great deal of interest. We were only there overnight and spent a good part of the evening looking for somewhere suitable to eat. We entered some wild joints, thick with hashish smoke before finally settling on the balcony of the Kandahar-Heart Gate Tourist Hotel to a shish kebab meal. Our entertainment that night was watching the antics of a lone policeman on the traffic island outside the hotel. He was on points duty and every time a car came along the street – about once every five minutes – he would spring into action, enthusiastically directing the motorist in a direction the motorist had no intention of going. He would shrug then, hands behind his back, walk around his little island until the next car came along when once again he would spring into action.

Local tribesmen in the desert near Farah

From Kandahar our route to Herat took us through the desert toward the small town of Farah. One of our coaches blew a front tyre and left the road in this barren area of desert. Fortunately, the vehicle stayed upright, and no one was hurt but it did take a couple of hours to repair the wheel and get the coach back onto the road before having a late lunch at the Farahrod Hotel, a modern-looking facility built by the Russians in the late 1960s. It appeared to have all modern facilities, but no one stayed here as, despite its modern appearance, there was no electricity, hence no heating or power for the water pumps which also meant the toilets didn’t work. We were ushered through the hotel, which boasted a modern kitchen, into a grubby old shed out the back where all they could offer us were omelettes cooked on a Primus stove.

One of our coaches blew a front tyre & left the road near Farah, 1970

© Neil Rawlins  text & photography

This excerpt is from my book One Foot in Front of the Other - First Steps now available in paperback from Amazon books

The Road to Zoji La 1983

We travelled by local bus first to Jammu, the winter capital of the former Princely state of Jammu & Kashmir, where our hotel was right opposite the Amar Mahal, the former palace of the Dogra kings of Kashmir.

Amar Mahal, the summer palace of the Maharajah of Kashmir in the town of Jammu  1983

 After winding up to the tortuous Banihal Pass and passing through the tunnel, we descended into the delightful Vale of Kashmir, something I always looked forward to. In 1983 Kashmir was still peaceful. Sheikh Mohammad Abdullah, Chief Minister of the State, who had maintained a relatively successful atmosphere of peace in the face of permanent tension, and at least two wars between India and Pakistan, had died the previous year. The political situation in Kashmir had not yet deteriorated into the chaos it did just a few years later. We stayed in the ever-popular houseboats on Lake Dal for one night before setting off on the three-day journey over three mountain passes to Leh, capital of Ladakh.

Flooded padis on Banihal on the road to Kashmir  1983

The first part of this epic journey was through the lovely valleys of the Vale of Kashmir to the small town of Sonamarg. This little town lies at the base of the Himalayan peaks and was a popular place for horse-trekking. It was a cold overcast day on my first visit to Sonamarg. Cloud enshrouded the neighbouring peaks when we stopped for lunch. The local Kashmiris had saddled up a several ponies in the vain hope that we would have time for a horse-trek. The commercial centre of Sonamarg then consisted of just a few make-shift wooden huts, with names such as Pamposh Agency where ‘fur coat, shoes, socks, cap etc Available Here’, or Boot Hill House where ‘Wunter (sic) Shoes/Coats are given at hire here.’ As I wandered around, I could see a group of men gathered in a circle about 50 metres from the huts. The centre of attention was a travelling performer with his dancing bear. It was an age-old scene with many grinning faces as the bear-keeper went through his routine of wrestling with the bear, then having it dance. There is a lot of controversy about this practice, but from my observation, his bears certainly did not appear to be starved or mistreated as, after all, it was the performer’s livelihood and so they had to be looked after.   

Trekking horses in Sonamarg, Kashmir  1983

        

Just out of Sonamarg our vehicles began the climb up to Zoji La, the first of the high mountain passes on the road to Leh. At an elevation of 3528 metres, Zoji La is regarded as the most difficult of the passes and the one which becomes heavily snowbound in the winter. At a place called Baltal, we were halted for a time on the first tour while there was some arguing and negotiating by our guides, drivers and other truck drivers with roading officials. It seemed that the Pass was not supposed to open officially for another couple of days. Arguments, and probably a little bribery, allowed us finally to proceed and the route up to the summit, along a narrow one-way track cut through snow drifts, was certainly spectacular and hair-raising.

The road to Ladakh through the snow banks of Zoji La 1983

 It was late afternoon when we passed through the small town of Dras which, at an elevation of 3230 metres, lays claim to being the coldest town on the Indian subcontinent, where temperatures can reach as low as -45°C in the height of winter. It was after dark when the bus crept into Kargil where we camped. 

Religious images & pray flags at Dras, said to be the coldest town in India  1983

Ladakh proper really starts at a small place called Mulbekh, which has the remains of a gompa or Buddhist monastery situated high above the town, and a large figure of Maitreya, the future Buddha, has been cut into the rock behind the ‘sub-post office’.

The Maitreya Buddha at Mulbekh, Ladakh 1983

© Neil Rawlins  text & photography

This excerpt is from my paperback  One Foot in Front of the Other - Full Stride now available from Amazon Books.

Across Iran's Dasht-e Lut Desert, November 1979

We spent a night in Kerman before driving into the Dasht-e Lut Desert to the amazing mudbrick city of Bam, dominated by the ‘Arg-e Bam’, a massive citadel which was the largest adobe structure in the world, dating back to around 500BC. 

The 'Arg-e Bam', massive ancient mudbrick citadel  of Bam, Iran  1979

The entire old city, mainly in ruins, was completely surrounded by massive mud walls, still largely intact, and was once an important stop on the Silk Road. We spent over an hour exploring and photographing this fascinating site and were the only visitors. I use the past tense when I write that Bam was the largest abode structure in the world, as the Citadel was destroyed in a massive earthquake on 26 December 2003 which killed over 26,000 people in the town. While an international reconstruction process is under way, I doubt if it can ever be restored to its former pre-earthquake glory. 

The ancient mudbrick citadel of Bam, Iran  1979

As we drove on across the flat, featureless Dasht-e Lut Desert on the road to Zahedan, we could see, in the hazy distance, what appeared to be a tower and as we came closer, could see it was built of brick. This is the Mil-e Naderi, a desert marker dating from the 12^th century, whose sole purpose was to guide caravans across this barren plain. As one contemplates this construction, one cannot but help feel an admiration for these early travellers on the Silk Road. They spent weeks of loneliness and hardship, surviving attacks by opportunistic raiders, and having to survive the ravages of one of the many sandstorms for which this area is notorious, traversing these waterless wastes to bring eagerly sought-after goods to the markets of Europe. It must have been with a sense of relief that when they sighted the Mil-e Naderi in the distance, they knew then that they were not hopelessly lost after all.    

Sundowners' Overland coach at Mil-e Naderi marker in the Dasht-e Lut Desert, Iran  1979

             As we progressed through the desert, the road deteriorated further until we came across a section that was under reconstruction. In one off-the-road detour, around a culvert being worked on, we came upon the aftermath of a head-on smash between a bus and a truck. We heard later one person had been killed. It seemed incredible that a fatal head-on crash could happen on this rough detour where it was almost impossible to go fast and there was plenty of room to avoid each other. We were told this was typical of Iranian drivers: everything is in the hands of Allah!

© Neil Rawlins  text & photography

Excerpt from my book  One Foot in Front of the Other - Full Stride