It’s been nearly 10 years..

Since I decided to write about Native representations in the mainstream media. It’s an article I’m extremely proud of. Although the academic in me now cringes at my clumsy citations and my 19 year old naivety. The article means as much now as it did then. It is one of the reasons I decided to study archaeology to understand more about my ancestry and how I can positively influence the depictions of Natives in history and in the media. Don’t get me wrong, I do not claim to be Native American, I am not part of any tribe. I was not raised on a reservation, hell I’m not even American, I was raised in London to a Colombian mother. Everything I have learnt about North American Indian culture is from books and friends. However, my life and interests have led me down a path of studying Indigenous history and culture. As an English girl, some might be a little confused about why I’m so keen on Native issues. But these core problems, are not just Native problems as they say ‘white silence is white violence’. Selfishly as an academic I want real representations of Indians from North to the South to be based in realism and not steeped in Western fantasy of ‘cowboys and Indians’ in order to educate and inform.

Lancaster in the movie, Apache in 1954.

I want Native Americans to have the opportunities that were given to me. Whilst in Japan, my article had caught the eye of a film producer currently working on a film with Native people and cultures, he wanted to know the right way to portray without offence. Although his intentions were pure, I politely responded to his email with a little sarcasm. Stating that he should perhaps ask the Natives themselves and not some undergrad student living in Tokyo. These issues are not mine, but I will strive to make them more visible. Since that article was published ten years ago, I have took a step back. I realised people believed I was an expert on the subject instead of a teenager with an interest. Nothing has changed though, I want people to view Natives as real people not caricatures, not Tonto, not Disney’s Pocahontas or werewolf Jacob. I will make my voice heard not over Natives but along side them.

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When the world is telling you to be alone

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I was sitting on my bed per usual stroking my cat Lily when she decided enough was enough and swiftly jumped off my lap. The rejection stung for a mere 20 seconds and I got on reading my book. That’s something I’ve always respected about cats, when they want to be alone, they make it happen. No worrying about people’s feelings, no second guessing.  I used to be like that, when I wanted some alone time from the bustle of my life I took some time away from it. I would travel alone, climb a mountain, read a book, anything that allowed for those precious moments on my own.

Don’t confuse being alone for loneliness. I enjoy one but not the other.  Breaking up with friends, even if you haven’t fought, or splitting up with a boyfriend can leave you feeling lonely. I was rebounding from both. The problem wasn’t necessarily either, but this overwhelming obligation to go finding new friends and a partner almost immediately. You see being in my late 20s I’ve heard the phrase ‘you’re not getting any younger’ a lot. Despite my reluctance to ever be tied down by a husband or children, those words start to wear on you. The worst part is you start to believe that you should be following what society is ordering you to do.

However society and the world are not the same thing. As I aimlessly went from date to date, the world was giving me strong hints that I wasn’t ready to settle. Job offers from abroad started to appear in my inbox.  Friends living in different parts of world extending invites, my father at almost 82 reminding me it’s my life and telling me diligently on his hospital bed about his regrets for not experiencing more from life. I kept ignoring the signs, until one day lying in Bloomsbury Square appreciating the London sun while listening to The Cure’s Just Like Heaven, a final attempt to elevate my spirits, a student from South America asked me for directions. He was meeting friends at The Museum Tavern, I directed him the best I could with my broken Spanish. He thanked me back in English, not before saying ‘everyday is an adventure in London’. That’s when it hit me, I had lost the adventure in my life. My depression, lack of self esteem and excitement was down to my routine, the shear boredom of repeated days. When I got into that routine, I felt the time slip through my hands and it frightened me. No. It terrified me.

Then I went back to the library, opened a tab up and started searching for interns abroad, cheap plane tickets, field schools, anything- just adventure. And when I do find it, I’ll make sure to make the most of it.

Tinder: Ego-boosting one-night-stands

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After a tough break up, I wanted to discover what it was like to go on a few casual dates. Casual being the key word. As a trailblazer for optimism I decided that I would try Tinder, after getting a bit of a repetitive strain injury in my thumb from swiping right and left all the time I decided on three guys I would go on dates with. It’s quite amazing, we are in the age of fast-food dates.  Who cares about getting to know a person, right?

Tinder is a basically ‘would you fuck or not?’ app. I got bored with messaging them; avatars don’t feel like real people and  I’m from a generation where sex is similarly instinctive along with appetite for immediacy. My narcissistic curiosity and appetite for constant validation were fuelled by Tinder’s addictive swipe function.  And I can only assume feeds that caveman part of a male brain that places women in hot or not  categories, viewing them as a piece of meat a la Sports Illustrated.

So you’re asking what about the dates? First there was Dan, member of a band, bartender in the evenings. He was the nicest and  I can safely say (in hindsight) authentic. He was the kind of guy who liked to hold your hand under the table.  He let me watch him play in his band a couple of times, and gave cute kisses on the cheek before he went on stage.  He was a keeper, and not the poster boy for Tinder. Why the hell was he on Tinder?

Then there was Oliver, exactly the sort of 20-something that Tinder or OkCupid would welcome: trendy, active on social media, possibly polygamous (a cheat), but honest about it. We went on a couple of dates, it was easy to talk to him, nothing was off the cards.  That made everything almost too comfortable. I felt my 16 year old self come out again when a cute but undeniably self-involved hack shows interest, but at 28, why let myself be deluded?

Last but not least there was Dean, Shoreditch, 29, who I never even managed to meet up with. As he thought it would be a good idea on his first phone call to ask if I liked big gentalia. But unfortunately that’s the typical male message on Tinder. Dean gives me the impression he has Tinder-banged so many women in London that three in 10 children born in the next generation will be his.

Unlike some of my male friends, I was going on dates and receiving messages – but I felt ugly. I thought being validated through compliments and matches would give me a sense of confidence. I mean after 24 hours I felt a little uglier as a person. You put a picture of yourself up, and after 48 hours, you get men messaging you. But the experience just left me feeling hollow. I lost all my looks. I no longer had it. The world might not have  decided I was ugly but I did.

I wanted to be one of the guys, to think I could have casual flings. I realised I can’t switch it off; the need for real deep connections. Call me old fashioned, but what ever happened to that amazing moment where you bump into each other in the supermarket or meet at a party, and start connecting? I’ll wait for that moment. Tinder deleted.

Never regret change

There are a number of reasons why I wanted to make this post. Looking back at previous posts I was surprised by my overall anxiety. I’ve spent most of my life concerning myself with the need to make changes to my life, to feel like I’m always progressing and not regressing. It’s destructive, because progression shouldn’t be forced, it needs to be a natural result of your experience. I had a mini crisis regarding my current life choices a few months back, while I was on a dig in Spain profusely vomiting from heat exhaustion, lying on my bed wondering if I had made a huge mistake. We all have those moments, where we meditate on our live choices. We look back and wonder if that was the right thing to do, was splitting up with him or her what I really wanted? Was quitting that job financially short-sighted? But after thinking it through for a long time, I can honestly say we should never regret making choices that change our lives for the better. Especially conscious choices to improve our lives.

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Looking at Aztec codices

When I was living in Japan as a journalist and later in London, I was depressed because when you get to the bare bones of it; creativity and writing are not mutually exclusive. I had known for awhile that I wanted to venture back to university and take a degree in archaeology. But at 26 I was reluctant, societal expectations for a woman my age is not to go back into education. Most women cave under this enormous pressure; they feel like they have to comply by this timeline that they don’t necessarily want to follow.  The importance of doing what you want regardless of others is a sentiment I’ve held onto dearly throughout life. Unfortunately it has and always will make me somewhat of a social pariah.

I’m in my second year of my time at University College London and although I’ve had moments of overwhelming anxiety mostly monetary I’ve not faltered. You are always going to be letting down someone in your life, just don’t make it yourself; everyone owes it to themselves to live a fulfilling life, whether that’s family or a career, or just a life of pure adventure. Making changes to ensure that you are happy even if they don’t follow certain societal expectations is critical to being true to yourself.  These changes haven’t been easy, there have been negative reactions, there have been assumptions about my reluctance to join mainstream society. You must block out those voices, never regret positive change. 

Why hunting in Africa is a white person’s privilege

Rebecca Francis smiling next to a giraffe she had just killed.  Photo from her website.

Rebecca Francis smiling next to a giraffe she had just killed. Photo from her website.

Let’s be honest how many times do you see the natives of Africa smiling with glee after killing a giraffe, lion or elephant? Not many. Why?  Let me explain the concept of a canned hunt: Canned hunting is a trophy hunt in which an animal is kept in a closed off area, such as in a fenced-in area, increasing the chances of the hunter obtaining a kill.  Africans who indeed hunt for subsistence, do not have the luxury of an enclosed area. The hunt can take days, and requires precision and skill.

There is no such thing as a fair chase during a canned hunt. The animal’s death is an inevitable result.  So who are the people who ultimately pull the trigger?  Statistics (Lindsey et al 2007) show that the majority of the “hunters” going to Africa for a kill are white Americans, with a selection of white Europeans.  Now listen, I’m going to be quite controversial here because I believe this practice is quite racially and classed based. In simple words: It’s a white person privilege.  Don’t get this confused with racial prejudice,  for the same amount of white people who go around hunting, there are people trying so hard to conserve and protect our earth, our home.

“But black people hunt too!” I hear your white privileged self scream. Let’s get down to it then shall we? There is a noticeable difference between black Africans who “kill”, and white foreigners who “hunt”. When the native Africans kill elephants, it’s called illegal poaching. Poaching although wrong, is a way of trying to survive by making a living in the illegal ivory trade business. When the white tourists kill animals, it’s called legal hunting. White tourists are allowed on game reserves where they pay big sums of money to hunt and kill privately owned animals for the sake of sport and trophies.

While Africans are out there risking their lives to stop African poachers being funded by terrorist groups and Asian countries, who believe Rhino horn has some sort of medicinal properties, white Americans and Europeans are happily killing animals a few miles away because they have the dollar to do so.  By using this argument you’re  justifying privileged white people hunting lions, elephants and rhinos.

Ricky Gervais (Yes! A white conservationist!) recently caused some media frenzy when he posted a picture of Rebecca Francis an “experienced” huntress who killed a giraffe and laid next to it in a mockery of nature, land and life.

“What must’ve happened to you in your life to make you want to kill a beautiful animal & then lie next to it smiling?’ a furious Gervais tweeted.  As a conservationist who lives within the means of a restricted budget I attempt to live within the borders of the basic laws of ecology. I’m not here to be liked, I’m not here to make friends, I only want to be reveal the truth, just like Mr. Gervais.

In his book, Tourism and the Consumption of Wildlife, Brent Lovelock states that over 16% of the adult population in America participates in some form of hunting. Canned hunts are strongly concentrated in Texas (Lovelock 2011, p.20),  which includes animals such as coyote, deer, wolves and a number of endangered species.  The majority of people who participated in canned hunts in Africa come from Texas. Hardly surprising.

South Africa has an established hunting tradition but few people express much enthusiasm for its corrupted canned alternative. It is still legal to bring a lion carcass back to US (or anywhere in Europe or North America) as a trophy, and much of the demand comes from overseas.

Kendall Jones posted a photo of herself riding a lion corpse.

Kendall Jones posted a photo of herself riding a lion corpse.

But people like Francis, who epitomise this trade, will not comprehend or even accept responsibility for their actions.  Rebecca Francis has argued that she did it for conservation purposes as well as to “feed a village”. But her out of the salon hair and made up gleeful face says otherwise and that is the problem. Kendall Jones, a teenage cheerleader caused similar outrage last year, when she posted a photo of herself riding a lion she had just killed. This pattern has not gone unnoticed by social media, or the media in general, and there are many calling out the end of this privilege blood sport.

As a proud advocate for the “sport”  Francis has travelled the world in search of the latest ‘trophy’.  But by calling it a ‘sport’ – this gives it some small veneer of respectability when there is none at all.  It goes beyond the one blonde hunter. It represents that canned hunting points at a flawed system of values and corruption, a bunch of incompetent leaderships completely unworthy of their mandates and powers.

It’s not simply about being self righteous, its about showing empathy and compassion towards animals (and humans) helpless against human barbarity and white supremacy.

I want to break free

February, 2011, Seoul, Korea

February 2011, Seoul, Korea

Mind of a traveller

I was 23 in Japan, living a life free of responsibility, every young 20 something dream. Yet there I was, residing in a cramped one-bedroom flat, wishing that I made different choices.

A mild state of depression slowly crept over me, causing me to reevaluate my current situation.  The tsunami hitting northern Japan,  causing a radiation leak at the Fukushima plant. The situation made me feel entirely helpless,  for a while I pondered about how my life had led me here, in this tiny bedsit, watching the walls alone. Wishing the time away; hoping something –anything that would come along and put me on the right path towards contentment.

The anxiety didn’t let up when my brother visited me that year, if anything I saw his freedom to explore the world and I envied it. During most March 2011, we were trapped in my flat too scared by all the fear-mongering of the British media about radiation poisoning to venture outside. A feeling of being imprisoned slowly took over, as trains were cancelled, flights delayed and food scarce.

Some might say that I was ungrateful, and looking back at it, maybe I was. But even after the threat of radiation had died down, I woke up everyday almost in tears. I went to a job I had no passion for only to increase my bank balance and secure my visa.

Flights out of the country became too expensive, the low job prospects back at home, promises made to friends I had to keep;  the chains were tight and every time I resisted it only toughened its grasp.

As an expatriate, friends come and go, and there is never a ‘forever’, only for those who have set up shop here with families and I had no temptation to follow, if anything there attitudes towards Japan only made me want to leave even more.

Two years later still miserable I knew I had overstayed my welcome.  Rather than book a ticket straight out of Japan, I opted to visit Fukuoka, costing me no more than a few hundred pounds.  After a brief romantic encounter with an Australian; I was in the air –literally (and figuratively).

Travelling is a life-changing event that affects people’s way of thinking, but you also find yourself appreciating home-comforts. Once I landed at Heathrow, I inhaled the multiculturalism of London and my first week passed in a blur of museums, long walks, and “good ol’ English pubs”. This was home.

The long job applications started and I was working within the first three weeks of being back home.  The job I had trained for and tried vainly to find in Tokyo. An ideal situation to most but it happened again; the stability had started to cause an unease. I was in a situation where I had total control, which ironically made me scared.

I was becoming an “everyday robot” and I ceased the opportunity to fly off again, this time to New York.

But it wasn’t enough, I was travelling to modern cities, while I had always thrived on the historical sites, nature reserves and mountains a country had to offer.  There was no stopping me from climbing mountains, visiting temples –seeing the world.

A few weeks ago, at my computer I scrolled through volunteer opportunities online. With the savings I had accumulated I booked my first expedition to Peru to help on an archaeological dig at Vilcabamba.  It did the trick, and settled my self-induced anxiety.  Jealousy still gets the best of me when I see tourists wandering through London, exploring the hidden  alley ways, or discovering that quaint little pub behind the promenade of shops in Holborn. But, I know its only a matter of time before I’m on the road (again.)

 

Forget your balls, and grow a pair of tits

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During my young adult years, I had never really felt any oppression for being a woman. Throughout my years in university I never understood the strong stance feminists in my halls took against the opposite gender. Lecturers, fellow students all talked to me on the same level and valued any opinion I brought forward. Now, let’s fast-forward 5 years, I present to you a very different person, someone my 21-year old self could never hope to understand.

It really is hard out here for “a bitch”.

I don’t believe you are a born a feminist, your experiences mold you into one. You start off walking through life quite care-free, and then you start stumbling over the barrage of injustices that occur from being a woman. The only mistake you made? Being born the “wrong” gender.

Gender debate aside,  one can’t help but wonder what had happened along the way for me to turn into such an ‘aggressive feminist’. Was it the constant need for validation from the opposite sex, since all my bosses had been male?  Or was it the constant objectification I experienced when I wore dresses and skirts on a hot day?

Moving to Japan, enlightened me a fair bit, I was constantly subjected to a number of males who had no real respect for women, their shock when they found out that “I wanted a career” and had no real desire to get married were all initially quite amusing, but quickly became tiresome. But, then I became complacent, I started to think that England was a country filled with men who understood and wanted equality for women, a dreamland some would say for equal opportunity.

When I arrived back in England, it was quite the wake-up call. The equality paradise I had fooled myself into believing in whilst I was in Japan had been nothing more than a fantasy. Dates, formal arrangements and even friendly discussions had all become archaic and a little derisive. If I had an opinion it was quickly shutdown and there is nothing worse than feeling stigmatised for airing how you feel, especially on matters that you deeply believe in.

Friends of mine know I am a deep ecologist, and a biocentrist. I believe in, and attempt to live within the borders of the basic laws of ecology. I’m not here to be liked, I’m not here to make friends,  I only want to be taken seriously.

That’s been the one saving grace, my male friends who haven’t fallen for this whole “misogynistic” view that women’s opinions don’t really matter. Fortunately, I seem to attract well-rounded individuals, who don’t dismiss people’s ideas or views, because they’re simply different.

Being a world citizen

 

Every country in the world is made of nomadic people who at some point in time arrived there.

Every country in the world is made of nomadic people who at some point in time arrived there.

Since I was a child I had always felt quite disconnected to the concept of culture, as much as I love visiting different countries and integrating with their ways, I had never truly felt connected to any. I was born in England, and I have a British father so by all means that makes me British and of course if anyone asked I would say, “I’m English” and I still feel that’s the country I have most to share with, but I don’t connect with any traditional (or modern for that matter) English culture or values as much as I should or would want to.

Nor do I particularly connect with Colombian culture, which is my mother’s native land. I do believe that I share many attributes physically and socially to that of a Colombian. I inherited my mother’s passion and temperament, her olive skin and black hair. But I never felt “latino” either. I also have a keen interest in Colombian history, studying many of the pre-hispanic eras. One would say a spiritual connection to some of the tribes that still populate Colombia’s highland, specifically the Wayuu and Kuna, who live in sync with nature and stay far away from the politics of  the Mestizo/White-led government of Colombia.

Still I don’t feel anymore Colombian than I do British, before this year I lived in Japan, a country I had always wished to visit and one I thought I had a natural affinity with. Though as it proved as much as I loved the traditional and cultural elements, I felt even more cut off from society.  There is nothing more lonely or disconnecting than being judged solemnly on the way you look.

So when I sat down the other night to decide what it meant to be connected to be one place or nationality I concluded –not much.  The idea of being a citizen of the world had always appealed to me, and as I explained previously I felt no real connection to one country or culture.   Of course as humans it’s only second nature of us to categorise people to segregate them according to their nationality, culture and appearance. It is far easier for us to conclude that the way someone thinks is solely based on their background.

I wanted to be more than my nationality, that’s why I found solitude in the existing multiculturalism of London’s South East. Of course England and London especially are vastly multiracial and multicultural as it is – no way of feeling secluded, despite the fact when someone who is racially ambiguous like myself it can be harder to relate to the almost perpetually forming cliques in the capital.  Multicultural societies like the UK can cause more racial tension than more homogenous societies like Japan, and it’s not even as clear as black and white, with most unrest being directed at the Polish.

Would it be better to be associated as a citizen of the world, where every country’s problems are our own, replacing the dismissive stance we take when ‘shit is going down’ in other less developed countries? Who knows, I know from my experience in Japan that the conversation of nationality and ethnicity got very boring, very quickly.  As gimmicky as this sounds,  there is not much else I can do,  only complain more and write more blog posts that I doubt anyone actually reads; so here is for my first day as a World Citizen, spiritually and literally.

Raised lovingly for the slaughterhouse

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For many volunteering in a nature reserve in Africa is an unobtainable dream. Hindered by the strict policies and highly selective programs, many volunteers opt for more costly organisations. It’s a narrow gap, for those who find themselves lucky enough to be surrounded by lions, some do not actually realise the dark truth behind those early morning feedings and hugs. Before choosing the first result from Google Search, extra caution and thorough research is advised before you add another head on a wall.

Volunteers in Africa nature reserves have risen dramatically as the media hones in more and more on the plight of the animals being butchered for their fur and ivory.

Last year, a campaign started on Facebook to stop Melissa Bachman, a trophy-hunting enthusiast, from re-entering South Africa, gathering more than 300,000 likes. But unaware volunteers do not connect the dots and although they believe they are helping, the truth is poachers and hunters like Bachman rely on the farmed animals they raised.

The truth is volunteers are paying extortionate amounts of money to come to South Africa to hand raise lion cubs under the guise that they are doing it name of conservation. Activists groups are alleging that most of these cubs end up in a “canned” hunt or as breeding machines for farms.

Volunteer programs in many African countries do not benefit from the sort of thorough crosschecking that organisations in the US and Europe are subjected to, consequently there is no assurance whether the group is a legitimate or not. In fact, many of these volunteers are oblivious that many of these game reserves or conservation projects are paid to provide animals specially bred for special reserves that have not been government regulated are being raised for trigger-happy tourists.

Animals involved in these types of breeding farms are habituated to human contact, often hand-reared and bottle-fed, so are no longer naturally fearful of people.

Carole Baskin, CEO of Big Cat Rescue in Florida emphasises this point, “If the facility has cubs, it is probably a bad place and if they allow any human interaction with cubs then you know it is a bad place.”

This environment makes it easier for clients to be guaranteed a kill and thus the industry is lucrative and popular. Many volunteers clearly miss the link between the picture of Bachman’s shot lion and the cub they helped rear.

‘Canned Hunting’ is a 20th Century coined term for an animal kept in a confined area, such as in a fenced-in area, which increases the likelihood of the hunter obtaining a kill. Many hunters, primarily US and European citizens have been enticed to spend their coin for a trophy not found back in the wild lands of their home country. Led by lions rhinos, elephants and antelope are being raised and auctioned off on so-called “nature reserves” to the richest bidder. Other reserves raise them and allow them to be shot on sight.

Estimates from 2008 assume that in South Africa between 3,500 and 4,000 lions live in captivity. A recent report by the National Council of SPCAs suggests that many of these lions end up as targets for canned hunting. The report states “the hunting of captive bred lions is in fact at an all time high and the South African Predator Breeders Association (SAPBA) estimated in January this year that about 1050 lions were hunted in South Africa in 2008.

Three or more lions are shot every day in South Africa in the same manner that Melissa Bachman shot her “trophy”.

The most distressing factor is that the rarer the breed of animal, the more valuable the kill, take for example the highly endangered Black rhino that was auctioned off last month at the Dallas Safari Club, a Texas-based trophy hunting group for an estimated $500,000, which is apparently being donated to fund future black rhino conservation efforts. The black rhino is currently on the “big five” endangered lists and is considered highly prized for its healing powers in Chinese medicine.

The buyer of the prized animal Corey Knowlton stated on his Facebook page that his purchase would help other rhino, which the species has an appetite for killing, “Ok, the reasoning is this. The Rhino we are going to hunt is a problem animal killing other Rhinos and possibly other animals as well. So the Rhino would absolutely pose a threat to anything in the area he would be relocated to. The problem rhinos in this area are all post breeding very mature males near the end of their life.”

Thankfully unlike Knowlton, many foreigners who visit the region are not hunters; many have come to enjoy the natural reservations that South Africa is famous for.

But not all conservations programmes are bogus, the biggest indication of a legitimate programme would be the lack of interaction between lions and humans, evidence of a conservation programme with good intentions.

Interesingly, these legitimate programmes are aware of these phonies, “We are actively campaigning against canned hunts, and more specifically are raising awareness about how something as innocent looking as cub petting is fuelling this cruelty,” says Baskin.

Do the maths, if a facility always has cubs for the public to interact with, then you must be aware that a constant supply of cubs being bred by females can become unmanageable once the cubs start to mature. So where have the all the other cubs disappeared to? It’s just not sustainable unless there is some sort of an outlet, the answer – canned hunting.

Take the Lion Breeding Project in Port Elizabeth in South Africa for example, the group could not meet certain standards of the welfare of the animals held in captivity, and consequently lost its a voluntourism agent,Travellers Worldwide. The agency found that the lions had been kept in a distressed environment and the group were unwilling to comply with Travellers’ code of ethical practice.

For those who are interested in participating in honest volunteer programs, make sure you do all the necessary background checks as well as contacting the registered charities commission. Newspapers provide a selection of programs in the classifieds, which provide volunteers the information about the reserves, visa issues, jabs and political situation of the region.

As for the casual tourist, beware of so-called “cuddle farms”. It often happens that a cub is “leased” to farms or “conservation projects” where visitors can cuddle with a cub and have the chance to feeding them a bottle.

According to Baskin: “Big cats cannot be bred in captivity and then released into the wild. The only reason big cats are farmed is to be exploited as pets, props and for their parts.”

There is abundant abuse of the permit system for the breeding and hunting of lions. Should the country have standardised regulations across all regions?

Earl Smith, Founder of Volunteer Southern Africa advises: “In my view there is only one way to ensure that volunteers know the facility do not partake in any hunting is to find and ask previous volunteers of that facility. Volunteers on our programs get to see and experience everything we do, so they would be the best source of information.”

Recent attempts to get the canned hunting of lions and rhinos illegalised in South Africa have failed. But, it is still imperative to let the South African government know the world’s anger and distress at the legalisation of canned hunting and the damage it is doing to South Africa’s international reputation. Firstly, by making sure you do not play the role of “exploited volunteer”.

The last of the Incas

This year, sees an adventure begin. My trip to Peru in April, will be one of the biggest events of my life, I see nothing but the land of the setting sun in front of me.  It’s been a childhood dream of mine to visit Machu Pichu, my interest in the Incan empire was sparked when I was only a child, watching the Mysterious Cities of Gold, pretending to be Zia, the Incan princess. Something about the ancient lands of Peru causes a chill down my spine, the good kind, the kind, which kicks you off your seat into action, into an adventure.

I read the Lost City of the Incas by Hiram Bingham last year, it was filled with stories of discovery, the main one being how he found the last city of the indigenous people of Peru, which had always fascinated me. I had no hopes of becoming an archaeologist or historian when I was a child, I had only wished to visit the land of the setting sun so I could trace the same steps of the Incas with my very own footprints.

Machu Picchu, Peru

Machu Picchu, Peru

Last year, after coming back from a four-year adventure in Japan, I felt at odds with the world. It might come across off as little strange, but I left not out of the need for home comforts, but for adventure. Japan had given me all the necessities I would have needed to go voyaging off in some distant land,  money, accessible routes from sea and land, but it lacked the all important key to adventure; opportunity. You see I didn’t want to just visit Peru, I wanted to explore Peru.

That’s when I realised I wanted to be more than a travel writer, visiting restaurants and hotels and giving them a rating out of ten seemed a little mundane, if not repetitive. I wanted to get into every nick and cranny in Machu Picchu and find or notice something that someone hadn’t before.

I started attended seminars at UCL about South American Archaeology, and my interest started to shape into a life ambition. I began applying for internships on archaeological digs in Peru and by some source of divine power I was offered one late last year with a renowned archaeologist in the field of Ancient Peru, finally starting my adventure.

Here I include my 5 favourite civilisations to come out of Peru, and some I hope to delve into more once I become more acquainted with the region.

Top 5 Peruvian Ancient

  1. The Chachapoyas, also called the Warriors of the Clouds, was a culture of Andean people living in the cloud forests of the Amazonas Region of present-day Peru.
  2. The Inca Empire  was the largest empire in pre-Columbian America.
  3. The Nazca culture was the archaeological culture that flourished from 100 BCE to 800 CE beside the dry southern coast of Peru in the river valleys of the Rio Grande de Nazca drainage and the Ica Valley.
  4. The Wari  were a Middle Horizon civilization that flourished in the south-central Andes and coastal area of modern-day Peru, from about AD 500 to 1000.
  5. The Chavín were a civilization that developed in the northern Andean highlands of Peru from 900 BC to 200 BC.