Having arrived to Colombia a couple of weeks before I’d be starting work as a business development fellow at the startup social enterprise Agruppa, my boyfriend and I had some time to kill.

Our initial plan was to head to the coast for the world-famous Carnaval de Barranquilla — the timing was perfect, and who doesn’t love a good Carnaval? Unfortunately it turned out that we were far too late to book any reasonable accommodations, and neither luxury apartments nor dubious love motels were on our list of options. Barranquilla was a no-go.

So what could possibly compare to one of the biggest carnavales in the world?

I suppose a stunning Caribbean island would suffice.

San Andrés is a small coral island about 140 miles east of the coast of Nicaragua, forming the largest part of the three-island archipelago and Colombian department of San Andrés, Providencia, and Santa Catalina. It is considered a national gem of the country, and any mention to a Colombian of your trip to San Andrés is sure to be met with a heartfelt “qué delicia!”

The history of San Andrés is a fascinating thread in the story of the colonial Caribbean. The story as first recorded by Europeans (though undoubtedly not the beginning of the story of the island itself) starts with the arrival of a handful of English Puritans in 1628, around the same time that the new Massachusetts Bay Colony was being established. Much like myself, these folks wondered why in the name of God anyone would attempt to sustain human life in such a freezing and inhospitable North American climate, and headed down to this fertile, tropical paradise instead.

The similarities between me and the Puritans end there, though, because they then proceeded to import enslaved people from other Caribbean islands, build a slave labor-based plantation economy of cotton and tobacco, and get themselves involved with the tough crowd of privateering, after which they would end up getting invaded by the Spanish and Henry Morgan consecutively. I did nothing of the sort; I just ate fried fish, laid on the beach, and went scuba diving.

From then on, San Andrés and its sister islands spent the next couple of centuries being tossed back and forth between Spain, pirates, the British, and Gran Colombia. Even the US tried to get its hands on this commercially strategic archipelago in the early 20th century, by requesting that it become part of Panama (where they thought that it might be a nice addition to their ownership over the new Canal). But despite Teddy Roosevelt’s heartwarming visit to the island, and a thoughtful follow-up visit by a nice US warship, the islanders, historically loyal to the Republic of Colombia, refused to join Panama or the US. By 1928 the archipelago was officially recognized as being exclusively under the sovereignty of Colombia.

Nowadays, San Andrés is very proudly Colombian, and there are no longer any pirates there (though you can visit a tourist trap called Morgan’s Cave, however it seems rather dubious as to whether this cave was actually frequented by Mr. Henry Morgan himself). The British influence on the island is quite noticeable, particularly in many of the English place names, and the architecture of the wooden houses, more reminiscent of Jamaica than of the Spanish colonial architecture of the hispanophone Caribbean.

Besides the diverse Spanish accents and boisterous Brazilian Portuguese that you’ll hear, there are three main languages spoken on the island: English, Spanish, and an English-derived Creole (considered a local dialect of Jamaican Patois that is specific to San Andrés and Providencia). Most of the folks from the island speak all three (similar to other politically Latin American / culturally Caribbean islands, like Roatán in Honduras). And if you were left with any doubts about the impressive cultural melting pot that is San Andrés, just take a listen to the music playing at any given street corner/store/car/business/cell phone — you’ll hear with equal frequency Colombian vallenatos, Jamaican dancehall, Top 40 reggaeton, Caribbean soca, reggae old and new, salsa, merengue, and everything in between.

One day during a surface break between dives, we were hanging out on the dock, watching some local fisherman gutting their catches from the morning and listening to them yelling in Creole to each other across their boats. With influences from various colonial languages including English and Spanish as well as West African roots, I am always enchanted by the way that this particular Anglo-Latin Creole seems to sound slightly, mysteriously familiar and yet simultaneously completely unintelligible to my ears.

One fisherman bent over and hauled a fat, four-plus foot kingfish out of his boat, to the admiration of his colleagues and to the fascination of a French Canadian woman on our dive crew. The size of the fish being quite impressive to us landlubbers, a shriek of “Oh my God!” erupted from her lungs.

The old, leathery skinned fisherman turned to look at her.

“That’s not your God,” he said in perfect English. “That’s a fish!”

We all laughed our asses off, and even the French Canadian woman managed a chuckle at herself.

Sun and sea were the stars of this trip. I was out to finish my open water scuba certification to keep up with my boyfriend, a former instructor, and we both had our eyes set on some very serious beach bumming time. What I didn’t expect was how face-to-face I’d come with the island’s history, both above and below the water.

During my total of seven dives, the view from my goggles was blessed with pufferfish, eels, barracuda, lionfish, more coral formations than I can name, and, to my simultaneous delight and terror, weird little wormies that stick their heads out of the sandy bottom and suck themselves back into the sand when you get close (which gave me terrible flashbacks of that creepy eyeball-on-a-stalk creature from the Star Wars garbage compactor scene that scarred me for life). But besides the spectacular natural ecosystem, there were few moments on the island when I wasn’t reminded of its history, acutely aware of hundreds of years of victory, tragedy, and the human experience.

Diving ship and airplane wrecks will do that to you.

The airplane had crashed over 20 years ago just 200m off the end of the runway, where it currently lies torn apart into several large pieces on the sandy ocean bottom. Parts of it are just barely recognizable as an airplane, but just knowing that the accident was destructive enough to tear a plane into pieces was enough to give me goosebumps under my wetsuit.

The Blue Diamond, on the other hand, is definitely recognizable as a ship. Though the history of its current home, resting peacefully on its side in just 12m (39ft) of water, is not quite as tragic as the misfortune of the airplane, knowing its story is nonetheless exhilarating: this 60m (197ft) freighter was seized by the Colombian government for drug running in the early 1990s, and was later sunk. As I nosed my way around the nooks and crannies of the ship, careful to avoid catching my gear on jagged metal and coral, I wondered about the people who had come before me, long before the ship had been appropriated by the flora and fauna of the sea. Laying my hands on nearly perfectly preserved cables, pipes, winches, pistons, and gears, I thought about the stories, motives, struggles, and victories that had once intertwined among these same parts.

Even above water, this tiny island offers endless subtle reminders that it is not just a tropical paradise that exists only in the vacuum of your Caribbean vacation. Sprawled on the beach with a cold beer in your hand, where it’s rather hard to think much about whatever your previous worries may have been, if you raise your view ever-so-slightly to the horizon, you’ll see that it’s dotted with dark shapes of varying sizes.

Long before tourism was even a thing, the Caribbean was not the stuff of airline promotions or Corona ads. It was a hotly contested basin of trade, politics, strategy, and, most of all, of highly unpredictable weather, disease, and uncharted physical territory. Coral reefs weren’t the highlight of an afternoon dive with your GoPro, but rather an invisible destroyer of ships and lives that tore through wooden hulls like butter.

Those shapes populating the horizon are skeletons — the bones of ships from throughout the ages, whose crews had the misfortune of not knowing the ring of coral that surrounds this little eight-mile-long blip in the sea.

Of course, I live in 2016, and I consider myself very lucky to have traveled to San Andrés via a modern airplane and without any significant concerns about contracting yellow fever or being boarded by pirates. Of course, one could also easily stick to the duty-free stores, the handful of pseudo-Italian restaurants, and the all-inclusive tours — a far cry from the stormy San Andrés of yesteryear. However, on an eight-mile-long island in the middle of the Caribbean, you’re never very far from the sea — nor, if you’re paying attention, from the endless stories swimming in its depths.

Rebecca Willett is a freelance writer, scuba diver, salsa dancer, and dog lover currently pursuing an MBA in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She firmly believes in learning something from everyone she meets, but if you try to tell her there is any ice cream superior to Argentinian dulce de leche ice cream, she will not hear you out.

An earlier version of this story was originally published on runrunrebecca.com.

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One Week by the Sea of Seven Colors: San Andrés, Colombia was originally published in Roam & Bard on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“That one!” I shouted, almost peeing on her lap from excitement.

Not only did she make this picture the one for my birthday month (April), but she printed me off a copy and let me hang it in my room. I had no idea where this island was located, but I liked that it was a mystery island. I hung it right above my bed, and as I lay there at night I would dream of being at this island, all alone. It was my personal oasis:

I imagined breeze, salty air, my toes in the warm water, and the sun tickling my skin.

Zzz….

Twelve years later, I find myself sitting on a rock in the south of Thailand. I was reading a book, slightly wishing I was doing something more exciting, when a Thai man and his little daughter offered me a ride on their boat.

“Where to?” I asked.

Trying to understand his answer was like trying to decipher ancient gibberish. I tend to live life on the edge, and this felt right; I excitedly nodded my head and stood up after them.

As soon as I stepped foot on the rustic sailboat, I was greeted with the warmest of smiles. The day was great; the boat was full of happy people, the sun was shining, and I could feel life smiling at me pretty dang hard. We were sailing through so many captivating islands. It happened in an instant, however, that one island in particular caught my eye.

Focusing closer, and quickly flipping through “island files” in my mind’s eye, memories of my childhood starting flooding my awareness: I remembered when grandpa yelled at me and I ran to my room, laid on my bed, and stared at the ceiling for hours. . . I made the connection. I realized that this island was the one, the island of my childhood dreams. To add to my amazement, we were sailing straight towards it.

I leaped out of the boat before it even docked, making huge splashes as I ran up to the island. I was seeing the same image my mind had seen for years. The breeze, the salty air, the feeling of my toes in the water, the feeling of the sun on my skin… All felt the same as they did in my dream. The only detail missing was that, in my dream, I was always the only one there. Alas, in this reality, there were people everywhere.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and once again imagined the dream.

My chest inflated.

Shortly after, I felt the wind gaining speed, and saw clouds quickly forming and spreading themselves across the sky. The wind got so strong that my skin started getting attacked by the sand, and the clouds began dumping water that crashed down on us sideways. I could hear people yelling and frantically searching for shelter, but my legs wouldn’t move me from where I stood. The storm was so fierce that I could barely see, but I remained married to the island. I had already made it this far, I couldn´t bare to turn away and hide. . . No matter how piercing the spikes of sand felt.

By the time I could uncover my face, I looked up to see that everyone had run back to their boats to hide. It all had happened as quick as lightning takes to penetrate the ground. . . Amazingly, the storm had completely stopped, and somehow the sun was already shining.

I was completely present. Standing there, looking at the island, feeling the now calmed breeze, smelling the salty air, feeling the water around my toes and the sun hugging my skin… I was there alone.

It was then that I had recieved my first dosage of awestruck ecstasy. In that moment, I took another deep breath and I could feel the Earth breathing with me. The wind whispered to me that my eyes not only saw, but projected; that the inner workings of my mind were what ultimately created my reality.

Following the island incident, my mind has become an incubator of dreams, turning them into realities. A cornucopia of magical experiences, initially created by my dreams, expectations, and desires, have weaved their way into my life.

Now, my question to you is: What kind of life are you dreaming?

Natasha is a cheery nomad with a passion for inspiring others to life the life of their dreams. You can probably find her dreaming in a tree, fire dancing on a pirate ship, or talking with strangers.

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I blinked my eyes open at dawn and greeted Ubud, Bali, for the first time. An eerie yet strangely comforting chant emanated from a loudspeaker across the rice paddy, or uma, to the porch of my homestay. Morning prayers. I watched as my coffee’s steam mirrored fog lingering over the terraces. I listened to the hallowed voices for probably an hour, completely captivated.

After a chat with my host mother Wayan, I decided to get an early start in getting to know Ubud. On her recommendation, I wandered to the Ubud Market where I dusted off my negotiation skills and bought a sarong, having realized nearly every woman and girl wore one. Leaving the market, I ducked down into a quiet ravine, eager to get off the noisy Jalan Monkey Forest [Monkey Forest Road].

I followed a narrow staircase from the sidewalk to an inconspicuous path shrouded in vines. Next to a creek and completely cloaked, my senses settled. The din of morning commerce faded away. I changed into my new sarong as I watched ripples spilling and chasing each other over smooth, algae-coated stones. I caught a waft of sweet incense smoke curling around me from a family altar across the stream, and it hit me. I was lonely.

I remembered seeing a flyer for a gathering place called the Love Space which hosted yoga classes, massage, painting workshops, and more, free to everyone. That was exactly what I needed.

I began my search for Love Space on Jalan Jembawan, a narrow, dusty street where people talked and laughed in the road. Charred-sweet smoke hovered above saté carts as friendly, mangy dogs sniffed for scraps. Everything but vehicles were in the street while parked motorbikes took up the sidewalks. I liked the vibe immediately.

After a while, I had circled back at least three times looking for Love Space. No one I asked knew what I was talking about. Just as I was about to give up, a voice shouted from across the street, “Hey! I like your sarong!”

I turned to see two men sitting on the curb, chatting and smoking. One of them was dressed in khaki pants and a polo embroidered with a hotel logo, while the other, the sarong-liking one, wore a t-shirt and a traditional batik sarong and udeng [head covering]. A freshly picked frangipani peeked out of the udeng. “Thanks,” I said and approached.

“Are you going to a temple?” he asked.

“No, why?”

“Because you’re wearing a sarong. You must wear a sarong to enter temples.”

“Oh. I guess I just like them. I bought this one this morning,” I said, smoothing out the creases.

I asked if they knew of this Love Space.

“You mean this place?”

He gestured behind him toward the base of the doorway where faded, hand-painted letters read, L O V E S P A C E. The interior was vacant and under construction.

“Oh,” I said, clearly deflated.

The man in the sarong smiled a kind and honest smile, the kind that emanates from your eyes and just happens to make your lips curve upward toward them in reply. He snuffed his cigarette, and unlike every other smoker I’d seen thus far in Bali, he did not throw it into the street, instead rising to dispose of it.

“Do you want to go to a temple?”

He walked over to a motorbike, inspecting it and adjusting the side mirrors. His friend, silent until now, spoke to him in Balinese and rose to leave.

“Um, yeah. Definitely. But you…” I stammered, “you mean now?”

“Yes.” He offered. “It’s my day off. Have you heard of the Temple of the Holy Water?”

Now, that was intriguing. “No, I haven’t. It sounds lovely.”

While my logical self debated whether it was a good idea to hop on a stranger’s motorbike on my first full day in a new country to who-knows-where and no friends to tell where I was going or when to expect me back, my instinct was already hiking up my sarong and kicking down the passenger footholds of his bike. I just knew I’d be okay.

The adventure began with the crank of engine as we waved farewell to his friend.

The ride out of town was invigorating. We stopped in the village of Tegallalang at what’s considered by many to be the most spectacular rice terrace and at a luwak coffee farm and roastery.

Luwak are small mammals whose digestive tracts cleanse coffee beans of their sharp acidity without breaking them down. When they pass through the animal, people gather, wash, peel, and roast them. They make some of the most expensive coffee in the world, prized for its smooth, sweet taste.

When we approach the Temple of the Holy Water, my face was sore from smiling so widely at every passerby.

The only largely Hindu island in the most populous Muslim-majority country, Bali is home to a proud and vibrant culture. Many holy sites have endured centuries of colonization then Indonesian unification and independence. One of these ancient sites is the Temple of the Holy Water, or Tirta Empul.

Built in 962 A.D. around a large spring, the temple has welcomed Balinese families to cleanse their bodies and spirits for generations. Greeting us at the entrance was an enormous banyan tree where the colorful remnants of dozens of offerings, or canang sari, lay. Their purpose is to praise and appease the gods and invite good energies to meaningful sites and frequented paths.

Locals distribute the small canang sari on woven palm leaves, and you can find them in abundance throughout the streets, temples, by storefronts and at just about any entrance in Bali. They contain a cornucopia of flowers, herbs, and sweets. The older ones surrounding the tree had been picked clean by wildlife, which is just fine with the Balinese. Once the offering is placed the deed is done, and it’s up to the gods what happens to it.

Walking inside, I was humbled by the age and intricacy of the stonework surrounding us. We soon encountered large bathing fountains. Graciously and patiently, my new friend instructed me on how to give thanks, wash, and drink from the pure waters.

I feel my sarong suspended in the cool, refreshing current; round stones beneath my bare feet ground me. I stop at nearly every spout one by one to wash and pray. I skip the last two, which are reserved for the dead, and emerge having never felt so welcome and at home somewhere so different and far from my own.

On the ride back into town, I close my eyes, and every other sense heightens. I feel the Bali air, pregnant with incense smoke and fresh fruit, the rumble of the motorbike beneath me and the wind rippling both my sarong and tangled hair. A plump equatorial sun filtering through the palm fronds above to dance on my skin. My new friend expertly navigating both asphalt and sidewalk back to the heart of Ubud. My heart is gaping open, and I’m free.

As the beautiful chaos of Ubud blossoms in front of us, I open my eyes and shrug off any doubts I had left. I thank the gods and all of Bali for the honor of their presence and guidance. I begin to see my fate twisted among every one’s here, like the gnarled, interlocking branches of a banyan tree. Like one of these fallen giants destined for carving, out of the jungle I feel myself emerge, raw and expectant, into the hands of Bali itself.

Shape me, I pray. I am ready.

Some days, you just have to surrender.

Natalie does her best to live an earthbound existence through slow travel, permaculture, and movement arts. She values minimalism and aims to leave a positive wake everywhere she visits. Find stillness in motion with her as she shares these explorations on her blog: Dirty Hands, Restless Feet (http://dirtyhandsrestlessfeet.com/).

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Serendipitous Surrender in Ubud, Bali was originally published in Roam & Bard on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I first heard about the San Blas Islands, also know as Guna Yala (formerly known as Kuna Yala), a few months before my departure for Latin America. I didn’t know much about Central America or even Panama. To be honest, I’m more of a get-recommended-Google-it-and-read-reviews-then-decide-that-day kinda gal. So, I got a link to a company that offered a four-day island-hopping boat tour through the islands. The website said I had to book three weeks or less before the trip; of course I waited until the last minute. “Discover the magic of the Kuna culture in indigenous villages” was all the website said about the Kunas. Little did I know how intriguing this indigenous culture would turn out to be. As soon as I stepped foot on the island, I felt the need to share what I learned.

The first thing I noticed upon arriving in the Kuna village was their flag. Almost every house had one flying high and proud. A big yellow stripe in between two red smaller ones and…..a black swastika! It took my breath away as if I had been punched. Growing up Jewish, that symbol has always meant the worst — a dark history of Nazi Germany. But, to my surprise, I soon found out it had a completely different meaning to the people who live here.

According to the BBC News:

“In the Western world the swastika is synonymous with fascism, but it goes back thousands of years and has been used as a symbol of good fortune in almost every culture in the world.

In the ancient Indian language of Sanskrit swastika means “well-being”.

The symbol has been used by Hindus, Buddhists and Jains for millennia and is commonly assumed to be an Indian sign.

Early Western travellers to Asia were inspired by its positive and ancient associations and started using it back home. By the beginning of the 20th Century there was a huge fad for the swastika as a “benign good luck symbol.”

The Kunas adapted the symbol in 1925 and probably will never change it — why should they? Ask them about Hitler or the Holocaust and I can guarantee they’ll have no idea what you’re talking about. After learning this information, a few thoughts came to mind. First, I couldn’t imagine living in such a bubble. Secondly, hm, maybe it’s better they live so isolated from the media-saturated life I live. I mean, have you seen our presidential candidates?

Fun fact: Kunas worship women! Take that USA!

Furthermore, drinking alcohol is forbidden except on certain days that celebrate a woman’s development.

“In mythology the woman represents the mother earth and therefore everything comes from her.”

The most important celebrations I learned about are:

• Birth of a baby girl
• When a girl hits puberty (starts menstruation cycle)
• When a woman gets married

Kuna families are also matrilinear — which means “inheriting or determining descent through the female line” (dictionary.com).

Simply put, the bridegroom moves to become a part of the bride’s family and the groom also takes the bride’s last name.

I like the sound of that.

While exploring the island, I noticed there were many young individuals that I couldn’t identify according to gender. Apparently, transgender males are something of the norm and welcomed in the Kuna villages. In a community that worships women, why would that be a bad thing? I found it interesting that in such a remote area, the people seem to be so much more advanced in LGBT situations than many developed countries. A friend raised an interesting question: “What if the girls desire to be transgender?” In that case, I have no idea. Anyway, it got me thinking that there is a lot to learn about how the world works.

Albinos a.k.a “Moon Children”

According to McClatchy DC, demographic experts say that Kunas have the highest rate of albinism on Earth. Apparently, there is one born for every 145 Kuna births, which is insane to me because I’ve only come across a handful in my lifetime. Interesting from a genetics point-of-view.

“So it is perhaps a cruel twist of genetic fate that so many albinos dwell under a harsh tropical sun on these coral-ringed islands.”

Kuna mythology treats albinos as a special race. They believe that the Moon Children can rescue them during hurricanes, severe storms and lunar eclipses, so for this reason, Albinos are the only ones allowed outside during these times.

“Today, the albinos of Guna Yala…are generally viewed as gifted in the arts, religion and in academic pursuits, including law.”

Knowing how racism reveals its ugliness around the world, that’s something I took away as a beautiful and unique thing.

I hope one day I can return to these magical islands and really get to know the people and their way of life even more.

Guna Yala — A Magical Culture You’ve Never Heard Of was originally published in Roam & Bard on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“I don’t really know how I know what it smells like, but I can definitely smell a bear” I stammered.

For reference it’s a heavy, musky smell — in a different context, perhaps kind of pleasant for its realness. However, when scrambling through undergrowth in a dense Serbian forest, having detoured from the path on the demented impulse of a friend, it is the smell of fear.

Take it from me, the human mind is capable of exceptional levels of subjective, wishful thinking when it comes to map-reading. When you are desperately optimistic, signs in Cyrillic morph to correlate with your roman script map, a petty gradient becomes the steep incline you expected, a fork in the path is just where it should be… give or take five kilometres. Just me? Fair enough… I wouldn’t trust road-trippers who calculated the distances of their entire journey from a map on which there was a bear the size of Belgrade either. We asked for it. Intense and prolonged disorientation, that is.

We were seeking the “Best View in Serbia” — the kind of made-up Balkan tourist attraction, that haphazard backpackers, showing up in the staggeringly beautiful Tara National Park, completely unprepared, are likely to be seduced by. A helpful (…if slightly unsure of the English for the cardinal directions and basic left from right compass points and other basic prepositions’) woman in the trekking office had us hyped at the prospect of a three hour circuit, with such a thrilling reward. Off we set, assured our shitty footwear was no problem, a hastily-purchased picnic packed and relieved that lingering over breakfast hadn’t cost us a day of orgastic, nature porn.

I don’t know how we managed to take a wrong-turn but I know it was early, carelessly committed and had a drastic impact on the course of our day! Don’t get me wrong, walking among friends in verdant woodland, without encountering another soul is pretty close to my idea of heaven. We weren’t complaining. But we weren’t getting there either.

I’m a big fan of rising panic’s intrinsically comic nature. Perhaps in the fourth hour of our little trek, Al — borderline megalomanic at the best of times — filled with deranged enthusiasm, had convinced himself that the “Best View in Serbia” lay up a dubious, unmarked path on very steep and wild terrain. Barechested and charging ahead, beating away the undergrowth with a trusty staff, he reached the brow of the hill ahead of the rest of us sweaty, lumbering fools. No view, let alone the best the country had to offer, just a crestfallen trudge back down to our original course… And then there was the bear (smell), the dwindling of our food and water, and the falling light. Empty stomachs and encroaching darkness make amusing creatures of us all. Thankfully, when you are five it is hard to descend into full on freak-out mode, but teetering on the edge and trying to stay jovial is as funny.

Having reached a real clusterfuck of a crossroads, we were completely thrown. By this point we’ve hit the five hour mark at minimum and after some very serious map consulting and nervous laughter, had to face the fact that we had absolutely no idea where we were. Someone spotted what looked like a house sign and after a discussion, laced with stifled panic, myself Alex and Wilby set forth to ask for directions. By this point I am reading the red logger’s marks on trees as portents of evil and all-but imagining serial killers lurking among the shadowy pines.

Twitching at snapping twigs, a red roof emerged through fruit trees, followed by what I recall as a marginally wonky, gingerbread house. Classical music drifted lazily through the warm, late afternoon air. Following its source around the back of the house we came across the elderly owners, chopping wood. There was a lot of smiling, a lot of pointing, a lot of… italian?! Some broken English and fruity charades from Wilby who is at least a foot too tall for himself and particularly animated in such situations. The next thing we knew we were dashing awkwardly through the garden in pursuit of a wizard we would come to know as Marco, him looking back, gurgling encouragement, wild eyed, with a captivating smile and untenable energy. Then WOAH — there we were, smack bang on the edge of Serbia’s best view, and admittedly it was pretty impressive. Teetering on the edge of a seriously sizable drop, with a geriatric madly gesticulating that the land mass in the distance was in fact Bosnia, made it all the more invigorating.

Fast forward fetching the others from a crumpled heap at the aforementioned cross-roads, marvelling at the view from it’s official point and throwing our voices out across the lake to be answered by the crispiest echoes I’ve ever heard… by the time we returned to the ranch Marco and his wife had quite clearly turned out their larder and rustled up a veritable feast. I can’t remember what we ate, only that we dined high on that rare breed of dizzy happiness, born from a mix of not quite believing your luck and extreme exhaustion. We purused endless photo albums and sipped on an otherworldly, almost too-delicious-to-be-real, homemade cordial created from some mind-bending mountain flora or fauna. Stepping out on to the veranda to smoke, the sky had dissolved into starry splendour and Marco ushered us out for a walk through the woods, meadows and silence. We were soon tucked in for an early night at our unlikely hosts’ place, sleeping like babies and awoke the next day to a carnival of bird song. We really could not have knocked on a more hospitable door.

Kate is a foolhardy backpacker with a penchant for getting lost and a lot of love for words, spices, strangers and open spaces.

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Can you feel it? Is it a shiver or is it a presence? If you stop breathing for a while, you arch your hearing maybe you will feel a strange presence. A clap of hands, children running, cold waves, a 900 year old crypt, tales of suffering and torture can make you really think that ghosts are near you sniffing you, circling you and making fun of you.

Or maybe everything has a good explication: the child running was a girl from our tour who got frightened, our guide clapped to get our attention, cold waves ….well, we were in a crypt, the lights were lowered by the castle’s staff. These were some logical happenings but let’s not forget that Oxford Castle is considered the most haunted building in Oxford with a very dark history of human degradation and cruelty.

Oxford Castle was built in 1071 by Robert Doily and was in its existence a prison up until as recently as 1996. During the 18th century, the list of offences punishable by death rose from around 50 to more than 200. There were numerous public executions for crimes including sheep stealing, arson and spying. Of course, the detention conditions were different according to the social group you belonged to. For example, ordinary thieves and ladies of pleasures were locked in the tower rooms which were overcrowded with prisoners. It was the place where they had to sleep, to do all the necessities on the floor (and nobody would clean the place, so they had to stand night and day in some centimetres of their own filth a) and where there would be just a window without windowpane (lovely in the winter). And a prison wouldn't be a prison without cruel tortures and macabre hangings.

So, the Oxford Castle is the last place you should get lost, but be careful with the things you are afraid of…because they might happen. Like any ordinary tourist I bought the ticket, booked the tour, made expectations of what will happen and told myself that, after all, this is just an old building (foolish thought).

The tour began calmly but kind of strange with our tour guide dressed up as an executioner but having a lovely accent and British humour. We started to walk from the oldest part of the Castle, climbing the stairs to the infamous detention rooms located in the tower. St George’s Tower was built of coral rag stone in 1074, 30 by 30 feet at the base and tapering significantly toward the top for stability. This was the tallest of the castle’s towers, possibly because it covered the approach to the old west gate of the city. Early in the 13th century the wooden keep on top of the motte was replaced with a ten-sided stone shell keep, 58 feet. To get to the top of the tower you have to climb some really narrow and spooky stone stairs fairly lightened and it doesn't help if you are too tall (fortunately not my case). On the top, I had the chance to get a good view of Oxford city and a blast of wind in the face.

When I thought that I had my share of macabre stories and spooky prison chambers, we went to the deserted prison wing, where we were pushed in some tiny cubicles which represented prison cells from the past. All of the sudden, the guide put a human head in my hands and an axe and in just seconds I was looking like an ordinary criminal. But, fortunately not a very scary one as the human head was a plastic imitation of a real one. This was the point when I started to lose a little bit the sense of reason.

After visiting these prison cells we went down into the crypt….. the creepiest place in the castle. The crypt was used to store prisoners’ dead bodies so it gave you a glimpse of what macabre the castle was. If you are looking for a place with the name Haunted on it, this is the one. Some people say that they can feel the presence of the ghost of a little girl who was a prisoner in the castle, the little girl pinches you and giggles around you.

When I thought everything had finished, the guide let us free for self-guide. Well, big mistake because that was the moment I successfully lost myself into the cell wing, being separated from my friends and the rest of the group. Of course, not very happy thoughts or fairy tales came into my head. Instead there were the dark and the very bloody stories of the Castle. I thought “lucky me” as I was the one who didn't believe in ghosts stories. But when I ended up back into the cold crypt hearing all kind of noises and seeing all kinds of shadows I suddenly started to have a change of mind. My heart told me to run run run like a professional athlete. I found myself reaching the end of the tour where a very nice lady gave me my mugshot with my friend, the human head, and with the very friendly axe. So, I said that was enough for me, I needed a coffee or even better a strong drink. Luckily in the castle yard there is a coffee shop which helps you get your heart rate back to normal.

Did I mention that the prison also had gallows where they would execute prisoners, such as Mary Blandy in 1752. For most of the 18th century, the castle prison was run by the local Etty and Wisdom families and was in increasing disrepair. A part of the castle has been transformed in a 4 stars hotel keeping the old cells but refurbished in order for them to offer the 4 star comfort and luxury.

For the ones who seek more excitement and ghost chasing, and that is definitely not me, they can book a room in the Castle hotel named Malmaison Oxford or book a Ghost Hunt.

Irina is a passionate traveller who likes to travel, to meet new people and to write about new experiences and cultures. She considers herself a road opener.

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We spent the last nine days on the water diving and exploring the islands. Jeff is a certified diver and was completely in his element with all of the shipwreck diving sites. There are eleven World War II Japanese wrecks to explore in the Coron Bay. I’m not much of a diver, but I have my basic certifications. Being claustrophobic meant that wreck diving was out of the question for me. Instead I kicked back on the boats taking advantage of the quiet time to read, write, and soak up the sun. I also got to do some pretty intense snorkeling during those nine days on the water.

Coron is a small town in the province of Palawan, Philippines. Just months before we arrived in Coron it had been affected by typhoon Haiyan. It left many homes upturned and caused severe devastation in the area. Kevin told us the story about how they lost two of their cottages to the typhoon and had spent three days of chopping and removing fallen trees just to make it to the bottom of their driveway.

It was quite obvious when we arrived that this place wasn’t thriving as it used to but I think that made me fall in love with it even more. All of the people were so accommodating and the landscapes were so raw. It made it quite difficult for travelling as many roads were ripped up and there were small detours throughout the island.

Now if you look at a map of Coron, it really doesn’t look so bad. There aren’t that many roads so it can’t be that hard to navigate, right? Wrong. Other than the main strip through Coron Town and near the airport, there were few paved roads. We felt confined to the main strip and exploring the waters so we decided that we needed to see more of the island on land. We talked to Kevin, rented his motorcycle from him, and went on our way. Kevin is an exceptionally tall man and it’s obvious that his motorcycle was built for him. I am definitely not a short person, I’m about 5’8”, and I couldn’t sit comfortably on this beastly machine. Regardless, I jumped on behind Jeff and held on for dear life.

Our idea was to drive to Busuanga on the other side of the island. Kevin warned us that because of all the road construction and detours, it would take us a couple hours to reach it. The drive was approximately 60km from Kaba-Kaba but we had all day and nothing to lose. As long as the shoreline was on our left we knew were headed in the right direction.

I remember being mesmerized by the scenery on our drive. It seemed so untouched and I felt as though we were the only people to have discovered this part of the world. The water sparkled sapphire blue and I could feel the sun’s warmth in my skin, sprinkling freckles across my cheeks. We made sure to stop along our journey to stretch our legs and to really enjoy the views.

Along the way I had noticed a small sign on the side of the road that read “Concepcion Waterfall.” It was the kind of adventure I was looking for, so I convinced Jeff to pull over. We didn’t see a waterfall, instead we saw a small sign with an arrow pointing down a narrow path toward the forest. Without hesitation we marched without the fear of getting lost. We eventually came to a point where we were so deep into this forest that there was no longer a well-defined path. Maybe we really were lost…

I had heard rustling coming up from behind us but I couldn’t see any animals or anything. I think Jeff was starting to get nervous at this point, he’s a little more careful than I am. All of a sudden, a small boy appeared out of the brush! He smiled at us politely and continued past us on his way. He seemed to have a clear destination so I shouted after him asking if he knew where the waterfalls were. This excited him, he grabbed us by the hand and quickened his steps. He introduced himself as Brandish. He was seven years old.

Brandish walked us through a river, climbed over hills, ducked under low tree branches, and twisted around what felt like the most dense portion of the forest. Suddenly he stopped, shook our hands and turned to walk away. I could faintly hear the sound of the waterfall trickling in the distance. We made it! I chased after Brandish to thank him, which in most Southeast Asian countries means a gratuity. He smiled at us and then went along his way.

We walked toward the sound of the water. Then finally, there it was in all of its glory. Since we arrived in March we were in the midst of their dry season so the waterfall wasn’t as strong as it normally is during monsoon season. Nonetheless, it was truly beautiful.

We saw the rock formations peeking their faces out from behind the overgrowth. Formed in a perfect circle, there was a small lagoon. The rocks hugged its perimeters and water trickled down their bellies splashing my feet as I stood there, gazing. It had a fairytale quality about it. It was so obscure and masked by trees. The sunlight was mystically shining through the treetops. I remember the water being dark and still. Jeff was hesitant to go in too far. The only things we could hear was the sound of this untouched waterfall.

I dove in without thinking of it a second time. It didn’t bother me that I couldn’t see or feel the bottom. All I thought about was how fresh the water felt on such a hot day. We spent the afternoon swimming and floating around in complete bliss. I can only imagine how it looks during the wet season with all of the water coursing down the rocks. I couldn’t have been happier with the peacefulness of the falls trickling into the lagoon.

Somehow, we found our way back to our motorcycle from the falls. Don’t ask me how, but we somehow managed it without Brandish. By the time we made it to the roadside I was completely covered in scrapes and bruises from climbing through the brush.

Next stop on our trip was the Maquinit Hot Springs on the other side of Coron Town. We set off in the same direction we came from. We drove for hours back toward Kaba-Kaba and through Coron Town. Finally, we reached this narrow path that twisted up through the mountain. At that point, I would’ve sworn my entire ass was broken. I was sure that I was going to live the remainder of my days in the riding position. I had to make Jeff pull over several times so that I could stretch. At one point I debated having him leave me on the side of the road and I would just sleep there for the night. He didn’t buy it.

We were told from the start to make sure that we arrived to the hot springs with enough time to leave before dark. The roads become very dangerous at night from people driving motorcycles without proper headlamps or from simply driving too fast. The roads are so steep and windy that it wouldn’t have taken much to get into a terrible accident. From the distance we could tell that it wouldn’t be much longer until darkness fell.

I’m not going to lie, when we arrived at the hot springs, I was a little bit disappointed. The entire time we had spent in Coron, we saw very little tourists. It even felt as though we had been the only foreigners in the town. As soon as we arrived at Maquinit, I realized all of the tourists were staying here. It was packed! For the ones that know me, I am not big on tourist traps, I want to experience the things that few people have. This to me screamed tourist trap. Granted, the water was hot (about 40 degrees celsius) and relaxing however it lost all of its raw beauty. It had been built to accommodate tourists and no longer felt like natural hot springs. I felt as though I was sitting in a public outdoor hot tub. We decided to stay, soak it in, and take advantage of our last relaxing evening in Coron. About an hour must have passed. I looked behind me and I realized that the sun had already set. It was time for us to go. We skipped the water basins and decided to rinse off once we arrived back at Kaba-Kaba, scared that we had overstayed our visit.

We were only about 20–25 minutes away from our cottage at this point. Once we made our way through the mountain, it was a fairly easy drive through Coron Town. Exhausted by the time we arrived back, we returned the keys to the motorcycle and drug our feet toward our cottage.

Our stay in Coron was absolutely magical! We look forward to going back someday. Don’t forget to indulge in your inner explorer. Get lost… you’ll thank me for it.

Sam is an avid traveler and an aspiring writer. She spends her days working as an Automotive Service Advisor. Her nights are filled with planning adventures and freelance writing.

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Do you have a great story about your travels and adventures that you want to share with the world? We’re here to help you do that. Here’s how to get started:

1. Contact me at brianf@famelessmag.com. Briefly introduce yourself and provide any examples of your writing. This can be links to previously released articles or drafts on Google Drive.
2. If your writing is a good fit, I will eagerly respond with detailed instructions. If your writing is not such a great fit, I will still respond.
3. Once you have completed the article, you will need to create an account on Medium and submit it through their platform. Studies show it’s almost entirely pain free and takes 3–4 minutes.
4. I will review the piece and may suggest/request/demand revisions. These sometimes include line edits, pictures and pull quotes. My goal is to present your life-altering story in the most potent way possible.
5. Once completed, the article will be assigned a day on our release schedule so you can sit back and bask in your greatness.

I’m interested in any story that adds value and creates dialogue, submissions about lifestyle and travel are the strongest considered.

Please let me know if you have any other questions. Let’s build something.

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Want to share your story on Roam & Bard? was originally published in Roam & Bard on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Roam & Bard was born from the discontent of travel material titled “Top 25 Things To Do in Barcelona”; it’s just as much about the writer’s experience as it is about the location and culture there. A publication of stories from people who that take the path less traveled, and the lessons and experience they’ve gained on the way.

We’re not another travel publication, but that’s where our stories will be rooted. We’re not another long form publisher, but you can count on our stories being long form. We’re not going to be as big as Lonely Planet, but we’re not going to be niche either. We’ll share our stories sourced from the cultures and offbeat locations from around the world we actually care about, and think you’ll care about too.

We’re a travel community for people that want to talk about their experiences rather than read empty lists of recommendations.

We’re going to experiment with travel stories. We’ll explore locations that start or end conversations, and tell stories that have meaning and impact. We’ll try to show you things about this planet that are shareable, and memorable. We’ll try not to mess anything up. Keyword: TRY.

The plan is not for Roam & Bard to exist in isolation. Room & Bard will grow and change as the community grows and changes. From now until then, we’ll collect and publish stories that inspire you, excite you, or begins a conversation you want to carry on, which will hopefully be often.

See you out there!

Brian Felix
Editor // Roam & Bard

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What is Roam & Bard? was originally published in Roam & Bard on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.