The flying club

A senior charity boss recently told me that during his career he has flown to the US over 50 times, and whilst travelling was novel at the start of his career, it is now a tedious chore. He chided what he referred to as ‘the flying club’, an international gravy train of hypocritical and self-important charity folk jaunting from conference to conference, decrying the horrors of impending climate chaos while chalking up more airmiles than Richard Branson.

As part of a new generation of carbon cautious do-gooders engulfed in today’s flying club, I had to agree with him that the broader value of such events is questionable for everyone but the airlines. And in my short stint as a conference regular the novelty has largely worn off already. 28 hours in a city like Bratislava can quickly prove that it’s not all glamorous. (Especially when a passport gets lots on arrival, costing not only the hours finding the police station, getting the police report, registering at the embassy, getting passport photos, applying for a temporary passport, waiting for three hours, and then going to collect it, but also costing £75 for a piece of paper that’s only good for one journey.)

New technologies are coming in to reduce the need for flying by enabling ‘face to face’ communication without the lost time or money, or additional carbon emissions. The most impressive of these is the emergent, Star Trek-esque telepresence.

But on the whole these technologies are still expensive, and skype is too unreliable, to really compete with face to face interaction. And the world’s biggest donor for civil society, the European Commission, remain a firm believer that travel is the answer to every problem, this being one of the few project expenses to receive no budget ceiling in funding proposals, encouraging applicants to pad out this section to grow the other, restricted areas of their costs. (As an aside, if that sounds confusing and boring, feel for the poor guy that had to write this; a devilishly handsome and unsung hero if ever there was one.)

Of course the civil society flying club is a minnow compared to its colossal corporate and public sector cousins. Both of these titanic gravy trains are now on their way to moralise about to descent on Copenhagen to decry the horrors of impending climate chaos while chalking up more airmiles than… Neil Armstrong?

Kyiv: the intercultural finale

My latest trip to Kyiv (the true spelling of what Russians call ‘Kiev’) was for a big international workshop for young leaders, the grand finale to the British Council programme I’d been through the past six months.

The workshop was fascinating: 85 young people from 16 different countries – mostly central and east European, as well as the UK, three Nordic countries, Turkey and Israel – gathered for three days of intercultural exchange and self discovery. The event aimed to help us build our intercultural networks, and co-develop projects that would ‘change the world’. It sounded lofty and vague, and often was, but I forced myself to go with the cheesy flow and got a lot from it. One lesson was that the British cynicism that led to my initial disdain for the slightly patronising event format was a burden, not a badge of ironic honour.

The event had an interesting relationship with national stereotypes. Of course most are based on truth and this was proven repeatedly throughout the three days. There were forthright and self-depreciating Nordics, quiet and reserved Belorussians, friendly but slightly wary Turks, baulchy Israelis, and numerous oddball central and east Europeans: one Slovenian wrote in his personal profile, published in a directory of participants that everyone received at the start, that he is "a strange person you don’t want to meet, cause I bite while moonwalking… and am easily changeable with a shaman as I play a jew’s harph”…

But the nature of the selection process meant that most people shared a lot beneath the thin veneer of their cultures, and almost everyone was fun, smart, engaging and pro-active.

The stereotypes were also a common source of fun, and I found great favour in playing up to them. In one presentation I played a BBC news reporter, donning my plummiest accent and stiffest upper lip. Everyone loved it, and afterwards I was unsure whether I’d reinforced a negative stereotype or poked fun at, and holes through, an international misconception about how reserved the Brits really are.

Day 1 ended with an intercultural fair, where each country had a stand. The Turks offered henna tattoos and belly-dancing, the Israelis offered cleansing Dead Sea mud. True to form our lacklustre British table contained an umbrella and lots of tea. But the most common (and popular) offerings were the huge shots of 50% drinks from across eastern Europe. Needless to say everyone got sloshed pretty quickly. That set the tone for the rest of the event, which involved early starts, jam-packed days, and boozy late nights. I was exhausted by the end.

My most interesting conversations were with the large Israeli contingent. Never having spoken at length to young Israelis before, I was fascinated by their opinions, values and mannerisms. The groups was disproportionately liberal yet they still often came across as rude, not least in walking out of sessions they found pointless, or shutting people off mid-sentence if they were bored by a conversation.

I spoke most with Golda, a strident and extremely sharp woman of colossal ambition. She explained that for an Israeli, walking away from dull dialogue isn’t rude, but honest and efficient. While I remained trapped in cul-de-sac conversations with nothing but my subtly negative body language to rescue me, she’d already spoken to four people. She afterwards said it’s nice that the British are so polite, to which I replied I had no choice; it’s my culture. For the first time I saw those famous and respected British manners as a cage.

Israel lives in a constant state of tension and conflict with its neighbours, so it’s not surprising that its people are so assertive, (i.e. blunt and impatient). One outcome is that they are very energetic, possibly living for the day because things are so unpredictable. Another reason why Israelis are seen as rude is possibly because, in geopolitical terms, their country is the small, spoilt rich kid on the block, enjoying the patronage of the sole hyperpower and not used to having to compromise. Now the hyperpower’s might is waning while it’s groundbreaking President is parenting Israel with a firmer hand, and they don’t know how to react.

One reason why I got on so well with the Israelis is not because they are so different from us, but so similar. We are both American satellites, at least culturally, and I was surprised at the depth of our affinity. Interesting that in a European event without a single American present, the Land of the Free can still exert such influence.

Kenya - of buses and streetboys

Following idyllic Uganda would always be a tricky task, and Kenya's reputation for aggression and hassle preceded it. But I wasn’t ready for how quickly the country’s notoriety would justify itself; my first conversation was an argument with the conductor of the bus leaving from the border. I didn’t mind paying the inflated ‘mzungu’ price as much as I minded him lying about both the inflation and the price itself. I paid and he became friendly enough, though never happier then when our minibus passed a vicious street fight in one of the towns en route.

Buses in that part of Africa are very different to those I’m used to back home. They come in two distinct varieties: minibuses and coaches. Both intra-city ‘Public buses’ and inter-city ‘shuttles’ are minibuses zipping along without any regard for speed or safety. They’re always privately run, decorated, and named:

They are often savagely overcrowded, to the point of overflowing, and are known as a picpocket’s heaven. They’re also dirt cheap, have excellent music blaring, and are the quickest way to get around.

And mine with the aggressive conductor quickly got me to Kisumu, Kenya’s third largest city and largest city in the Luo area. Badly affected by the post-election violence that swept Kenya in early 2008, the project that I was there to visit was almost cancelled that year as a result. In 2009 there were few visible signs of the problems. Much more visible were the hoards of street children that the city is famous for. Or to be more precise, street boys. I learnt that street girls are far less common because (i) they are more likely to be welcomed back than their brothers, as boys are ‘more trouble than girls’, (ii) they are more likely to be trusted by strangers and employed as domestic help, and (iii) they are more likely to be taken in because they are at greater risk on the streets than their male peers. As a result nearly all the street children in Kisumu are boys.

And there are many boys. Ubiquitous clusters of shoeless, solvent-sniffing street boys staggering the streets, glue bottles permanently clamped between their rotting teeth. To the nervous traveller, as I was on my first visit to the city in 2007, they can be intimidating, a ragged mob of desperate feral youth with nothing to lose. (I was told in Nairobi that the street boys there are genuinely dangerous, and manage to occasionally avoid the street lynchings for which the area is notorious by covering themselves in human waste, which is then thrown at anyone that ventures within splattering range.)

But rather than be intimidated – or fear flying excrement – I went with the project’s leader to visit some of the shelters seeking to address Kisumu’s street child epidemic, and was greeted with timid curiosity distinctive of those that deserve better, but know they could be much worse off. These boys have found at least some respite from the streets, but for each of them there are dozens for whom there is no space.

After two days of frantically visiting as many street refuges and schools as possible to get a picture of the project, I left our superhero project coordinator and her motley crew to continue their work, while I continued on my journey, this time by coach.

In contract to the minibuses, the coaches of East Africa are the big hulking bruiser variety of bus: much slower, safer (on account of their size rather than having any seatbelts); but better for the long haul (shuttles rarely go further than 8 hours from base, while the coaches cross the region in stints of up to 72 hours at a time). They are also spacious enough to host occasional characteristic happenings, such as the suave and often evangelically fervent ‘Drs’ who stand centre aisle and bellow their polished public health speeches about how their anti-worming creams (complete with photos of writhing worms) will cure everyone’s parasite problems. I’ve never seen one swamped with business but it would only take a couple of sales to cover the fare.

The coaches also attract an innovative form of enterprise characteristic to the region, the shop in a box:

Extremely convenient for passengers but doubtless dreary and poorly rewarded work. A fitting symbol for the tireless decency and resourcefulness that exemplifies the vast majority of Africans I’ve met.

Uganda - nature and nightlife

Imagine exploring jungle caves steeped in tribal folklore, while monkeys crash through branches and lizards scuttle over rocks. Then after ten minutes walk to be atop a ridge, surrounded by perfect crater lakes and overlooked by imposing mountain ranges. These stunning environs welcomed me as I ended my 36 hour plane and bus marathon to the first stop on my recent three-week East African tour: Fort Portal in western Uganda.

However walking back to camp that evening, flashing fireflies marking our path like tiny beacons, I reflected on the real highlight of the day, which surpassed even the natural wonders we'd seen: the astounding warmth and kindness of the people that we'd met along the way.

Our friend and guide that day, Michael, is a native of Buhaara village, a few miles outside FP. He is an immensely bright and proactive community organiser, and founder of a small-scale NGO that supports his community with necessities such as materials and uniforms for children to attend school. As well as proudly showing us the environmental spectacles his home had to offer, he also took us on a tour of the village, introducing us to his neighbours and hosting an enormous lunch for us in his family home. Though the village itself is the visual embodiment of rural African poverty - small huts of thatched roofs and walls of wooden frames packed with mud; skinny chickens being chased by barefoot toddlers in torn clothes - the spirit of people we met was incredibly moving. It's hard to explain why, but our group all left Buhaara with a glowing sense of having seen and felt something beautiful in that community.

The idyllic atmosphere of the village was unique in its intensity, but the enormous physical beauty we saw there is common to the region. Uganda is an extremely exotic and verdant land. The staple food, grown and eaten everywhere, is banana. Also abundant, both farmed and wild, are pineapples, mangoes and papayas. The wildlife is also distinctive: Uganda is home to the Ankole Cow, famed for their enormous horns, and the Marabou Stork, whose huge hulking frames can be seen lurching across rural swamps and urban rubbish heaps alike. It feels very different to London.

If the country is beautiful, its politics certainly isn't. By most counts Uganda's President Musoveni, who's run the country for 23 years, is an autocrat. He wins elections by improbable margins and stifles dissent at every opportunity. However looking at what Musoveni took over in 1986 - a country brutalised by the Obote-Amin-Obote dictator sandwich, which ensured that the first 22 years of independence consisted largely of misery - he has done a good job. His record is far from perfect: human rights are often ignored, corruption is horrendously bad (Uganda recently came third last in Transparency International's corruption index) and half the population live under the poverty line of $1.25 a day. However on the whole Uganda is remarkably safe, stable, and boasts a growing economy.

Much of the economy still relies on international NGOs, one of which employs my friend and host, Nigel (author of this splendid blog). I stayed with him at his official residence in Kampala's 'posh slum' of Kansanga. It's posh because the houses feature luxuries such as electricity, flushing toilets, and more than four square metres per inhabitant. It's a slum because it's built without the faintest hint of town planning; houses built wherever possible, infrastructure an ad hoc free for all.

It was a great base to explore Kampala's much heralded nightlife, the many virtues of which were extolled to me to the point where I thought my expectations had no chance of being met. But amazingly they were. I only had two nights to revel there, but they both ended at dawn and took in an array of fantastic venues. The clubs took one of two forms: either glorious open air venues, or large, labyrinthine warrens with black walls and black carpets with flourescent splashes, all doused in ultra violet light. Everywhere the music perfectly balanced exciting and powerful beats with funky rhythms that enraptured a positive, energetic and euphorically dancing crowd. Or maybe that was just me. Either way, I can definitely recommend a night out in Kampala.

Though the capital has the biggest clubs, there are also great nightspots elsewhere in the country. I was lucky to be invited clubbing in FP by some local guys I met. I found those same black carpets with flourescent splashes, and those same excellent tunes. But what I remember most from my night out there was how my hosts described the towns two clubs in overtly elitist terms. One was a 'low class' club, where entry cost just 1000 Ugandan Shillings (about 30p), and was full of matatu (motorcycle taxi) drivers and cheap prostitutes. The other was a 'high class' club, costing 5,000 USh (£1.50), which the lowly matatu drivers could never afford. Therefore it was better. Though my friends felt otherwise, I found the high class club painfully dull, while the low class club people actually seemed to be having fun.

This growing class consciousness perturbed me a little. Coming from the UK, a bastion of classism, I was hoping to escape all that nonsense in rural Africa. But the next day I met some people that renewed my faith in the purity of the human spirit. A very kind young academic, having patiently explained to me his work on ageing in Uganda, agreed to let me practice riding his motorcycle. Having stalled and spluttered my way around the field a few times, I noticed a big pink box at its edge.

Going to explore, we discovered it was a dilapidated squash court, recently painted by a mobile phone network as a branding exercise. Inside we found a gang of teenagers milling around, idly kicking an under-inflated basketball. As their elders we received implicit respect, and when we asked what they were up to they sheepishly explained that they were making music. With a little prompting we learnt that they were Freakman and the Akamba Crew, who eventually agreed to give us a performance. Freakman launched into his rap: "I love to play with my basketball; every day I'm with my basketball; momma wants to give me my basketball; why don't you come and play basketball?"

I was stunned. These guys were smart, friendly, and content to compose odes to their favourite items of sporting equipment in their spare time. I can't imagine many youngsters in the UK doing this. I was definitely far too cool.

It may sound trite, but despite the enormous challenges facing Africa, and the huge moral compromises that leaders like Musoveni represent (and many feel are necessary), the innocence and optimism of guys like Freakman and the Akambda Crew, and the kindness of the people of Buhaara village, have the potential to change everything. And not just for Africa.

Headless chicken in Kiev

My last few trips had seen me fall for the effortless charms of Lisbon, vibrancy of Berlin, and progressiveness of Sweden's Gotlands island, and I was looking forward to going somewhere that would make me happy to come home. Kiev seemed perfect. I imagined a bleak city of depressed people and endless grey tower blocks, sure to make me love my home city again.

At first sights my stereotype held true: the post-Soviet bureaucracy was immense (having waited an hour at immigration and collected my luggage, I then had to pass it through a scanner before being released); the traffic barbaric (speed limits routinely ignored and often doubled, and under-taking was as popular as over-taking); and the tower blocks enormous, everywhere, and extremely ugly.

But as I strolled the quiet streets I saw beyond the depressing facade and began to notice the quiet contentment of those around me. Ukraine is a vast and very proud country, and Kiev is in many ways a beautiful and impressive city. The centre of town is surrounded by parks and an enormous river, the Dniestr, runs through the city, dotted with green islands. And it's dotted with a number of magnificent Orthodox churches.

The scale of Kiev and the intense nationalism, combined with the lack of English speakers and use of the Cyrillic alphabet, made it an awesome and daunting host.

I was only there for three nights, in order to plan a new project with our Ukrainian and Moldovan partners - which consumed my first day, lasting 12 hours - and to meet with potential stakeholders (a schedule of six meetings on my second day). This required quite a bit of travelling around Kiev, and I can safely say it is the hardest city to navigate I have ever visited.

The main challenge is that it's almost impossible to know where you are, either on the metro or on foot, because all signs are only in Cyrillic. In addition the distances between places are deceptively great, and almost nobody that I asked could speak any English. I am normally punctual, but in Kiev I arrived for every meeting late, dishevelled and exhausted.

Though I must admit part of the delay was due to me marvelling at the stunning Metro stations, the most stunning of which is Teatrina, famed for it's intricate mosaics...

... and imposing Lenin bust

Luckily I did meet one Ukrainian who spoke English. Like a disconcertingly high proportion of Ukrainian women, Olga was beautiful, though she was unusual because she speaks not only English, but perfect Spanish, which she was teaching to local businessmen. She described the widespread political apathy she and much of the country felt, following the broken promises of 2004's much heralded Orange Revolution. Everyone I spoke to repeated that nothing had changed: politics was still corrupt and in the thrall of business interests.

Whilst surprised at the political disaffection - like many naive westerners I too had believed the hype promoted by our media in 2004 - I was also pleasantly surprised by how friendly people were. Ukrainians are known for smiling rarely, and this my experience, but on the whole the people I asked for help (which I was forced to do often) went to great lengths to assist me, despite us not being able to speak a single word of a common language. I was much relieved when, arriving at my final meeting of my final day, I was greeted with a colleague's birthday banquet and a never ending glass of Ukrainian vodka. Many toasts were made, and my hosts were extremely kind. I have never drunk so much in an office before.

So in a strange way I also fell in love with Kiev. I started to feel an affinity with the people of Kiev, and their proud culture. I also revelled in the fact I got so lost, as not only was it challenging and exciting, but it also made me realise and rely on the kindness of strangers, which is often the most life-affirming lesson of travel.

Ukraine will host the European football championships in 2012, and I suspect that the metro stations will finally be translated into Latin script. It will be a great shame.

Gotlands - Vikings leading the way

In the middle of the Baltic Sea lies a large island, which this week especially may be one of the most progressive places on earth. Connected to the mainland by a creaking propellered cigar tube, Gotlands belongs to Sweden, and is famed for being the warmest part of the country, as well as hosting an annual political festival, Almedalens.

Combining all the political party conferences, Almedalens is a week long bastion of open political debate and discussion on topics as wide ranging as climate change, inner-city poverty and the future of Kosovo. Political leaders stroll the cobbled streets of Gotland's medieval capital, Visby, in chinos and polo necks, ever ready to respond to greetings and polite questions from their citizens. Security is barely to be seen.

I was there with colleagues to launch an informal network of civil society leaders covering 'northern Europe': the countries around the Baltic sea, plus Belarus, Russia and Iceland. We were hosted by the Governor of the island in her beautiful residence, a homage to tasteful artwork, modest opulance and pastel colours.

Following the meetings our hostess held a gathering of Swedish civil society leaders in her spacious garden. Of the many charming people there, the most interesting was a guy in a baseball cap wearing a sandwich board declaring his ability to rap in five languages (Swedish, English, Persian, Spanish and Portuguese), on receipt of a donation. We discussed hip hop and social activism, before he gave me a display of his impressive lyrical talents (in English).

Sweden is of course famous for its enlightened social model and beautiful blond people. But it's also quite pious. I spoke with many young and attractive volunteers of a large tee-totallers' association, referred to as a 'temperance organisation'. They have 48,000 members, each of whom have taken the vow not to drink alcohol. I was stunned to hear of the movement's popularity, though upon reflection realised that this highlighted my origins in a binge-drinking culture. Alcohol is responsible for the majority of violence in rich countries, and yet in the UK there are no recognised popular movements against it, whilst there are for similar common scourges such as fatty foods or CO2. I toyed with the idea of not drinking for a while myself, but before I'd made up my mind someone had bought me a beer.

My second revelation came in the unlikely form of Max Hamburgare, Sweden's answer to McDonalds. It was clean and tastefully decorated; its smiling staff suffered none of the chronic acne typical of their British counterparts; bean salads and fruit were given equal prominence to chips on the menu; and most impressively of all, each choice of burger clearly showed how much CO2 it was responsible for. I went for a 'green burger', which weighed in at a modest 0.2 grams; Carlo tucked into the standard beef burger, costing a whopping 1.6 grams of the evil stuff. Probably equal to one hundredth of a second of my flight home.

Berlin - best of all?

Having declared my love for Lisbon just a few weeks ago, I have been unfaithful already. I was in Berlin earlier this week, and it now challenges fantastic Lisbon for my affections.

It was only a 36 hour trip, but while I was there I had the unmistakable feeling that Germans are indeed a master race. Everywhere I looked the people seemed to be healthier, more beautiful, more intelligent, more relaxed, and more efficient. A homeless man tried to sell a magazine in the metro, and not only was he impeccably polite, but his canine sidekick was so well trained as to trot up and down the carriages offering the magazine to passengers from within a plastic folder in its mouth.

After the organised chaos of London, Berlin felt incredibly civilised. The streets are wide, and the cycle lanes enormous; the roads are never busy and traffic cruises along at an amiable pace. While London blindly aims to become the new Manhatten, Berlin's blend of beautiful old and tasteful new architecture is generally low-rise, and there is an abundance of green space, especially right in the centre of town next to the parliament. For a metropolis of two million it feels as sedate and welcoming as a small town, whilst also being one of the most vibrant cities in the world.

I was there to run a couple of meetings, and not wanting to waste a charities money stayed in suitably squalid accommodation, managing to find one of the city's few ugly buildings to call home for a night. The sewage pipes in our enormous hostel shook violently every time a neighbour put them to use, and the blinds fell apart when opened. It was next door to the North Korean embassy, and aside from the towering fence around one of them, the two buildings looked identical. As I went with a colleague to get food we saw the North Korean diplomats' young children playing in the embassy compound, stretching their arms through the impenetrable fence in what looked like a tragic bid to escape.

The meetings we held went alright, though we soon realised that the Germans are a touch audience. Long the industrial powerhouse of Europe, with enormous trade surplus, they are not used to relying on outsiders. (While the war and especially the Wall are still recent memories, the Marshall Plan seems well and truly forgotten.) So our offer to strengthening their civil society through pan-European collaboration was met with a cool 'so what'. But there were some glimmers of hope and we'll keep plugging away.

Some visitors to Berlin may think that the Wall remains an unhealthy obsession for Berliners. Every map of the city has it marked in a fat red line, and an initiative to mark the footprint of the wall is almost complete. I was reminded of the video's on sale in beautiful Dubrovnik, showing the city's pounding by 'Yugoslav' artillery.

But it could also be seen as a brave attempt to acknowledge the past. The scars of the city's division are still apparent: much of the no man's land separating the two sides remains wasteland, while the starkly contrasting housing on both sides is clearly evident.

This contrast has given rise to an interesting social phenomenon, where the poorer eastern part of the city has attracted a predictable mix of bohemians and artists, making it the coolest part of the city, though now increasingly populated by 'yuppies pretending to be poor'. Apparently they're making the place boring: Starbucks et al are moving in and the interesting galleries and parties are harder to find.

This case was put to me as an example of the importance of social capital by a German intellectual I met in Lisbon two weeks prior. He explained governments narrow-mindedly turf out squatters because they think more money can be made from property in other ways, ignoring the social capital that squatters may bring to an area. The former New York Mayor Ed Koch tapped into this when he said that he only needed the artists in Brooklyn until they could no longer afford to live there.

But despite the encroaching gentrification and the sprouting of a dull and generic western city-scape in areas such as Potzdamer Platz, Berlin remains intensely vibrant, independent and, dare I say it, 'edgy'. However I'm reliably informed that, while it's indisputably a great place, it's nowhere near as dynamic as Hamburg, Munich, or Freiburg. I have a host of potential mistresses awaiting.

Andalucia: home is where the history is

My parents have done well: though not rich, they have carved out for themselves a most idyllic life in the stunning mountains of Andalusia, near a small town called Gaucin.

They met in Spain in the 70s and moved back when I left home in 2002. It's now the family home, though I've never lived there for longer than eight weeks and it doesn't feel like home to me.

I've visited every year of my life except 2008, when my growing concern at climate change prevented me from flying 'unnecessarily'. But I finally relented and have just spent a week there, swimming, sleeping, reading and relaxing. Principles have a high price.

My parents' place is an ongoing labour of love, having grown slowly from a modest hut in the early 80s to the comfortable villa that it is today. I spent my days lounging around by the pool, deciding whether to go for the deck chair or the hammock, and playing with my fantastic two-year old nephew.

Imagine lying here, in a crisp 27C, with nothing but the distant sounds of birds, crickets, and goats' bells gently tinkling. It is the perfect place to relax.

Though quiet and rural, Gaucin is far from boring. There are all manner of cultural quirks to keep the nosey visitor amused.

It's a very traditional village. The elderly man who grazes his sheep on my parents' small fields uses tools and methods as his grandfather did, and has never travelled more than a hundred kilometres from the village. He is typical of his generation.

Of course the younger generation expects more. Born into MTV and YouTube rather than Franco's austere republic, they are like young people in any advanced liberal democracy: demanding, noisy, restless. They smoke dope behind the blacked-out windows of small cars with shiny rims and deafening sub-woofers just as my peers did in my sleepy home town in England.

This much is typical of the area, but what sets Gaucin apart from the neighbouring white villages is its large number of foreign residents. My parents were among the first, but now there are dozens of couples (generally without children and approaching, or past, retirement) from across Europe, north America and even Japan. These foreigners mostly don't wear gold chains, read The Sun or demand egg and chips for dinner like the stereotypical Brits abroad, and most speak excellent Spanish, but I sense that their presence still brings a tension within the village. They are resented for not being local, for pushing up house prices. Yet without the expats most of the village would be unemployed, and the local economy would be desperately stagnant. They've also started an impressive art collective.

The expat scene is something to behold: gin and tonic on the veranda, endless games of bridge, and the Archers on Radio 4. It feels semi colonial, partly because many of the expats were part of that scene in days gone by. One expat, a rather posh fellow named George, has recently build stables neighbouring my parents' land, complete with infuriatingly noisy peacocks and geese. He complained that our unkempt field - which has been left to grow into a semi-wild natural habitat - was 'harbouring beasts' (i.e. mongeese and stoats) which were attacking his beloved birds. (Parallels to President Bush accusing 'unfriendly' countries of harbouring "terr-ists"). When my father said that he didn't know whether these 'beasts' were in fact residing in our field, George asked incredulously "well don't you walk your land?!". My father conveyed his deep sadness at the beasts' attacks, secretly hoping that they'd cull the rest of George's screeching flock as soon as possible.

And that's not all. Besides the peasant farmers leading near medieval lives, the typically 'independent' youth, and the bizarre expat scene, there is also a truly labyrinthine and machiavellian local political scene, complete with corruption scandals (both the traditional backhander and the topical expenses varieties), and vote-rigging allegations. And all of this in a cinematically picturesque village.

The evening before I left was the summer equinox, and we were invited to mark the occasion at the remote farmhouse where my parents met and first lived together. Our host, having lived there the 30 years since they left, was an incredibly eccentric and extrovert 83 year old. An architect, he worked under the legendary Le Corbusier, and still designs stunning buildings to this day. His office is the height of modernity, utilising every technology, yet has no car, walking the 7km to get there every day, and lives without doors or electricity. As we ate in growing darkness he initially refused to light candles for fear of undermining the stars' splendour, only relenting when wine was spilled over the fully-laden table by a friend bravely trying to dice a watermelon blind.

The other guests were a fascinating and charming bunch of ageing hippies, most of whom had been in Spain for over 30 years. Unlike most of Gaucin's expats, they are an older generation. Their sense of belonging in Spain is total, as most have been there longer than anywhere else. It is their home for the rest of their lives, and seeing them so clearly in love with their adopted country was touching.

Though I love the place, it doesn't feel like home to me. I disgracefully only speak very poor Spanish. But it's where my parents' heart is, and until I find my own idyll, it's good enough for me.

Lisbon: learning in luxury

Hot on the heels of being cringingly branded a 'young leader' by being selected for the Intercultural Navigation programme, I was last week elevated to international heights by being graced with an invitation to the BMW Foundation's European Young Leaders Forum. However unlike the British Council, which houses the leaders of the future in musty dorms, the BMW Foundation put us up in a five star hotel, in Lisbon. (I must confess that for both schemes I was selected not on merit, but on a recommended-by-a-friend type basis - in the brave new world of our network society it's not what you know, but which networks you know.)

As expected, the Forum's participants were high-calibre: the group of 40 hailed from over 20 countries, all were extremely smart and successful, and the breadth of their fields was stunning. Thy spanned the full range of professional sectors, from the most blood curdlingly corporate (a Ukrainian entrepreneur explained that his priority was not only to have a nice car, but the most expensive Mercedes on the market), to the most esoteric academia (a Latvian professor baffled the entire room with his absurdly verbose explanations of even the simplest points), to the most no-nonsense public sector (a Dutch European Central Banker delivered dreadful dry jokes and economic assessments in identical monotone) to the dreamiest lefty (a German idealist argued passionately that developing local energy markets could replace capitalism with a radical grassroots democracy). And of course all spoke impeccable English as a second or third language.

Though mostly in their mid-thirties or younger, these people's achievements were astounding. One had persuaded Greenpeace to fund him and some friends to write a report on green technologies which was so successful that it prompted the World Bank and UN to invite them to present it at their HQs, and the Swedish Government to change their climate policies. Another started a solar panel company in France which now employs 55 people and is growing at around 20% a year. A third started his own investment bank in Lithuania, which is now one of the biggest in the country, and is about to start his Ph.D. All three are the same age as me! Such stories were not exceptional within the group; they were the norm.

Almost competing with the brilliance of the participants were the stunning palace, exquisite and endless food, first-class entertainment and gorgeous weather that hosted our deliberations. Not to mention the beautiful host city itself - wondering through its effortlessly elegant lanes, soaking up the uniquely relaxed, deeply cultured and refreshingly down-to-earth atmosphere, I fell in love with the place.

It would have been easy to feel overwhelmed by such elevated surroundings, but instead I allowed myself to be swept up in the big ideas being thrown around and focussed on trying to keep up with the discussions. However what really made my name within the group was my capacity for sleep deprivation. 

Following an early morning flight I was shattered by the end of the first day, but when our local ringleader demanded we then visit some bars, it didn't take long for the peer-pressure and my own hedonism to get the better of me. I was also fully aware that these informal excursions are often the most valuable part of international networking events. 

After a late night and an early start the next day (BMW wanted to get the most out of us and saw the agenda as a challenge to see how much they could squeeze into each day), I was struggling to stay awake, but found myself out again the next night, with two American tourists and Geoff Mulgan - luminary of British politics, policy, thank-tanks, and now also the international social innovation scene - at Lisbon's most famous club, Lux.

Part-owned by John Malkovic, Lux is an institution. Widely regarded as the best club in Portugal, it effortlessly combines international chic with a come-as-you-are cool. Its large and quirky layout is complemented by huge outdoor spaces and a waterside location offers stunning views across the enormous Rio Tejo. The music is good enough to appease aficionados without being too loud or niche to deny those wishing to chat or dance stupidly. And dance stupidly we did. It was a great night.

I somehow ended up back there the following night, with 15 Forumites in tow. Though it didn't match the surreal appeal of the previous night, it was still good fun. However it did cement my reputation as the hardest party animal of the Forum, being the only person to go out on all three nights. After around 10 hours sleep in three nights I looked and felt like a baggy-eyed zombie, but I managed to stay awake during the discussions, and knew that I'd be able to trade of this hedonistic image for years to come, if I played my cards right.

Of course the discussions themselves were more than mere window-dressing for my nocturnal folly. The Forum topic was 'Social Cohesion Beyond the Nation State', and the three main issues were migration, social investments, and climate change. The Forum was jam-packed with inspirational speeches, innovative discussion formats, and fascinating new ideas, such as the concept of 'social remittances', which are the 'western' ideas (such as entrepreneurialism, or human rights) that migrants send back to their home communities, and have been shown to be a progressive force in developing countries.

Many of the participants were either economists or climate change experts, so there was much talk about financial mechanisms to promote environmental sustainability. It felt as if the people present were well-placed to offer genuine solutions to the issues at hand, and whilst the conversations were very technical and largely over my head, they were invigorating to observe. These discussions were balanced by a field trip to a favela school that struggled badly before being dramatically turned around by an impressive headteacher with stunningly progressive methods.

My four days in Lisbon rewarded me with a head bursting with inspiration, a stack of exciting new contacts, and the prelude to a nasty cold on account of the punishment my body had endured. Luxurious it was, but it left me in desperate need of a holiday.

l'Etranger in Brussels

I rose at an inhumane hour this morning to get the first train to Brussels. Another day trip in the capital of Europe lay in store. I was going to a high-level meeting for which I was an impostor: totally unqualified, unprepared, and which would be conducted in a language I don't understand. I did not enjoy my 4:45 alarm.

The train is affectionately known as the zombie train. I understood why as I foggily bumbled around Brussels vainly searching for the meeting venue.

I briefly entertained hopes of concealing my linguistic inadequacies by combining my mediocre French with a breezy arrogance that I assumed would disguise me as a local. My delusions were duly shattered as I entered the building, where a security guard gruffly mumbled a question to which I casually replied 'oui', only for him to stare at me blankly, before asking in perfect English what meeting I was there for. I meekly dug into my bag for the invite, and resigned myself to being another monolingual Brit abroad.

When I finally reached the right room I found a small group of well-acquainted and effortlessly polyglot development policy types, who eventually acknowledged my bleary-eyed presence with polite nods. Before the fraud of my presence at the meeting could be unmasked the meeting's chair, the eldest of a long line-up of EC officials sat before us, had launched into the introduction.

I eventually found my interpretation headphones and settled into the following cycle: try to listen with the English translation at low volume in order to learn some French; try to listen in English to take notes for the report I had to write on the meeting; get confused by the interpreter's unerring speech patterns and imperfect translations of concepts I'd struggle with anyway; get embarrassed then immediately relieved no-one could see my inner failings; zone out and indulge in lengthening blinks until someone spots me and I sit up straight, take a deep breath, then try to listen to the speaker to practice my French...

The meeting itself was slightly dry and laboured, but explored an interesting and important shift within European international development policy. The core of the meeting was a recent report assessing the EU's first attempts to involve non-state actors (civil society, local authorities, etc.) In not only the implementation, but also the design of their development programmes. an unquestionably positive move - how can one hope to 'help' people effectively if they're not even given a role in the design of that help? And as the world's largest spender of development aid, the EU has a huge amount of influence. Of course the new policy has not been implemented perfectly, but I was impressed with how openly the official present tried to understand the various complaints. Overall it was a useful and instructive meeting, even if most of it went over my head.

Brussels is a unique and fascinating place. Before I started going with work I'd unthinkingly swallowed the media's line that it's a dull town of irrelevant institutions and anally retentive bureaucrats, removed from the real world. It definitely exists in its own bubble, but the more time I spend there the more I see that it's actually a beautiful and lively city of complex but noble institutions and huge number of immensely bright, well meaning and attractive young professionals. My sense of their brilliance this morning was probably amplified by the certainty of my own uselessness.

And so as I dozed on the train back, unpicking the day's events, I realised that, although I hadn't contributed a great deal, it is essential for my development to be in these types of situations: to improve my French, to improve my understanding of the debates, and above all to get into the culture of the fascinating and hugely influential Brussels bubble.

Race, space and dying well

The third module of the intercultural navigators programme took me to Leicester. Why Leicester? Because next year it is projected to become the first city in the UK where the majority (i.e. white British) population will be in the minority, making it a test case for 'multiculturalism'.

We learnt about the roots of the concept of multiculturalism - 1960s Canada where the rapid influx of economic migrants forced government and academia to consider the new arrivals' impact on the wider society. We then deconstructed it's meaning and connotations, comparing it to 'multiethnicity' (which is what most people really mean when they use multicultural, as they refer not to customs and habits but ethnicity), the new vogue term, 'diversity' and its ideal outcome, 'community integration'.

We also had some fascinating discussions with two local policeman and a community cohesion officer from the local council, however these were somewhat eclipsed by the heated and heartfelt discussions that they prompted after they left. Of the three visitors, one was white, one was Asian, and one was black - incidentally all were male, highlighting another axis of inequality that's been a running theme for us - and some in the group felt that the dynamics between the visitors, and between the visitors and the group, exhibited an unspoken and underlying racial tension. It all boiled down to people from minorities sometimes feeling that they don't have the right to speak.

The comment brought interesting reactions: I along with many in the room (which was, predictably, mostly white) became instinctively defensive, however as the discussion progressed I realised that an important point had been made: that I - a white, middle class male - must accept that others may feel discriminated at times, even though I can't see it, and only by being sensitive to that can I hope to understand and help people overcome it. It wasn't about me (or anyone else) being racist, but someone taking the brave step of sharing a very personal insecurity that resonates with people from minorities around the world (it did with me when I represented an ethnic minority in Africa), and underpins so many of the challenges that modern, diverse societies face.

We also compared different views towards nationalism. Many of our group had just returned from international conferences where they had met with intercultural navigators from the other participating countries (most of them in Central and Eastern Europe), and noted the strong sense of nationalism that their peers from the new EU member states felt. The only country that was more nationalist was Ukraine, which is still in the EU's waiting room. By contrast the Brits and the Scandinavians had felt uncomfortable (as I do) discussing and enacting their national culture. This was described as 'post-nation statism', a label that struck a chord with me.

The venue for these intense discussions was, bizarrely, the National Space Centre, which is located on a bleak industrial estate on the outskirts of Leicester. Approaching on the dundering local bus, we suddenly saw an enormous transparent beehive rising from the cracked car parks and crumbling warehouses around us. As we got closer we saw that it housed two NASA rockets.

Initially I thought it slightly surreal but ultimately pointless that such a venue had been chosen. I'd never really been interested in space. But we were given an hour to wonder around the exhibits on the second day, and I soon shed my cynicism and was running around as giddily as the primary school kids that frantic teachers were trying in vain to control. There were all sorts of red buttons for me to push and simulations to experience, but my favourite part was footage showing astronauts larking about on the moon. Some of them were skipping along, enjoying the reduced gravity; one was whacking golf balls as hard as he could; another was struggling to lift machinery and flailing around as if a wearing giant sumo outfit on a budget gameshow. It looked like a lot of fun.

The most memorable exhibit was a series of astronaut profiles. Being among the most competitive professions in the world one would expect the chosen few to be high-calibre individuals, but there was one, Kalpana Chawla, who caught my attention. Predictably she was an outstanding scientist, and a dedicated servant to NASA, but unlike the others profiled who listed hobbies such as 'winter sports' and 'scuba diving', her hobby was aerobatic flying. She was the first Indian woman in space in 1997, and though one of her experiments went badly wrong, a five month investigation found that a technical error was responsible, and she was fully exonerated. This meant that she would be able to return to space, which she did in 2003, however following a successful mission her space shuttle disintegrated upon re-entering the atmosphere.

I was surprised by how much it affected me, and in the week since I read it the tragedy of her (and her six crew mates) dramatic death has stayed with me. There are many themes to draw from her extraordinary life and death - how great that an Indian woman could achieve so much, but how much easier would it have been were she a white American man; why did NASA not allow the astronauts to repair the damaged insulation before it cost the crew their lives - but I've focussed on the simple story of a person doing something that she wanted to, despite the clear risk to her life. It's been said that those who aren't willing to die for something, will fall for anything. I'm not sure I want anything enough to risk that much, but then I am only young.

Kosovo - revisited

You can tell from the passengers on the plane that this is not a normal destination. The functional, smart-casual clothes and Americanised English gave the majority of them away as 'internationals' - foreigners working for the various international organisations and multilateral institutions. The rest of the plane was filled with uniformed soldiers (Danish), a sprinkling of brave backpackers, and Kosovan expats in headscarves and flat caps. (My politically incorrect colleague expressed amusement at seeing 'farmers' in planes.)

Kosovo is a truly bewildering and fascinating place. Having been there a few weeks previously, it was nice to come back and learn a bit more about the world's youngest state.


Kosovo's independence monument

It is a place of stark contradictions: deep in an apparently intractable political quagmire, yet its capital, Pristina, exhibits an incredible dynamism and energy. People are extremely friendly, warm and open, and yet I sensed a very dark underbelly to Kosovan society, confirmed by a tale of a friend of a friend - an international - who whilst worked establishing the telecoms network following the war was spied upon and had her flat repeatedly burgled. She had lived happily in Beirut, but (understandably) couldn't handle Pristina, and left without seeing out her contract.

Kosovo, and especially Pristina, is like a Disneyland of bizarre new buildings, lending the place a surreal air. The road between the airport and Pristina is dotted with endless petrol stations and brand new, stand-alone furniture shops, with barely any stock and no customers. Foreign aid (and its illicit mistress, rampant corruption) have led to building frenzy, with little thought on their actual use. Old buildings are very hard to find in Pristina, and where they do stand they feel out of context, not least because the street level often comes halfway up the first floor.

Then there's the enormous presence of the internationals. Kosovo is a who's who of multilateral organisations. (The same un-PC colleague described it as 'Africa without blacks'.) The country's graced by the presence of UNHCR, UNDP, EU, OECD, NATO, as well as just about every international NGO, not to mention the controversial NATO force in Kosovo, K-FOR. The OECDs modern skyscraper office is such a landmark that it's proudly displayed on postcards.

The presence of so many internationals mean there are lots of very good restaurants and high-end shops in Pristina. Kosovo is one of Europe's poorest countries, but these restaurants are a haven for foreigners and wealthy locals. The conversations I overheard there were all in impeccable but clearly non-native English.

At the end of our first day's work our local partner in Kosovo, Ertjan, drove us out of the city to Germia park: the long, lush park that snakes out of the city centre to a high peak a few miles out of town. Ertjan is understandably proud of the beautiful park, though he noted with scorn that the numerous new houses scarring the pristine environment were illegal buildings. Apparently most are owned by members of government, who have no trouble in securing the necessary permissions to get away with it. Under the Serb control this never happened.

The park bore witness to the Serb's last stand in Kosovo, as the peak's panoramic views made it an obvious choice for the Serb army's command base. It also made it an easy target for the NATO forces in '99, and there are still huge craters there testifying to the size of the bombs dropped. Near the crater I saw a modest yellow sign denoting a landmine. It was the first such sign I'd ever seen and in my enthusiasm I almost bounded over to have a closer look.



The work itself went very well. Our two-day training workshop passed off successfully, despite the angry dwarf who burst in near the end to denounce virtually everyone as either corrupt, stupid or fascist. The conference we held on the final day, which aimed to strengthen the relationship between civil society and government, was a tempestuous affair, with the government representatives getting a rough ride. They responded fairly well, and I almost felt sorry for them, until I later learned that they had been guilty of a cynical piece of spin: they'd decried a recent protest in which the protesters had killed chickens by 'smashing them on the concrete' outside parliament; I later found out that actually the protesters had released 120 chickens (one for each MP in the Kosovan parliament) into the parliamentary gardens, only for them to be exterminated by government-hired pest controllers. It was a bizarre and fitting twist at the end of my brief visit.

Montenegro - redux

Just spent another five days in Montenegro - the surreal, three-year-old micro state between Croatia and Albania - running civil society development events, and it's been an interesting few days.

I flew out on my birthday, along with three senior colleagues. I managed to shake them off in order to chat with a beautiful Aussie woman on our flight. Turned out she works on private yachts as a chef, cooking for the super-rich and their guests on luxury boats. She'd just finished five months cruising the Bahamas and was about to spend another five among the Greek islands. 'Sounds incredible' I said. 'It is', she replied. 'Must pay badly', I said. 'Actually it pays really well, plus there's no tax and no living costs', she replied... I considered changing career.

The hotel were we stayed, and the events were held, is an enormous Spanish-run all-inclusive resort, of the kind one would expect to find (but probably hope to avoid) in somewhere like Torremolinos. It's got an incredible location, in the corner of a stunning bay, ringed by high mountains and right on the beach. But the place had a prison-ish vibe: it has three buildings referred to blocks A, B and C; we were shackled in irremovable plastic bracelets as we checked in to prove our mighty full-package status and claim our free drinks (in plastic cups); and we had to eat when and what we were told. The food was atrocious re-heated buffet style. The chips tasked like cold cardboard and the stews were clearly drawn from the back of the fridge with a mop before being microwaved.

The music was also torturous. They'd clearly got the DJ from Guantanamo Bay. There were just four CDs to choose from in the main pool/bar area that formed the resorts centrepiece the least bad was a Michael Jackson compilation. But not the good stuff. Tunes like 'Earthsong', which I must have heard four or five times during my first afternoon. When I asked the bartender what he was playing at, he replied that he too would not choose such bile, but it was hotel policy to give the elderly and tone-deaf customers what they wanted: nice, pleasant, inoffensive love songs.

The most amusing thing about the place was the sorry looking staff's uniforms: bright yellow waistcoats with blue and white shirts, and a blue bow tie with the company's horrible yellow star logo on each drooping side. I could see the staff cringe as they wore this cross between Butlins and smurfland outfit, and I cringed with them. And sniggered a bit.

Of course I wasn't there to moan about the food or laugh at the uniforms, but to develop civil society in order to hasten the country's accession to the EU. Easy. Well although that's the sort of grandiose claims we were forced to make when writing the project application, in reality we had much more modest ambitions: to train 20 or so NGO leaders in how to make their organisations more sustainable, and then to hold a conference gathering people from NGOs, government, and the European Commission.

It all went surprisingly well. And although we had to work in a windowless conference suite while the sun shone over an area of stunning natural beauty outside, it was made much more pleasant by the fact that Montenegrins are famously relaxed (i.e. lazy) and refuse to work after 3pm, giving us all the best part of the afternoon to enjoy the sun and the cocktails we could order by waving our stupid bracelets at the friendly but absurdly dressed waiters.

After the second day I went to speak to a group of participants who were well into their third cocktails of the afternoon, and one of them tipsily asked me my age. '26' I replied. 'Oh, I thought you were 18 [giggles all round]'. (I heard from our local partner later on that a few participants thought I was too young to be running the event, tempting me into a complex). I smiled serenely (and soberly), and walked away. But later in the day I got my revenge as the teaser - who turned out to be just 20 - asked her friend to tell me to take her for a moonlit walk. I politely declined, using the speech I had to give the next day as an excuse.

The speech started with me explaining what my organisation does, but before doing so I clarified to the audience that although I may not look it, I was old enough to drink alcohol, so if they saw me doing so after the conference they needn't worry. After all it is a young country - what were they complaining about?

On work (while I should have been there)

I skived off work today to hear Alain de Botton, the pop philosopher and writer, speak about his new book: The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work.

It was pretty interesting. He started with a brief history of the topic. Apparently the notion that work could be anything more than slavery, and could even be fulfilling, only arrived in Enlightenment of the 18th century. (At the same time the thought that one might marry for love, rather than merely practicality, or prestige, became popular.) Since then employers have striven to help us find meaning in what we do for them, lest we become bored, de-motived, and under-productive.

In researching his book, de Botton spent time with people in a range of obscure professions - including biscuit makers and rocket scientists - as well as some fairly mundane ones, and found the most motivated employees in a multinational accountancy firm. I think accountancy must be one of the dullest professions going, but apparently the big firms are so aware of the risk of being boring that they spend huge sums on state-of-the-art HR departments that have endless ways of making staff feel stimulated, appreciated and fulfillled. Scary thought.

He also explained that the recession is making people happier about their work. The new catchphrase is 'at least I have a job'. This agrees with Rousseau, who defined happiness as the relationship between ones expectations and ones situation, and so to make people happier one either improves their situation or reduces their expectations. However as a friend pointed out, many people who hate their jobs now feel stuck there as it's so hard to get another position - hardly a recipe for increased happiness.

De Botton has been called a simplifier extraordinaire, and while he is a great speaker, some of his arguments were a little facile. For example he suggested that the working class take on employment was 'pre-Enlightenment', i.e. 'work-to-live', while the middle class view on work is more about meaning, i.e. 'live-to-work'. He admitted that this was a gross generalisation, but this caveat was not enough to spare him a particularly awkward question from a self-labelled working class Irish woman who pointed out his famously priveliged background, before asking hiw views on the notion that dull jobs for the masses was part of a conspiracy to keep the proles in their place. Both de Botton and the event's egotistical Chair huffed the question away with discomfort.

Another rash claim was to suggest that while most people work to pay the bills, many also work to 'make people happy', whether that's fixing a squeeky door or feeding a starving orphan. Feeling uneasy at the incomplete picture this painted, I took my chance the ask a question - what about the darker sides of motivation: greed, competition, megalomania? His response was that while they existed, they didn't matter as only the outcomes of their toil counted, because as Adam Smith argued, the 'invisible hand' of capitalism means that the market will always find equilibrium. Well yes, but hasn't he read the news lately?

And so, feeling proud to have delivered my question fluff-free to a packed and highbrow audience (my achievement of the day), I trudged out into the rain and considered going for a coffee to think through the various ideas I'd just heard. But then I realised that I should really get back to work.

Eager beavers in Newcastle

I used to spend weekends lying in, relaxing and recharging my batteries. Yet I've just spent my weekend, like many before and many to come, crossing the country to work two full days, for free. Sometimes I think I'm mad.

I was in Newcastle, one of 20 facilitators running a training weekend for 40 young people that we'll be sending to Africa for volunteering projects this summer, with an organisation called Tenteleni.

Every time I do it, such weekends confusingly leave me both exhausted and totally invigorated. The 'vols' are always good fun: their energy and creativity, born of youthful vigour and employed like its going out of fashion, make me feel increasingly, hopelessly ancient. Rather than mourning my loss of joyous naivety, I rejoice in theirs. They may be wet behind the ears, but they are a bright, sparky bunch, and they will go down well with our African partners.

The best conference in the world?

It promised to be the conference to end all conferences: 2500 high-level businesspeople from across Europe gathering to hear dozens of VIPs speak in a lavish two-day event.

The first day's agenda included no fewer than three heads of state, as well as a dozen European Commissioners, and President Barroso. The venue was the European Business Summit, in Brussels.

The main topic of conversation was, surprise surprise, the recession. The first plenary included a speech by the dry-as-dust Belgian PM. Belgium, on account of its crippling internal division and infamous inability to form a government, has been referred to as the world's most successful failed state, so I wasn't sure how seriously to take his unimpressive boasts. I was about to nod off until he delivered the most embarrassing moment of the conference by ending his speech with a meek nod to Obama: "Can Europe overcome the recession. I say 'yes we can'." I felt half the audience groan.

Unfortunately this set the tone for a series of extremely dull speeches about the recession, and the dangers of protectionist measures being adopted. There was a lot of pro-European, anti-American smugness on display. Vision and charisma were sadly in short supply.

It turned out that nobody there was particularly interested in us either. As one of the only civil society groups there, and a fairly small one at that, it took just a few seconds of our elevator pitch before those we spoke to realised that they were wasting their time, as they were not going to make money out of us.

Following more short conversations and dull contributions from heads of state - the Czech PM, having resigned two days prior to the event, had his awkward deputy explain his recent controversies; the Turkish president mumbled about why Turkey should join the EU - things finally got interesting, with the onset of the cocktail reception.

As we hungrily gobbled the surprisingly few canapes that made their way to our perch, Carlo and I saw what must have been the youngest delegate at the conference, an unimpressed 15 year old boy in a suit ambling through the crowds. I wondered who would pay the €2,500 conference fee to have their bored kid there, but as Carlo explained, for the ruling classes it's essential to thrive in this kind of absurd environment. By the time he's 18 that guy will be running events like this.

After some trial and error we found the perfect spot to catch the waiters on their way from the kitchen, allowing us our pick of snacks and instant access to the endless supply of champagne. I was starting to enjoy being off duty, until Carlo pointed out a familiar face, sitting alone in the corner.

Will Hutton is one of the few authors that I can say changed my life. When I was 17 I read his tome on global capitalism, The World We're In, and it ignited my interest in geopolitics and worldwide inequality. And here I was, about to say hi. As we walked over to him I started to get nervous.

He was very friendly, and the three of us chatted for a few minutes. He came across as a true intellectual: relaxed, sharp, and with a power-play anecdote for any occasion. He casually described introducing Gordon Brown to Ed Balls (arguably now the real deputy PM), and described how New Labour came five years too late. I was hanging off his every word like a giddy schoolboy meeting his favourite footballer, until we got to the front of the queue to the gala dinner, and Carlo and I were asked for special tickets that we didn't know we needed. Will Hutton waved goodbye and casually wondered in, as we were escorted back out by the polite but assertive ushers.

In the end we managed to con our way in, and with some further creative honesty managed to get a seat at one of the sponsors' tables. But it was barely worth it. The food was good, but not great. Our company on the table - a Belgian consultant and fellow gatecrasher - was as dull as his PM. In the end it was probably not the best conference in the world.

Where the hell is Llangrannog?

I didn't think places like this existed in the UK: undulating green hills diving into a rugged, rocky coast; a contented, modest and extremely sparse population; and severe physical isolation due to the region's poor transport links. It seemed like a place of the past, or abroad, or both.

And another country is exactly what it is. English is the second tongue of the local people I met, their daily conversation marked by the throaty growls and sing-song tones of the resurgent Welsh language. The Welsh Assembly Members we met, proudly describing themselves and nationalists (and feminists), made it very clear that Wales is now ready to stand alone. Indeed its politics, though heavily restricted by Westminster, is commendably progressive - the WA was the first 'parliament' in the world to achieve gender equality in 2006, when 30 of its 60 members were female.

I was in Wales as part of a British Council programme called 'Intercultural Navigators' (ICN). I've never seen myself as an intercultural navigator, 'young leader', or 'change maker', but according to the British Council that's what I am. Whilst the buzzwords make me gag, I was very impressed by the group of people that had been selected. Aged between 19 and 27, every individual in our group of 24 (which includes just five men) is extremely sharp, pro-active, open and humble. The group is also impressively diverse: everyone has a unique story to tell, and almost every demographic has been ticked.

It was an intense two days - physically, emotionally and intellectually demanding. Everyone has so many interesting things to share that almost every conversation was fascinating, but full on. I've learnt some useful new perspectives. For example, I have eaten communal meals with my hands before, in Tanzania, and India. But I'd never before considered that eating in this way builds trust because of the very physical and immediate form of sharing. At the very least it requires trusting that one's fellow diners have adequate hygiene. I'm very grateful to my Congolese fellow group member for this insight, which will help to change how I think about 'other' cultures.

The British Council has convened groups across Europe, and we are the UK's ICN group. Each national group will meet four times, before joining the other groups in an international conference. The programme aims to equip the next generation of leaders to address the challenges of the dynamic, modern and globalised 21st century.

It's an exciting programme, and I can learn a lot from the rest of the group. I'm lookin forward to the next module, even though the first meeting started with disaster. Following our meeting with the sparky Assembly Members in Cardiff we took a bus to Llangrannog, which should take two hours. Unfortunately our driver had other ideas and took us to the opposite end of the country. We finally arrived after midnight, following a gruelling six and a half hours on the road. How ironic that a group of navigators suffer poor navigation!