Thai Police signing ECPAT's and The Body Shop's 'Stop Sex Trafficking of Children and Young People' campaign petition Credit: ECPAT International
Most of us know that tourism is one of the biggest industries in the world. However, travelling with the sole purpose of paying money for sex is also a form of tourism, and a multi-million dollar side of the industry it is too. And although these are not the type of economic benefits the world tourism industry boasts about as it develops across the globe, all sectors are set to benefit from it indirectly, including travel agents, hotels, airlines and taxis.
Less well known, however, is that over three million children are exploited for sex around the world. It was not surprising, therefore, that it was one of the topics being debated at last week’s United Nations World Tourism Organisation’s (UNWTO) International Congress on Ethics and Tourism in Madrid, which I attended along with 450 people working in tourism. One of the key speakers was Kathleen Speake, Executive Director of ECPAT International (ecpat.net), a global network of organisations and individuals working together for the elimination of child prostitution, child pornography and the trafficking of children for sexual purposes. Speake not only managed to astound us with her stats and strategies, but also enlisted many of Spain’s leading tourism companies to sign ECPAT’s Code of Conduct for the Protection of Children from Sexual Exploitation in Travel and Tourism, an initiative funded by UNICEF and supported by the UNWTO.
The Code (www.thecode.org) is for companies which are willing to put ethics before profits and already has 1030 signatories in 42 countries. ECPAT is not just about Codes and empty words however. They run international campaigns, lobby local governments to increase policing and change policy and lead training groups for hotel and other tourism related businesses around the world.
ECPAT’s influence has been significant. In Thailand, for example, there have been more and more prosecutions relating to child sex tourism offences. But it is still happening, and although many prostitutes will claim to be over eighteen, few sex tourists are going to ask for ID. The town of Pattaya, for example, is notorious for prostitution, and you only have to put ‘bachelor holidays Thailand’ into Google or Tripadvisor see that the industry is thriving. In Leo Hickman’s book The Final Call (Eden Project Books, 2008) a serious piece of investigative journalism into the dark sides of tourism, he describes a visit to Pattaya where he saw “men sitting around tables with boys who look as young as ten…it seems gut wrenchingly obvious what must be going on”. They are rarely caught in the act of paying for or having sex with a child, however, as they groom the children in these cafes, and then have them ‘delivered’ at a later stage to their room. As Hickman puts it, “this is child abuse made as easy as ordering a pizza’.
And yet Pattaya, is a town which marketing website gothailand.com promotes as “The ideal family holiday destination” in one paragraph, and a place where “Beer bars and g o-g o bars are dotted all along main roads and side ‘sois’ (streets), and have earned a dubious reputation for Pattaya, but also happens to be one of the main draw-cards” in the next. Thailand is not alone, of course, with ECPAT providing statistics on many countries around the world, such as Mexico’s 20,000 minors being estimated to be victims of prostitution, Kenya claiming to have as many as 30,000 girls aged from 12 to 14 being sexually exploited in hotels and private villas, and Moscow alone thought to have between 20,000 to 30,000 victimised children.
According to ECPAT, the majority of people exploiting children for sex purposes are not all defined as a ‘paedophile’ either, but more often as a ‘Situational Child Sex Tourist’, i.e. “someone who abuses children by way of experimentation or through the anonymity and impunity afforded by being a tourist. He or she does not have an exclusive sexual inclination for children”.
So, what can we do? Support ECPAT through donations, but also check www.thecode.org to see which companies have signed up and, more significantly perhaps, which ones haven’t. Accor Hotels (which includes Novotel, Mercure, Ibis and Sofitel) have worked with ECPAT for eleven years now, for example. If your hotel, airline, tour operator or travel agency has not signed up, then ask them why not. And most importantly, as confirmed by ECPAT’s website, report anything suspicious directly to them as well to a local authority if you can. This includes if you see a tourist sexually abusing a child, a person selling a child’s services (including a taxi driver, waiter, café owner etc), a tourist trying to buy a child for sexual exploitation and a hotel or travel company allowing it to take place. Child abuse has shocked us for many years at home, but now the time has come to ensure that we don’t let it travel.
An edited version of this article was published in The Irish Times, September 2011
You know that feeling when you first open a box of Green and Black’s chocolates? Butterscotch is better than…Ok, let’s not go there. Well, when I first went on Canopy and Stars website, it had the same impact really. Each web page unwrapped a delicious, quirky place to stay,and the choice almost overwhelming. Which is why I have invited them to write a guest blog, featuring places which are all accessible by public transport of one sort or another. I am all for leaving the car at home, so hopefully these places will inspire you to do the same. And after all those chocolates, it is best for me to get walking, cycling, canoeing there anyway. Over to the gang who created it…
“Holidays are great. Getting there… less so. If you’re lucky, you’ll get to stop at the M&S at the service station. You might even have a really good mix CD…
But it doesn’t have to be like that! Canopy & Stars, the leading new glamping company, is encouraging you to leave the car at home, and make your journey part of the fun! To get you started, here is a selection of unusual places that can be reached by unusual means…
The Gypsy Camp , Essex – where two Romany bowtop caravans lie between the apple trees in a private orchard – is connected to central London by the National Cycle Network, so you can cycle all the way there from ‘town‘. Or, if you don’t fancy propelling yourself, you can catch the train and arrange for Ann, the owner and creator of this rural gem, to pick you up in her pony and trap from Wickham Bishops, a short bus ride from Witham Station.
Millstream Camp, Shropshire – To reach this hideaway under the stars, you can take the single track line to Bucknell, a rural station so tiny the train will only stop if you ask the driver. Let Carolyn know and she can arrange to have two bicycles waiting for you on the platform. Then it’s just a three miles down quiet Shropshire country lanes to the Millstream Camp, where a homely shepherd hut just for two awaits you. You can even cool off after your journey with a dip in the dammed Millstream.
A stable by the shore at Lochhouses Photo: Canopy and Stars
If you have access to a noble steed, you can gallop along the beach right up to the Lochhouses Safari Tents near Edinburgh, and stable your horse there, too! If you don’t have your own horse, don’t worry! Trains from Edinburgh Waverley to North Berwick take about half an hour, and there’s a trekking centre next door, so you can still go riding on the beach.
A ‘post bus’ sets off daily at 3pm from Llandovery, Dyfed (where the railway station is) and goes right to the bottom of the drive of The Cabin – a cosy octagonal space in the lush Cambrian mountains. If you can’t be bothered with all the stopping and starting as they pick up the post, you can always hire a mountain bike from the station (a very reasonable £3.50 a day) and cycle there.
Inshriach Yurt in The Cairngorms Photo: Canopy and Stars
The Cairngorms are cool, especially when you discover them by canoe. You don’t even have to bother with much portage, with Inshriach Yurt, right on the water’s edge at. Take the train to Kingussie, and paddle all the way there in around three hours (with a guide from Spey Descents, if you don’t have your own canoe). Go down the Spey, through the Insh marshes and across Loch Insh. Enter Inshriach waters half a mile from Loch Insh and 2 miles later keep your eyes peeled for a yurt on your right hand side. Disembark for divine canopy, and of course, stars.
And if you really want to make an entrance, why not charter the Yacht Infanta to take you to By The Beach– a luxury yurt with a private beach on the Isle of Wight. Canopy & Stars has a wonderful collection of glamping places including a treehouse, luxury yurts, Gypsy caravans… even a boat in Regent’s Park!
I never expected to come back from Lanzarote with a yearning to create. Indeed, I can’t think of any other occasion when my expectations of a place have been so totally reversed, thanks in the main, to the place we stayed. Lanzarote Retreats is an eco hideaway, almost concealed from view from the beach of nearby fishing village, Arrieta, just minutes’ walk away, on the remote north coast of the island. Just a few elegant palm trees mark the spot of the finca, orfarm, where Michelle and Tila Braddock, of UK origins, but living on the island for the last twenty years, have not only mastered a collection of eco designs, but also created an exemplary flagship of what sustainable, rural tourism can and should be.
The finca boasts seven yurts and a handful of cleverly restored stone and wooden buildings, including a stunningly romantic, converted water tower, an about to be completed eco barn, all powered by forty solar panels and two wind turbines, with spring sourced water and a grey water recycling system. The small community revolves around a communal, solar heated pool area in the restored farm reservoir, with an honesty shop built over a disused well, now housing everything from locally sourced water melons and bread to local wine. They now have the only electric car on the island, a very cool lunar looking mobile which they power using their solar panels. Click here for a photo of Twizy getting solar sustenance.
What’s more the local wine is good – another thing you wouldn’t expect from a place which is notorious for being grotty not green. There are wineries, or bodegas, spread throughout the heart of this volcanic island, with La Geria valley covered in thousands of craters dug into black sand, each home to an individual vine surrounded by a stone wall to protect it from the island’s almost constant, and welcome, wind, so that they can thrive in this harsh environment.
This harsh beauty, with its fertile oases, is what makes Lanzarote so unique, and Michelle and Tila’s finca is a
microcosm of this, with yurts mirroring the soft mounds of the island’s myriad volcanic cones, and the stone renovations a reminder of a local determination it to survive here following first eruptions in 1730.
The general air of living life to the full at the finca, where chickens roam around freely and the much loved donkey, Molly, always brays a welcome, infused our holiday from the start. Although we had the use of a hybrid Toyota Prius, which came as part of our Eco Luxury Yurt package, Tila met us off the plane in his Prius, with a bottle of chilled bubbly in the boot to wash away any travel stress within minutes. Within minutes of arriving at their divine homestead, Tila had whisked our boys down the dusty path to the beach, complimentary body boards in hand, to show them where to catch the best waves. We sipped more bubbly, rifled through our pre-ordered box of local fruit and veg, and took in our sumptuous surroundings.
Our yurt was bigger than our home, with polished wooden flooring, swathes of fabric separating our bed from the kids’, a private terrace with daybed and dining area, an outdoor kitchen with a view of the sea, and a private bathroom with shower and wooden bath. All enclosed by the finca’s signature stone wall, with cleverly designed windows set into it, so you never lose sight of the sea and swaying palms.
Lanzarote Retreats is not a product of the latest ‘glamping’ fashion, however. There are plenty of less ‘luxurious’ yurts on offer, still stunning, but with the use of a communal kitchen and shower, but with all the same gorgeous views and vibes. They are not trying to impose a glamorous retreat onto this quiet, rural spot, but simply letting their finca something organically and sustainably.
The Braddocks have always been inspired by the Lanzarote’s visionary artist and architect, César Manrique, who worked closely with local authorities throughout the late 20th century to prevent his homeland from resort ruination, and whose many architectural masterpieces built into lava bubbles and caves we visited and adored. To visit Lanzarote without imbibing the creative juices of Manrique is like doing Barcelona without Gaudí.
The Eco Luxury Yurt at Lanzarote Retreats
Manrique’s statue ‘El Diablo’ is the symbol of Lanzarote’s National Park of Timanfaya, and his restaurant is still at its heart, with meals still cooked using the volcano’s heat. Most tourists opt to tour the Park by bus or camel, but I avoided the tourist trail by trekking up Pico Partido volcano with expert local walking guide Marcelo Espino of Canary Trekking, one of a handful to have a walking permit within the Park. With superb geological knowledge, English and charm, he led us along dramatic lava flows, tunnels, craters and ridges, and finally up to the one of the best viewpoints of the island, where the geological magnificence was closer to my landscape expectations of Iceland than resort land.
Like the wild figs which thrive in the volcanic desert, or the fecund vines which blossom out of their otherwise barren foothills, Lanzarote Retreats proffers colour and life. We jumped off the local pier with a bevy of screeching local kids. We took a boat out to the small nearby local island of La Graciosa, camped on one of its secluded beaches, barbecued freshly caught tuna from its tiny fish shop, and snorkelled along its reef. The boys surfed, we all swam and I saluted the sun in the finca’s yoga class. On the last day I went hiking with Michelle straight out of the finca, up through the Temisa Valley, onto a mountain path which led to the artisan craft market at Haria.
On the way back we strolled into Haria’s cemetery where, hidden away, we found Manrique’s grave. Just a plain, engraved stone set into the ground, with a palm at one end and a cactus at the other it was, “Just as Manrique had requested”, the gardener told us. “It’s simple, natural beauty is really quite touching,” Michelle said and, as we strolled back down the side of the volcano, in quiet contemplation of the good things in life, I caught sight of her simple, natural creation among the palms far below, and smiled, thinking that her hero must surely be looking down on it and smiling too.
Swimming in the Kornati National Park, Croatia with www.swimtrek.com
I look down at my hands pushing through the turquoise water and have a weird realisation. They are exactly the same shape as my father’s. I guess we rarely watch our hands in action, but here I am, twenty kilometres off Croatia’s coast, striding through the waves, and I have this bizarre hand moment. I have been swimming for an hour now, and have entered that solitary, pensive zone which only swimming helps me reach. Each stroke takes me back to early swimming days in the Irish Sea, when my Dad held on tightly to my hands, teaching me not to fear the water, but to let it carry me gently. “Go with the flow, and you will love it”, he would say, and how right he was.
I discovered Swimtrek, a holiday company which takes you on open water swimming trips in various parts of the world, about a year ago. Dreadfully unfit since having children, and with a bad case of middle aged malaise, I decided things had to change. While other friends tackled marathons, I headed for the pool, and started training in January for my first week-long holiday alone, no kids, lots of sunshine and, most importantly, the sea. I chose Croatia for various reasons. I hadn’t been there before, had heard great things, the swims were not as tough as some of their trips (average 3k) and jellyfish are few and far between in the Adriatic.
So here, at last, is the real thing. After five months of swallowing chlorine, being pushed aside in the fast lane, dry skin, verrucas and endless bad hair days, I find myself on the tiny car-free island of Prvic, a thirty minute ferry ride from the medieval city of Sibenik. This is just one of 1185 Croatian islands (of which only 47 are inhabited), along its nearly 6000 kms coastline. Prvic is base camp for the week, where a group of fifteen of us take over a local hotel, overlooking the shore. We are a mixed bunch and, despite all my anxieties, not the swimming club types who do endless arm stretches, slurp funny coloured drinks, and besport tight swimsuits which might as well say “I have absolutely no cellulite, and absolutely no life”. These were all real people, with wobbly bits, warts ‘n’ all. The only coloured drinks on show are beer or wine, and stretching is not recommended for open-water swimming, so I am safe. We range in age from late twenties to fifties, equally diverse in swimming experience, and are a good mixture of Swiss, Irish, American, English, Scottish, with swim guides from Finland, South Africa and Canada.
On the first morning we are instructed to meet on the beach, some proudly buck naked, bar Speedos, and others, like me, slowly peeling off sarongs before daring to dive. The guides assess our levels over a 200 metre swim, and then split us into three groups, giving us pink, orange or yellow swimming hats according to our level. I delight at the fact that I am put in the bottom yellow hat group. No pressure, just go with the flow, remember. My Dad’s words are, however, long forgotten as I get off to a bad start on this first mini strike-out into the Adriatic, my chest tightening horribly, as I struggle to breathe smoothly. “That always happens on your first open-water swim, it’s just anxiety, don’t worry about
Swimming along the Krka River, Croatia
it”, one of the pink-hatted “Speedophiles” (his term not mine) tells me, as he sunbathes just a little smugly back on the beach, not even out of breath.
But there is no turning back now. We jump on board our boat for the week, and Jadran, the Croatian captain, leads us out to nearby Tijat island, where the calm water is about 24 degrees, and the air about 32. We yellows are to take off first, getting a head start from the oranges and pinks. “Before you get in, I have to lube you up”, says Kate, our superfit Canadian swim guide, donning latex gloves and Vaseline. We stretch out to have our sensitive bits smothered, so we don’t chafe. Salt water does strange things, apparently and this is, for sure, the most bizarre holiday ritual I have ever had to undertake.
Within minutes there are fifteen fluorescent hats bobbing along the coast of this stunning little island, its pine trees and white rocky shores disappearing past us as we swim. Within minutes, the oranges and then pinks disappear past me too, but rather than trying to compete, I stop and watch the impressive athleticism of my fellow swimmers. Each group has a boat following alongside, in case we need anything. We have been taught some hand signals, including a ‘W’ sign, to let them know when we are stopping to wee. There’s no sign for chest tightness, unfortunately, which is still hovering, but I try to ignore it. By the time I reach the target lighthouse, just under an hour later, I realise I am ahead of my fellow yellows and, miraculously, still breathing. Back in the boat, the guides hand me an orange hat, and I get cheers all round. As if by magic, the chest tightness disappears, and I am ready to take whatever the waves throw at me.
Later that day we are filmed swimming in the open water, which we watch back over beer that evening at the hotel, and given some tips. The next day I concentrate on putting all the tips into practice, and sail through a beautiful swim between the islands of Zmajan and Kaprije. This is our first ‘crossing’ as opposed to following the coastline. No more clear, shallow waters, this is the deep blue sea, with nothing but a pink cottage in the distance to aim for. But the sun’s rays which cut through the depths provide a guiding light of inspiration as we all eventually find a steady rhythmical pace over 2kms.
The feeling at the end of a swim is pure elation. I fall back into my meditative state on this crossing, only to be jolted out of it by the appearance of white sand, rocks and fish below me. This is when you realise that land is near, and lunch is waiting. No holding back on the food on this trip either, with divine spreads laid out on board of pasta, couscous or rice salads, cold meats, cheese and fruit. Jadran also spoils us on a regular basis, emerging from the sea with a load of Whitebait or mussels, which he throws in a pan with butter and garlic, and hands out like sweets. The crème de la crème is when he produces oysters. Just like that. He must be making some Croatian woman happy somewhere, I think to myself.
We take on two swims a day, totalling about 5kms, although the distance is irrelevant if the water is choppy. One day we head inland, up the Krka River towards the Krka National Park. We moor at the yacht metropolis of Skradin, and hike 4kms alongside a wooded gorge to the breathtaking Krka Waterfalls, seven of which gush down moss-covered steps, to merge into one magnificent mother of a fall, which finally hurtles into Visovac Lake. Here we join hundreds of other bathers, and bask in our first freshwater swim. The afternoon’s challenge is to swim 4kms back down the river, with the current carrying us most of the way. At least, that’s what they tell us, but I struggle here, fighting off a stitch, drinking most of the river in an attempt to find finding breathing space between the waves, and slowly drifting from my group. Kate checks in with me; “Please tell me we are over halfway”, I beg, but I know by her face that she doesn’t have the
Lunch
answer I was hoping for. I give in and slump back into the dinghy feeling sorry for myself. After a few words of encouragement, she drops me back up with the group, and I’m off again for the last two kilometres, still a battle, but I get there in the end.
Nights back on Prvic are never a dull moment. The guides book us a group table at a different restaurant most nights, where the food is always excellent, and the company superb. Sea bass, tuna, sardines, mackerel and squid are regulars, eaten at restaurants so close to the water, you can almost fish for seconds. Some of the swimmers are able for copious amounts of Croatian wine, but I show my age and retire early most nights with a book. Having been carried by the hands of Neptune every day, I want nothing more than to sink ecstatically into the arms of Morpheus every night,
After the hiccup of my river swim, I decide to not let it set me back, and enjoy every swim from now on. I feel myself get stronger every day and, although I’m never head of the pack, I battle on at my own pace, encouraged by the determination of those just ahead of me. One of the most exciting swims starts just outside Sibenik harbour, where we head one morning for coffee, shops and “to clear a few heads”, says Mia, our other gorgeous swim guide. Back on board, Jadran drops us at the entrance to a sea tunnel carved into the cliffs by WW2 German occupying forces, which they used to conceal their boats and then surprise incoming enemy ships. We swim through the tunnel, sticking together tightly in this eerie hideaway, called “Hitler’s Eyes” by locals, and let the water carry us through like some sort of water theme park ghost ride. The light at the end of the tunnel reflects off the Adriatic, which then sucks us back along its glorious coastline for a few kilometres as far as another ancient sea construction, the 16h Century St. Nikolas fortress. Now derelict, we are able to wander around every corner of this imposing structure, with views across the channel we have just conquered.
Sadly, every good trip has to end, and our final two hour boat ride takes us out into the far reaches of Croatia’s sea
Island of Prvic Luka, where we stayed at lovely Hotel Maestral
territory, the Kornati National Park. Here, cones of white rock, covered in sunbleached shrubs emerge from the water in their hundreds, creating endless reefs for us to swim around. There is no water on these islands, rendering them uninhabitable, but totally swimmable. We jump in and swim straight to the shoreline of one of them, which we cling to for nearly 3kms, following the underwater contours which conceal endless caverns and schools of fish. I enjoy every stroke on this last day, as favourable currents help us along our last two swims of the week. As Jadran’s tanned, strong, hand reaches out to pull me back onboard for the last time, I hold it tight, and thank him for all his support during the week. And later that night, as we all toast each other’s achievements, I quietly raise a glass in thanks to, and in memory of, the strong hand which first led me to the water all those years ago.
from 12 to 14 being sexually exploited in hotels and private villas, and Moscow alone thought to have between 20,000 to 30,000 victimised children.
