Indonesia
In a Jakarta traffic jam it hits me. After decades of frenetic travel, I have learnt less of the world than I might have, had I simply stayed on a farm in Devon. After my family’s land was expropriated in Tanzania in the 1960s, we lived for some years at Hill Farm near the village of Iddesleigh. Our neighbours knew us as ‘those Africans’. They hardly knew what Africa was, of course, since few had ventured beyond Hatherleigh on market day.
As he grew up, my eldest brother Richard sought wider horizons and went overseas. More than two years later, he returned and entered Iddesleigh’s pub, the Duke of York. ‘Hullo, Richard,’ said Bill, one of the regulars. ‘Where you been then?’ ‘I’ve been to Belize,’ said Richard. ‘That over abroad, is it, Richard?’ ‘Yes, it is.’
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