A French grape vendor at the market briefly transforms into a language teacher to help his British client pronounce the “u” in “muscat” correctly. It’s a highly ambitious undertaking, given the complexity of the sound for native English speakers.

While the scene may seem absurd at first glance, it’s pretty typical in Eymet, a village that’s received the moniker France’s “most British town.” This region of France is no stranger to the British. Aquitaine, the area where Eymet is located, was ruled by the English Crown for centuries, most notably by the famous Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine. However, today, the population of Eymet offers a distinctly modern example of the French-British relationship. 

Eymet is very special

In many respects, eccentricity is what best defines this small French town.

Rural municipalities often experience the decline of their town centers. Eymet, however, bucks this trend. According to Rose Lallemant, a communications officer for the city council, a vibrant hustle and bustle remains “all year around,” regardless of the season. Numerous restaurants offer a diverse range of cuisine from around the globe. It’s unusual for such a small town to have so much culinary diversity. 

However, one of the town’s main peculiarities is its thriving British community.

Among the approximately 2,700 inhabitants of Eymet, around 400 are citizens of the United Kingdom, with the majority being of English descent. That population includes a mix of retirees and younger families. Many more visit regularly, temporarily increasing the number of Brits in the town.

The phenomenon is not unique to this village nestled in the rural département of Dordogne. The latter has many cross-Channel residents, similar to many regions in Southwest France. However, the presence of British citizens is particularly noticeable in Eymet, where British residents operate a significant portion of the local businesses. 

Rose’s English Vintage Tearoom or A Taste of Britain grocery store, where people can find Marmite, baked beans, and all the classic commodities to soothe a craving for home, are just some of the indicators of the town’s thriving British population.

“When I tell people where I live, they respond: ‘You’re in the English village,’” said one French retiree from Eymet. 

According to Terrie Simpson, the co-founder of the Eymet-based real estate agency Agence Eleonor, many people believe there are more British residents than French in Eymet, even though Brits only make up around 15 percent of the population. 

“Everyone says that there are only English folk in Eymet,” said Simpson, who is originally from Manchester, England. 

Listening to people speak on the town’s streets, especially on market day during high tourist season, it’s understandable why people would get the impression that there are only British people living there. Yet, Simpson argues that this is because many of the people out during the day are retirees or vacationers, people who tend to spend their days wandering the city streets. That doesn’t mean there aren’t others. 

An era of “Entente Amicale”

The majority of Eymet residents agree that a happy French-British cohabitation is unfolding in the town, worthy of the historical Entente Cordiale, a series of agreements that France and Britain signed in 1904 to foster closer diplomatic ties and resolve old disputes. 

In July 2025, the governments of both countries upgraded the historical agreements to become the Entente Amicale, ushering in a new period of French-British friendship. 

The strong relationship between the two countries is often on full display in the town. Only sports can rekindle the embers of rivalry. Many residents suggest that tourists visit Eymet’s bars and pubs in February, when the Six Nations Championship, a rugby competition between France, England, Ireland, Italy, Scotland, and Wales, is in full swing. 

Lallemant argues that “there are no notable cases” of xenophobia or intercommunity conflict among residents. Sometimes, however, visitors can make strange remarks about the blend of cultures. Sara Ghazali, who recently opened a bookshop in Eymet called La Mauvaise Herbe, said tourists told her that Eymet is “invaded.” 

“No, we are not,” she laughed. 

Despite the relatively low level of friction, some locals expressed frustration that many British residents don’t speak French.

In response, Lallemant and her colleagues have grown accustomed to bilingual communication. They aim to ensure the town’s foreign residents “do not feel left out.”

Rising prices bolstered by wealthier cross-Channel newcomers are a potential point of contention. Yet, paradoxically, it’s also a consequence of the economic dynamism that such a rural town often lacks. Locals and British residents both frequently argue that the new community saved Eymet. 

In everyday life, the British contribution is undeniable. Brits are consumers, keeping businesses going all year, and investors too. Rue du Temple would be a much less vibrant street without Eymet Le Livre, Café Sara, or A Taste of Britain. Jane Patterson, the latter’s owner, said she believes the influx of foreigners has benefited the French.

Beyond the economic element, the British newcomers also contribute to demographic dynamism. An increasing number of young families with children flock to Eymet. Since countryside schools are closing in droves, “it’s good for such a small town,” Simpson, the owner of Agence Eleanor, pointed out. 

That’s in contrast to the earlier wave of migration, which mainly brought in members of older generations when it started a few decades ago.

A thriving community built on a privileged migration

Pinpointing the exact moment when Eymet began to develop a British character is challenging. The 1970s may mark its inception, when a few affluent individuals purchased holiday homes in these picturesque surroundings. From the outset, that set the tone for a migration rooted in privilege, a very different experience from that of others crossing the Channel. 

From there, the migration unfolded slowly and began to accelerate in the 1980s and 1990s, reaching a crescendo when the United Kingdom eventually left the European Union following the 2016 Brexit referendum. 

Just before Brexit, which became official on February 1st, 2020, following lengthy divorce negotiations between officials in London and Brussels, Simpson sold many homes to cross-Channel newcomers who wanted to settle before it became too administratively complex and costly.

Simpson initially feared that she might lose her British clientele because of Brexit. However, the British continued to flock to Eymet, revealing that their interest in the place transcended any administrative difficulties.

The stars align for Eymet

“When I arrived, it reminded me of Beauty and the Beast,” Simpson said. 

For many, Eymet’s idyllic landscapes alone are a reason to settle. The quality of life doesn’t hurt either. Sun and good wine are often enough of an incentive to buy a house and settle down. 

“We don’t have this in England,” Simpson laughed. 

Terry Boyce, previously a physics teacher at the University of Hong Kong, and his partner, Kinet Leug, have run a bookshop in Eymet for about five years. They arrived from Hong Kong in 2018, having escaped an urban environment that had become hell for them. 

“The French lifestyle is the most attractive thing,” Boyce said. 

The properties are, “of course,” also cheaper than their equivalent in the United Kingdom, Simpson admits. Many Brits can afford to buy property in Eymet without a mortgage. And those houses often cater to the bucolic tastes of British clientele: old stone, land, dovecotes, and proximity to a vibrant town. 

Some come to refurbish old ruins. Chris, who often visits the town’s market via motorcycle, is one of those hobbyists. When not in his native Yorkshire, he uses the 6-month visa that post-Brexit rules provide to British citizens to renovate an old farm he purchased, just a short drive away from Eymet. 

“Amazing architecture!” he gushed, showing pictures of the property he’s purchased. 

Typically, in such a rural location, it can be challenging or time-consuming to reach major cities and airports. Eymet doesn’t have this problem. The Bergerac airport is located approximately 25 kilometers (15 miles) away and offers low-cost flights to the United Kingdom. 

There are numerous flights between Bergerac and Britain, a response to the ongoing demand for travel between the United Kingdom and this region of southern France. In turn, the existence of these flights has also driven more British people to Eymet. Bordeaux, a city of nearly 300,000 inhabitants, is also just a 1-hour and 20-minute drive away. 

If living conditions and infrastructure encourage many to try life in Eymet, the community entices many to stay and settle down. 

Born in Liverpool, England, Sara Martinez has recently taken over a café on rue du Temple, which she now runs alongside her husband. It eventually became a meeting point for both French and cross-Channel clientele. 

“One Brit brought another,” Martinez conceded, referring to the phenomenon of chain migration that often brings groups of people of the same origins to a new location together. 

Little Britain under the spotlight

Slowly but surely, the British population of Eymet grew, transforming the town into a microcosm of Britain. Now, whenever there is a significant event related to the United Kingdom, from a sports event to an election, journalists flock to the town to get a reaction.

From her bookshop, looking directly onto rue du Temple, Ghazali recalls seeing TV crews rushing across the streets to catch interviews after the death of Queen Elizabeth II in September 2022.

“Every [television] channel turns up when there is a France-England game,” Lallemant explained. 

The fact that Eymet is primarily known as a British community can sometimes be frustrating to city authorities. Still, they try to take advantage of the camera crews to promote other aspects of the town. 

“We’d like to be known also for our architectural richness, our heritage, or our activities,” Lallemant said. 

Some British residents are growing tired of being interviewed by so many journalists. One admitted to being cautious around English reporters and wary that they’ll attempt to highlight and exaggerate incidents of intercultural tensions to feed back to Britain’s notorious tabloids. 

To the dismay of problem seekers, most residents of Eymet say they’re happy with their lives and the intercultural atmosphere in the town. Sandra, a French artist who grew up in the town, said the presence of foreigners has opened up Eyment. 

“On every terrace, there is a different gin and tonic recipe,” Ghazali jokes. “And that is nice!”

Paul Mazet is a French freelance journalist based in Berlin, where he reports on the local impact of international developments. He studied history, international relations, and social sciences in Toulouse, Glasgow, Paris, Dublin, and Berlin.

The post The French Countryside Town That Won’t Miss Teatime first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

I had been invited to spend several days at an orphanage in Idlib, a city in northern Syria that had become a stronghold for rebel forces. The “association,” as they called it, was a large, grey compound not far from downtown. Behind tall walls and light security, it felt like any other school: asphalt playgrounds for running and football, metal frames for climbing, and classrooms filled with wooden desks. The floor was littered with scraps of paper and class notes. 

Arriving at the Little Hearts Foundation

Just over two years earlier, I was walking down a road in Adana, in southern Turkey. I had arrived to cover the devastating earthquake that claimed more than 100,000 lives. As I walked,  focused on my phone and following a Google Maps pin I had been sent, the loud growl of a performance engine grew louder. The sound and my path were about to converge. The tinted window of a brilliant white Honda Civic lowered slowly, and a hand emerged. I’d been looking for a translator in Turkey, and someone had given me the contact info of Mahmood al-Rawi, an Iraqi man from Fallujah who spoke almost perfect  English. Mahmood worked with a charity that helped rehouse Syrian refugees and supported their children, many of whom suffered from blood cancer and aggressive tumors and needed urgent medical care. Through our work together, Mahmood and I became friends, and he offered to bring me to Syria to show me his work there.

Fast forward to today, and I’m sitting in the back of a Kia Mohave SUV—favored in Syria for its durability—speeding through the night at a steady 160 kilometers per hour with Mahmood in the passenger seat,  a man named Omar behind the wheel, and a loaded Kalashnikov resting on the floor. 

Omar al-Omar is a tall, stocky man—6’3″—with shoulder-length black hair, a thick beard, and a disarming smile. He frequently cracks sharp jokes with his friends in Arabic. Omar began doing humanitarian work when he arrived in Idlib in 2017. His charisma and online presence attracted many donations. He worked with a French-Syrian NGO for a year before discovering they were misusing funds. After leaving, he founded The Little Hearts Foundation, a school and community center serving nearly a thousand children orphaned by war. They attend the school by day to study and play. Today, this place is a rare sanctuary for many children who have never known peace. However, it took a great deal of work and hardship to build it. 

The road to Idlib

Years ago, on a cold, snowy morning in Deir Muqaran, a mountain village in the Wadi Barada Valley northwest of Damascus, 200 green buses lined the local streets. It was January 29, 2017, and the buses were ready to relocate rebel forces to Idlib, closer to the Turkish border. The rebels, largely from Jabhat al-Nusra (previously the Free Syrian Army), had reached an agreement with Russian and German negotiators, the former representing the Assad regime. Either the fighters would relocate or face full-scale bombardment that could endanger all families in the area. The regime was eager to reclaim the region because of Ein Fajja, a vital water source that supplied over six million people in Damascus.  

The rebels had lived under siege since 2011, defending the valley despite overwhelming odds. Deir Muqaran, nestled among sheer sandstone mountains controlled by the regime, endured relentless barrel bomb attacks. Around 400 fighters were lost over six years. That morning, about 700 soldiers, dressed in winter clothes, boarded the buses with their weapons. Of the 200 buses, only 70 were needed: 40 for the fighters and 30 for their family members. Russian officials were reportedly stunned that so few had held the region so long. 

Al-Omar was 27 then. Driven by rage and a deep longing for a free Syria, he was involved in resistance long before the war officially began. His younger brother, Mustafa, was arrested in 2012  and disappeared inside Assad’s notorious Sednaya prison. His father, Mahmoud al-Omar, was once a soldier in the Syrian military under Hafez al-Assad, Bashar al-Assad’s father, and was accused of aiding rebels. He was dismissed from the military in 1990, arrested in 2006, and routinely extorted by the regime. It was a typical story for Syria. Hafez al-Assad ruled through paranoia and brutality, often punishing entire families for dissent. His son, Bashar, continued that legacy despite initial promises of reform.  

Though he had become a de facto leader of a small rebel faction, Omar didn’t want to leave his village on that frigid January morning. But endangering families wasn’t an option. Armed with machine guns and grenades, the fighters boarded the buses. This was not surrender. It was a tactical shift.  

The trip to Idlib, which usually takes 4 hours, took nearly 24. Assad’s forces rerouted the buses through Alawite strongholds to parade the rebels like trophies, exposing them to jeers and humiliation. What Assad didn’t realize was that concentrating these disparate rebel groups in Idlib would eventually backfire. From 2014 to 2018, the regime implemented similar evacuations across the country, consolidating opposition forces in one location. During those early years, international media flooded screens and newspapers with images of horrific attacks and drone footage of  Aleppo’s destruction. That attention eventually waned, but the conflict only intensified. 

Abdullah’s story

In 2016, a year before Omar arrived in Idlib, Abdullah al-Khalif, another founding member of the orphanage, smuggled his family across the desert, moving from one Kurdish stronghold to another. Born in Deir ez-Zor and raised in Damascus, Abdullah is a tall, gaunt man with a long goatee and somber eyes. He had worked as a policeman and moonlighted as a taxi driver. When the war began, he joined protests by night, but it soon became too dangerous. He fled to Darayya, then under the control of the Free Syrian Army, and joined their ranks.  

Abdullah married just six months before the war began. His wife remained in Damascus for safety. He risked his life to visit her and their newborn. Traveling through Syria was dangerous. In 2013, regime forces massacred 1,800 people in  Darayya in a single day. Hiding on a rooftop, Abdullah watched in horror as a soldier slit a child’s throat and smeared his hand with blood, shouting “Ya Hussein”—a Shia invocation that was burned into his memory after that day.

After escaping to Deir ez-Zor, Abdullah fought alongside the Free Syrian Army for 18 months while supporting his family.  By 2014, Jabhat al-Nusra had established a foothold in the region, and he joined them, citing their discipline and organizational structure. While the U.S.  had labeled them a terrorist group in 2012, the Washington Post reported that they were the most effective rebel force on the ground. ISIS  also grew in power during this time,  threatening to kill or absorb all non-affiliated fighters.  

After his commander was wounded,  Abdullah’s faction moved to Idlib, now a rebel safe zone. He began a quieter life, working in a restaurant and raising three children while enduring frequent airstrikes. Normalcy took on strange dimensions. People would resume their daily routines just an hour after a bombing. In 2017, Abdullah attempted to flee to Turkey nine times in one month but was caught each time. Bilateral relations between Syria and Turkey had long been tense, deteriorating further after a 2011 incident in Jisr ash-Shugur, where thousands fled across the border. 

Turkey’s President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan initially condemned Syria’s brutality but hesitated to call for Assad’s removal.

In 2019, while still working at the restaurant, Abdullah met Omar, who had recently founded his organization and school. Given their shared experience as fighters, they quickly found common ground. Though their focus shifted to humanitarian work, both remained active fighters and were among the first to enter Damascus after Bashar al-Assad’s departure. 

On December 8, 2024, at 6:18 a.m., Bashar al-Assad, members of his family, and some key officials boarded a private jet at Damascus airport. They flew to a Russian airbase in Latakia and then to Moscow, escorted by Russian intelligence. This moment, long in the making, marked the end of a brutal 14-year war. By then, Idlib had become home to an estimated 50,000 rebel troops under Abu Mohammed al-Jolani,  leader of Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham (HTS), a coalition of Sunni Islamist factions formed in 2017.  

Their surprise offensive began with Aleppo, catching Assad’s weakened forces off guard. In just 11 days, the war ended.  Estimates vary, but monitors and the United Nations suggest the death toll from the 14-year war may exceed one million.

Overnight, fighting halted, and focus shifted to rebuilding  Syria’s shattered economy. In a landmark move, Syria’s interim president, Ahmed al-Sharaa—often known by his nom de guerre, al-Jolani—made his first foreign visit to Saudi Arabia in February, signaling a significant realignment in Middle  East diplomacy. 

Manal’s story

Manal Ibrahim, now 34, also works at the foundation. Even beneath her niqab, her wide grin and bubbly personality are unmistakable. Originally from Saraqib, a strategic town in Idlib province, Manal’s family was once wealthy. Her father, accused of having ties to the Muslim Brotherhood, fled to Saudi Arabia in 1980. Their lands were seized, and the family was blacklisted. 

After Hafez al-Assad died in 2001, the family returned to Syria. But when 11-year-old Manal criticized Bashar al-Assad in class, the secret police came calling. The family fled again.  

Between 2002 and 2011, they smuggled themselves across borders, paying bribes. Manal’s mother was imprisoned twice.

In their village, girls were expected to marry cousins by the age of 16 to preserve family land. Unmarried by the age of 20, a girl was considered spoiled. Manal resisted marriage and rejected the hobbies her father wanted her to pursue, such as sewing and religion. She decided to study dance, painting, and singing instead. These choices were unforgivable to her father.  

Manal began to share her artwork on Snapchat, gaining a significant following and a steady income. By 2016, with Idlib under rebel control, she reclaimed some of her family’s land. Her father had remarried and left the family home by then. Barrel bombs were a regular soundtrack to her nights. Manal and her sister counted them as they whistled to the ground before impact.

Defying tradition, Manal eventually married a kind man from Damascus. Her family beat and tortured her, even tried to provoke her husband into violence, but they failed. The couple married in 2020 and had a child.  

Manal applied for a job five times at The Little Hearts Foundation without mentioning her social media influence. She wanted to be hired based on merit. Eventually, she was accepted and rose to become director.  Despite some initial tension, she and Omar developed a mutual respect for each other. She created a new Snapchat account to raise money for the orphanages. Since then, she has raised over $200,000 for the school, which now employs more than 60 staff and provides thousands of meals during Eid and other festivals. 

“A Syria without Bashar”

The perfumed fragrance of shisha smoke wafted through the air as we entered Mr. Black’s restaurant, a popular hangout that opened four years ago on the outskirts of Idlib. Many in the local military brass frequent it for its generous traditional feasts. In my experience, I have never encountered such hospitality as I have in the Middle East, and Syria is no exception. 

The table must be overflowing—variations of lamb and chicken, grilled vegetables, hummus,  flatbreads, and fattoush. Water or juice is passed around. Cigarettes are lit. Conversation flows.  

I was told many times by civilians and officials: “We received our country below zero. We must  rebuild not just from the bottom, but below the bottom.” The new government faces pressure from many countries, each with its own agenda. U.S. President Donald Trump is now meeting with Al-Sharaa and lifting heavy sanctions, a monumental step. The Syrian public watches with bated breath.  

As I observed those around me, and Mahmood generously translated as much of the dialogue as he could, we watched some people in fatigues, others in civilian clothes, united by a single unifying force: a desire to discuss Syria’s future and how to achieve the best possible outcome. Many Syrians are now making the long journey back home from different countries or refugee camps. The organization that Mahmood works for is shifting its focus to building medical facilities in rural areas that lack access. After the main course, chai is served, followed by baklava or kataifi with sweet cheese.  Then comes Syrian cardamom coffee and the shisha pipe. The conversation continues long into the night.  

The next morning, as I stand in the schoolyard, listening to 500 children chant “Allahu Akbar” in unison, I wonder whether the Syria they inherit will be the inclusive future President al-Sharaa has promised—or something more extreme, as critics fear. When I ask Omar what a free Syria means to  him, he replies without hesitation: “To see a Syria without Bashar is enough.”  

“األب الصالح خير من مائة معلم”

James Forde is an Irish freelance photographer based in London. His work focuses on long-term documentary projects that investigate under-reported socio-political issues. His photography has been featured in numerous publications, including the Washington Post, El País, VICE, and the Irish Times.

The post In Syria, Former Warriors Build a New Home for Orphans first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

Accepting a job in New York City was a difficult decision.

In the summer of 2017, I arrived in the U.S. from Cambodia for a wedding. As soon as my bridesmaid duties were over, I planned to move back to Europe. My loose plan was to settle in Budapest and use that as a base to cover Eastern Europe as a freelance journalist.

Then I received an offer to cover foreign affairs from Newsweek Magazine‘s downtown Manhattan office, and I thought, why not? I’d always been curious about what it would be like to live in New York as an adult.

I was born in Manhattan and spent a lot of time there as a young person. But I’d lived outside of the U.S. almost my entire adult life. My only concept of 21st-century New York came from Sex and the City and friends who had spent time in Brooklyn. They promised New York was about as similar to London as I’d find in the U.S. They described it as an adult playground, albeit more segregated and expensive than most cities I knew.

Most importantly, my mother was only a little over an hour away. After so many years apart, I relished the idea of being close to at least one parent. Perhaps I would come full circle and settle down in the city of my birth. I loved the idea of having a life with a straightforward narrative arc.

Flash forward eight years, and life is slightly different from what I imagined then. I no longer live in Brooklyn or work for Newsweek, but I’m still in the United States. It’s an outcome that I struggle with sometimes. There are a lot of practical reasons to be here. On paper, my life looks pretty great. But I still yearn to report all over the world. I still miss friends and family in Europe. There are so many stories I can’t cover when I’m grounded in the United States. I would much rather not be stuck in one place.

The compromise I’ve come up with is to travel regularly. I try to make two to four transatlantic trips each year. Some of those I pay for myself, while others are reporting trips funded with grants or fellowships. I squeeze in as much time with friends and family as possible on each trip so I don’t lose connection with people I love, even though I sometimes feel isolated on the wrong side of the Atlantic.

People sometimes ask how I can afford to travel now that I live in the U.S. After all, it’s much more expensive to fly from the East Coast of the United States than to cross borders if you live in Europe or Asia. I usually tell them transatlantic travel isn’t as expensive as you think.

Travel is out of reach if you live paycheck to paycheck. I don’t blame anyone for not seeing the world when they’re under financial strain or drowning in student loans like many people in the U.S. But if you’re the kind of young professional who can afford to go to happy hours and order takeout multiple times a month, you can probably afford to travel internationally. You could save 50 to 100 dollars a month by going to fewer bars and restaurants, for example, and you’d be able to travel overseas at least once or twice a year.

Not everyone will want to travel exactly the way I do. These options might not work for people who are disabled or have minimal travel time. But I’ll share my tips for those who are curious. Some of the links included are affiliate links, which means I’ll get a small commission if you use them to purchase something. That said, everything I linked to is something I use regularly and recommend, whether it’s an affiliate or not.

My guide to affordable transatlantic travel:

• Don’t buy your flight directly from an airline.

I have a rule about never paying more than $400 to get across the Ocean. Occasionally, I’ve snagged a round-trip flight from an East Coast city to Europe for around $250 or $300. That usually means you will need flexibility regarding which airport you fly from (more on that below).

The most important thing, however, is to use a flight aggregator. I usually use Skyscanner or Trip.com. You just enter your preferred airport, destination, and dates, and the platform shows you various options from different airlines.

You can also let the platform know if your travel dates are flexible. The more flexible you are, the better your chances of finding a deal.

• Don’t check a bag.

I never check a suitcase for trips that last less than a month. If I plan to spend around ten days away, I often use this bag from the British Amazon. They will ship it to the United States for a small fee. It counts as a personal item, which means you won’t pay the extra fee for carry-on luggage that so many airlines charge now.

Taking so few clothes means you’ll need to do laundry in the middle of the trip (I usually stay with friends or in an Airbnb rather than a hotel. That’s partly so I’ll have laundry access). It also means you’ll need to bring versatile clothes you can wear more than once.

If I’m going to stay longer than ten days, or if I need to bring work clothes and clothes to go out, I will use this suitcase. It has the perfect dimensions for every airline. I’ve fit shoes and weeks’ worth of clothes in it and never been asked to check my bag. It’s perfect.

• Choose your departure airport carefully.

If you’re only willing to fly from one airport, you will have fewer options for cheap flights. You should always check a few of the closest airports to you.

I usually look at John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York, Newark Liberty International Airport in New Jersey, Philadelphia International Airport, or Baltimore/Washington Thurgood Marshall Airport.

The latter is often my first choice because it’s close to my home. But I will take a bus to JFK or Newark for a well-priced flight. Sometimes, I’ll use that as an excuse to see friends in New York or New Jersey before I catch my flight.

Taking a bus or train to an airport a few hours away can be time-consuming and tiring, but it’s often worth it from a financial perspective. In my experience, Newark Airport usually has the best international flight options.

• Pick a good transit hub and don’t avoid layovers.

If you can save money by being flexible with your departure location, the same can be said for your destination.

Let’s say, for example, that you want to travel to Barcelona. It might cost $500 or $600 to catch a flight from Newark Airport directly to Spain. But if you’re willing to do a layover in London or Lisbon, you could save a few hundred dollars.

There are often a lot of good deals on flights to big cities with many airports, like London. Then, you can always catch a separate low-cost Ryanair or EasyJet flight to your final destination starting at around $20. If you have the bag I recommended above, you won’t exceed your carry-on limits for those low-cost airlines.

When I fly from BWI Thurgood Marshall Airport, I often fly with the low-cost airline Play. It’s an Icelandic company that started flying from North America to Europe in 2022. They don’t offer meals or in-flight entertainment, so I usually bring a Kindle and pack a lunch.

You’ll have a layover in Iceland on each flight. Reykjavik has a very nice airport with good, healthy food options. The savings on your plane ticket are worth it.

I often recommend a layover in Istanbul if traveling to Asia. Flights to Istanbul usually aren’t too expensive, and there are tons of low-cost flights from Turkey to the rest of the world. You can also spend a few hours wandering around Istanbul between flights, which is always enjoyable.

• Cut down on your accommodation costs.

Staying with family or friends is often my first choice. You save money and spend more time with the people you’re traveling to see. I’ve spent a lot of nights on people’s slightly uncomfortable pullout sofas because I’d rather spend the night in a friend’s living room than splurge on fancy accommodation. But if you don’t know many people in other countries, there are other options.

I’ve stayed with Couch Surfing hosts dozens of times. Some people say creepy men primarily use the website to pick up female travelers. That hasn’t been my experience. I’ve met some of my closest friends over the years through Couch Surfing, and I’ve stayed with lovely people in countries like India and Bulgaria for no cost. You can usually tell a lot about a person based on the references on their profile. That said, I don’t recommend staying with someone who doesn’t have a lot of positive references.

You also have to be willing to socialize. Using Couch Surfing when you have time to bond with your host is usually best practice. The website is primarily meant to facilitate cultural exchanges, so crashing on someone’s sofa when you have a packed travel itinerary and no time to talk can seem rude.

• Use a local SIM card instead of international roaming.

Everyone needs a phone to navigate daily life. That’s even more true if you’re traveling overseas and must look up where you’re going. However, I never recommend splurging on roaming charges to use your Internet data overseas. It’s much more affordable to get a local SIM card.

The U.S. is an outlier because most people purchase a contract with a phone company to get monthly data. That’s not the case in most other countries. When you arrive at the airport, you can usually buy a local SIM card for anywhere between $10 to $20. That will give you enough data to use your phone as often as you want for at least a month (the U.S. telecommunications industry is a ripoff, but that’s a story for another day).

Some phones in the U.S. are locked. That means they won’t work with just any SIM card. Before your trip, go to your local phone shop or wherever you purchased your phone and ask them to unlock it. They’ll do it for free.

I always carry a paper clip to open my phone and switch out the SIM card when I buy a local one. Just make sure you don’t lose your original SIM card. You’ll want to switch back to that when you return to the U.S.

Some companies now offer e-SIM cards that you can purchase before your trip. That might make life even more straightforward because you won’t have to wander the airport looking for a kiosk to buy a SIM card as soon as you arrive. One place to get that is Yesim, a Swiss company that offers digital SIM cards that work worldwide.

• Act like a local

Some people like to splurge on one big fancy vacation a year. If you don’t travel very often, spending money to be as comfortable as possible when you do can make sense. But if you value frequent travel over luxury like I do, the trick is to treat your time on the road like the rest of your life. Go to the local supermarket and cook your host a meal. Rent a bike to get around the city you’re visiting. You’ll get a real sense of where you’re staying without spending more than you would at home.

The post A Guide to Affordable Transatlantic Travel first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

It may have been a mistranslation, but it also felt like a challenge. 

I grew up in a white suburb of Los Angeles, where my peers often called me a “Twinkie,” “banana,” and any other cruelly creative nickname that children could invent. It felt like they were pointing out the obvious. I may appear yellow, but I was white on the inside. 

I am ethnically Filipino, Japanese, and Polish. If you explain that to most people, they’ll look at you like you’re from Mars. Like many Asian Americans, I spent my younger years embracing the urge to assimilate. I mentally reframed the playground taunts as compliments, albeit ones that tied my stomach in knots and made my fists tighten. 

As I focused on fitting in, I suppressed a growing concern that I might be a “bad Asian.” I often felt disconnected from the generations that sacrificed so much for me to be born and raised in the United States. But I also knew that I didn’t fully belong in the sea of white and blonde that I existed in.

Traveling around Asia

Touching down in Asia felt new and familiar at the same time. Unlike past trips to Europe or Australia, my first trip to Asia crackled with an untapped energy. 

When traveling around Indonesia, people asked me why I was Asian around 200 times. Shortly after that, I joined my family on a trip to Japan. My mother speaks fluent Japanese, and we visited the Fukuoka province, where our family is from. Despite my roots, I felt like a palm tree among the sakura. When I put on a yukata for the first time, I wondered if I was just another tourist in a costume. 

Local people would approach me speaking Japanese, and they’d go cold when I didn’t understand what they were saying. Suddenly, I wasn’t one of them. I was a foreigner. I am accustomed to white people seeing me as an outsider. But it felt different with Asian people. It made me wonder if anyone would embrace me as their own. 

As I moved through Asia to Thailand, the Philippines, and Vietnam, I continued to confuse local people. Most people in Asia will greet you with endless warmth and friendliness, no matter who you are or where you are from. The people-pleaser in me wished I was Asian enough to warrant their excitement. However, once again, I felt like an imposter when they asked about my background. I couldn’t give them the straight answers they wanted.

The problem with expats

When I imagined the connections I would experience in Asia, I forgot to account for one crucial fact: travel is white as hell. 

White Americans are the most likely to travel abroad. Similar patterns can be seen in expat communities or other tourist spaces. Most white travelers come from the United Kingdom, Germany, the Netherlands, or Australia.

In digital nomad hubs or other popular tourist spots, I rarely met another person of color. Somehow, even when I traveled all the way to Asia, I was still the only Asian person in a room of white people. 

This is not a problem on its own. It’s great to see people explore more places off the beaten path. The issue is a general attitude of disrespect that grows alongside these more privileged crowds. Sometimes, these bubbles become full-on echo chambers. 

Given how inexpensive many Southeast Asian destinations are, a lot of white travelers walk around with an inflated sense of entitlement and power. Many are quick to look down on Southeast Asian economies and businesses without acknowledging that Western countries play a role in these places. With digital nomads especially, there is often an ignorant mindset. People look at the world as their playground rather than honoring the cultures they visit. 

White travelers sometimes mistook me for their waitress or another local person. People I met would ask me to teach them Thai phrases even though I’m simply not Thai. Worst of all, for some reason, being in Asia seemed to enhance people’s curiosity and lack of boundaries about my race. People loved to tell me that I should speak more Tagalog and that I didn’t seem to know much about Japanese food. 

The power of anger

I felt angry. And strangely, that was one of the most impactful parts of this experience. As a young Asian girl, I have always been taught to be demure and accommodating. I am expected to brush aside the comments that make my blood boil. After years of trying to make everyone else comfortable, the audacity of these random white hippies to be racist to me in the countries of my ancestors unlocked an anger that I didn’t know I had in me. 

My anger reminds me that my feelings are valid. It’s evidence that my emotions make me powerful, not weak. My anger defends me. It stands up and calls out the micro-aggressive behavior that has gone unchecked for generations. It may make people uncomfortable, but it also might make them more thoughtful. We should draw attention to these issues, and we deserve to take up space in the conversation.

Souvenirs from Asia

If I were going to have a quarter-life crisis, I’m grateful that mine sent me on a global scavenger hunt for self-discovery, identity, and connection. Despite everything, I do feel like I found many of these intangible things in unexpected places. 

When sitting in silence on the pristine trains of Tokyo, I felt connected to the small children who had the same awful bowl cuts my parents gave me. In the Philippines, I played guitar and sang with so many lovely local people. I had never realized that my love of music could come from a culture that considers karaoke to be its unofficial national sport. I saw people who looked like me everywhere, and I saw the beauty in that. 

None of this would have been possible without the privilege and joy of travel. Often, it’s exhausting to put myself in uncomfortable situations over and over again. Surrounding myself with strangers or unfamiliar settings teaches me how to approach the world from a place of curiosity and kindness. It teaches me about myself as much as I learn about the world around me. 

However, the reality of being a multi-faceted human in an increasingly complicated world is that we may never get to a point where we can firmly say we understand who we are. What would be the point if we could? We’re constantly changing. And while race is merely a part of our identity, I am done pretending that it is something I can extricate myself from when it’s convenient. 

I may not know why I am Asian, but I’m glad I am.

Acacia Gabriel is a travel writer from Los Angeles, California. She has traveled solo through Europe, Australia, and Asia, and she encourages young women to embark on their own adventures.

The post Why Are You Asian? How a Simple Question Sparked a Search for Identity first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

Ramírez’s family moved there when he was only four years old. Growing up in the area in the 2010s, he watched it transform from a conflict zone to a creative cultural hub. He founded one of the area’s most well-known tour companies to show visitors around his home.

But now, at age 35, he’s leaving. And that’s not because it’s gotten too expensive or his business isn’t doing well.

“It has become unbearable,” Ramírez said of his neighborhood. 

Ramírez and an increasing number of Comuna 13 residents are relocating because of incessant noise, crowded streets filled with unlicensed vendors, tourists, and motorcycles, and an absence of government control. Due to the lack of regulation over the tourism industry, unlicensed tour guides, informal businesses, and gang extortion have taken over.

“There are no controls, no regulations,” said Ramírez, who helped found the company Zippy Tour. “Everyone talks about gentrification, but here in Comuna 13, that’s not the reason [people are leaving]. It’s actually because people are uncomfortable.”

An explosion of tourists

So far this year, the Comuna 13 neighborhood has seen around 136,000 tourists visit each month. Those numbers have made it the city’s number-one tourist destination. It’s part of Medellin’s tourism boom, which drew 1.2 million foreigners to the city in 2024. 

“The neighborhood wasn’t made for that many people,” said Carlos Calle, who leads the city’s tourism observatory.

In the early 2000s, the sloping residential area was one of the most dangerous in the world. But it gradually became an example of Colombia’s transformation. The installation of escalators around the streets boosted access to the city and work opportunities for locals. Talented graffiti artists and dancers from the neighborhood gained international prominence. Safety improved across Colombia after the signing of a 2016 peace deal that ended the decades-long conflict between the government and the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC). 

Comuna 13’s new identity as a tourism and cultural hotspot is miraculous for residents who have lived there for more than 40 years, like shop owner Raúl Alzate.

“You used to wake up, look over, and see a guy with a weapon in his hand. It’s very different now to wake up and see people around, just peaceful,” Alzate said.

But Alzate admits he’d be happier to keep welcoming tourists if the industry was more regulated. Public walkways are now full of an increasing number of food, drink, and clothing vendors. Most of them do not have a city license. Motorcycles and small trucks also share the same walkways.

Every day brings new businesses

According to the Medellin Chamber of Commerce, more than 2,750 businesses registered formally in Comuna 13 as of 2023. That’s a jump compared to the 1,950 official businesses that were in the neighborhood in 2016. However, the number of informal vendors has also exploded. While informal vendors are common in Colombia, Comuna 13 has limited space for the dozens that line the road.

Local shop owner Ángela González lived in Comuna 13 since 1980 but decided to leave four years ago. She said things worsened in the neighborhood in 2021.

“You’d wake up, and there’d be four or five new businesses,” she explained, pointing out the loud music booming nearby from new restaurants and clubs that offer a view of the city.

González’s kids didn’t want her to leave Comuna 13, but staying felt impossible.

“This was my house, my whole life, the one I built with so many sacrifices, working my entire life and raising [my children] here,” she said. “[But] I’d rather rent it out and leave because of all the noise.”

She now commutes from a nearby neighborhood to sell beer, cigarettes, and snacks to tourists passing her shop.

On tour guides and gangs

Besides the noise and packed streets, Ramírez estimates as many as 500 guides are operating in the neighborhood. Only around 200 are certified through a city-required course. While many Comuna 13 natives still give tours, an increasing number come from places as far away as Venezuela, Chile, and France.

Ramírez lamented that the tourism police rarely check a guide’s documents. If they do, people show fake credentials or an email showing they’re enrolled in a tourism course. Many have never actually attended class. Plus, Calle of the tourism observatory said there are only about 30 tourism officers for the whole city, which weakens enforcement.

Local gangs often control who gets to open a new business or become a tour guide, filling the vacuum that the government left behind. Last month, city police arrested 14 people accused of extorting guides in Comuna 13, charging them 15,000 pesos ($3.50) per tour. Nevertheless, the same people left prison a few days later and started giving tours again, one local guide told Lazo Magazine, preferring to remain anonymous to avoid retaliation. 

In a recent survey, 40 percent of businesses said they pay local gangs an extortion fee, known as a “vacuna.”

Economic gains vs. reality

Economically, the tourism boom in Comuna 13 has been a blessing for the neighborhood. According to a study by a handful of local non-profits, the quality of life in the city improved by 10 percent from 2010 to 2018. 

In the city’s most recent development plan for the neighborhood, officials noted that economic progress is still lagging due to a lack of work opportunities and education. Calle argues that Comuna 13 needs an updated plan to allow cooperation between the tourism industry and law enforcement. That means implementing more than just short-term, reactive measures. 

“We don’t need to reinvent the wheel here,” Calle said. “Institutions have specific roles.” 

Neither the tourism police nor the city agency that oversees public property, Public Space, responded to requests for comment.

Recently, Public Space took over an empty walkway a few blocks past Comuna 13’s tourism zone, dividing up portions of the sidewalk to license new businesses. The new mayor, who took office in January, wants to bring order to the neighborhood, but the process has been slow.

It no longer depends on us

Of course, not everyone wants to leave. Retiree Cecilia Árias said she has nowhere else to go.

“My son wants to leave, but I don’t want to [leave my home],” she said.

Ramírez emphasized that tourists are welcome. Still, the government must make the neighborhood livable for locals. Many people working in the neighborhood aren’t originally from there, which means they are less committed to its future. 

“All the problems here in Comuna 13 have solutions, but it no longer depends on us,” Ramírez said. “We used to handle it when there were just a few of us from the neighborhood.”

Austin Landis is a multimedia journalist based in Medellín, Colombia, where she focuses on migration. She previously covered U.S. politics in Washington, D.C. Her work has appeared in BBC News, Al Jazeera, Voice of America, and The Guardian.

The post Why Locals Are Leaving Medellin’s Most Popular Tourist Hub first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

My identity has always been multifaceted. I was born in El Salvador and raised in the United States, where I was an undocumented immigrant. The experience of growing up undocumented colored my life in Los Angeles, California, where I grew up. There were other undocumented people in my community when I was young, and not having a green card was an open secret for many of us. Being undocumented meant having to talk to lawyers, keep tabs on any immigration news that might affect me, and do well in school so I’d be ready to justify why I belong in the U.S. at any given moment.

I didn’t obtain U.S. citizenship until 2012, when I was 24 years old. Today, I live in Buenos Aires, Argentina, where people frequently ask about my dual identity in both English and Spanish.

Expat life in Argentina

I moved to Argentina for the first time in 2013 because a friend invited me to join her when she traveled there for a new job. We were both freelancers, and I thought it would be nice to check out South America for the first time. That was my first trip with a U.S. passport, and I realized how much easier it was to travel. For example, I didn’t have to answer questions about where the U.S. was. 

I began building a freelance writing business in Buenos Aires. While in the city, I also used websites like Couchsurfing and Meetup to meet travelers and locals and make new friends. I met digital nomads, backpackers, and locals who enjoy getting to know people from other cultures. Some were Argentinians who wanted to practice English, and I also met Brazilians who helped me learn Portuguese. 

Over the years, I worked to adapt to some of the local customs. It took a long time for me to get used to eating dinner at 9 or 10 p.m., but eventually, my body got used to it. I also learned to enjoy the taste of fernet and yerba mate.  

Throughout my years in Argentina, I realized I didn’t fit into a neat category like others. 
I had to get used to answering questions from locals and other travelers: do you feel more Salvadoran or American? What’s El Salvador like? I didn’t have answers to these questions because I grew up in the U.S. Sometimes, those questions hurt. My family was busy trying to survive when I was young, so I had little information about my culture. Nevertheless, I’m glad that people asked. It motivated me to visit El Salvador more often and teach myself how to make a few Salvadoran dishes, like pupusas.

On teeth

Because I didn’t have a green card as a child, I didn’t have access to specialized healthcare, including dental care, until I was an adult. Most of the time, I could access the school nurse, get basic dental cleanings, and get vaccines or checkups. But that was it. 

It was during my time living in Argentina that I began to experience some severe problems with my teeth. I had to get regular deep cleanings, a root canal, and have my wisdom teeth pulled. I spent a lot more time at the dentist than the average expat. Still, the cost of these treatments was roughly $40,000 less than what I would have paid in the U.S.

Even so, once, a kind dentist refused to charge me for his services because he knew how much money I would have to spend on my teeth in the future.

A stint back in the states

I left Argentina in 2019 because my long stint in the country strained my relationship with family and other friends I’d left behind. I had been abroad for almost six years by that time. 

The COVID-19 lockdown was a scary time to be a freelance writer. However, I eventually found my footing, received two grants to support my work, and continued to pursue my hobbies, including drawing, playing music, creating sketches, and, eventually, standup comedy.

My original plan was to segway into travel writing and move to Southeast Asia for a few months so I could travel, save up for a deposit for an apartment, and relocate to a city like Atlanta, New Orleans, or Raleigh, North Carolina. My parents lived in Mississippi, and I wanted to be near them, but I also wanted to be in a bigger city where I could pursue more opportunities. None of that worked out.

In 2021, I received some startling medical news. I needed to have all of my teeth pulled because of genetic issues. I was 35, and my doctor recommended implants and bone regeneration to support the titanium nails I’d need for the implants to stay in place. My bone loss was affecting my sinuses and impacting my breathing. The estimated cost for this dental work was $70,000. My doctor didn’t work with insurance. 

I was in Mississippi at the time, so I decided to look for options in other states. Most other U.S. states had a much higher cost of living than Mississippi, and implants would still be unaffordable. But I had another option. I decided to leave the country again.

Migrating for medical care

I returned to Buenos Aires because I needed to find more affordable dental care before my bone loss became so bad that doctors couldn’t operate. I knew that my knowledge of Spanish and experience in the country would help me navigate the medical system there. 

Unfortunately, my former dentist said he couldn’t treat me because I needed an oral surgeon. I found a new doctor who said my treatment would cost $32,000 over two years. That’s a large sum, but I was relieved it was much less than I would have paid in the U.S. 

Still, Buenos Aires had changed during my time away. The city has been plagued by increased rents thanks to the unregulated use of Airbnb, over-tourism, and gentrification spurred by immigrants from high-income countries, who are often called expats. 

Many Argentinian friends don’t see me as a typical American expat because I’m originally from El Salvador and settled permanently in Buenos Aires for medical reasons. Nevertheless, I believe it is essential to understand the privileges my passport affords me and to talk to other U.S. expats about how our presence in Argentina affects the local population.

Becoming a Third Culture Kid

In the years since I moved back to Buenos Aires, I’ve started to form a new understanding of my identity. I’m not a typical digital nomad or an expat who moved to Buenos Aires for a glamorous life. Instead, I prefer to be called a “third-culture kid.” 

A third-culture kid is someone who spent a significant portion of their formative years in a country other than the country of their or their parents’ origins. I believe that describes me well. 

Having a U.S. passport provides me with opportunities. Even though the U.S. and its lack of universal healthcare made me move abroad, U.S. citizenship has also helped me pay for dental treatments. That’s because I can work remotely and earn a living in U.S. dollars. I still have to work long hours, but I can save enough money to pay for everything I need.

Having a laugh

As the child of immigrants, I don’t have access to generational wealth. That means I have to work hard whenever I’m not recovering from my health issues. But thanks to Argentina’s late-night culture, I can still have fun after working hours. I visit museums, spend time with friends, and check out new restaurants whenever possible. I also do standup comedy. 

During the COVID lockdown, The Second City comedy school started offering classes online, and I jumped at the opportunity. After doing a few shows in English, a local comedian in Argentina suggested that I try stand-up in Spanish. He said I could speak well enough to try, which would help me get on stage more often.

Humor helped me approach some of the awkward moments in my life more lightly and gave me stories I could tell friends back home. It helps me deflect when I’m too tired to explain my identity again. Most importantly, comedy has allowed me to turn my third culture kid identity and healthcare stories into entertainment. 

Explaining who we are and where we come from can get annoying, but it’s also helped me have stimulating conversations and continue to meet people in similar circumstances. I don’t have to choose between being Salvadoran or American anymore. Identifying as a third-culture kid gave me another anchor for now.

Ingrid Cruz is a freelance writer, journalist, and coffee connoisseur. She likes to read, draw, and do standup.

The post How To Become a Third Culture Kid in Argentina first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

I always imagined the Austrian capital as a posh, polished city full of buttery cakes and glittering opera houses. While there are certainly elements of those stereotypes, it’s also diverse and a little gritty.

Almost 40 percent of Vienna’s population was born abroad, and there’s a sizable community from the Western Balkans. That shouldn’t surprise me, given the country’s history and location, but it wasn’t something I’d ever thought about.

Vienna seems like a very livable city, but there’s plenty to do, even if you’re passing through and aren’t all that interested in the typical tourist sites.

Join the Pride Parade

If you can time it right, I highly recommend visiting Vienna during the annual pride parade. It was one of the best pride celebrations (Regenbogenparade) I’ve ever attended. Better than New York or London. The music selection was excellent, over 300,000 people attended, and everyone was friendly and having a spectacular time. The organizers claim it’s the largest annual demonstration in Austria, and I believe it.

The parade circles the Vienna Ring Road (Ringstraße), in the first district, and you can follow along with the crowd or stand on the side to watch the revelers. One furniture shop opened its doors to let the paraders rest on the sofas and chairs for sale. There’s a real sense that the entire community has bought into the event.

Learn about Vienna’s social housing

During the trip, I visited Karl Marx Hof, allegedly one of the largest residential buildings in the world. Vienna’s municipal city council began construction on the building in the 1920s, during the height of a period known as Red Vienna (Rotes Wien), when the Social Democratic Workers’ Party experimented with new forms of social policy prior to the eventual fascist takeover of Austria.

The social housing policy from the 1920s still impacts the city, where at least 25 percent of residents live in government-owned housing and another 40 percent live in government-subsidized housing. Homeownership and participation in the private rental market are exceptionally low for a major city in Western Europe, and most people still only spend a small fraction of their income on their living space.

What’s more, the building’s designers were students of Austrian architect Otto Wagner, a leading member of the Vienna Secession and Art Nouveau movements. Tucked away in the building’s old washroom is a museum showcasing the history of Red Vienna. I couldn’t recommend it more.

Go vintage clothes shopping

Neubau, in Vienna’s 7th district, is one of the hippest neighborhoods in the city. It has no shortage of bars, cafés, art galleries, and vintage clothing shops. I found quite a few stores that sold used clothing by the kilo. There’s one on practically every corner when you’re walking down Neubaugasse Street. I stopped at RetroSchatz and bought 3 shirts for €14.

Go clubbing

The club I visited during my only free weekend in Vienna was the smaller of the city’s two most popular techno clubs. It’s called Das Werk.

I had low expectations for the city’s nightlife. I assumed the music would be subpar because nowhere compares to Berlin. I was wrong. The techno was excellent.

Multiple people told me Grelle Ferelle is bigger and better. The two clubs are next to each other in warehouses along the Danube River. A special shoutout to the Austrian journalist who scribbled a list of club recommendations on a scrap of paper for me.

Find the Balkan Mile

On the hunt for a diverse neighborhood I would probably live in if I were to move to Vienna, I took the number 46 tram to Schuhmeierplatz, in the direction of Ottakring. It had started to rain, so I ducked into a nearby shop, only to find myself in a bookstore that sold translated literature and poetry in Serbo-Croatian (the language of the former Yugoslavia).

The neighborhood is filled with cafés and restaurants from the Balkans, Cyprus, Turkey, and the wider Middle East. You can find burek, ćevapčići, or pretty much any other regional food you want. I spent the rainy day walking through the Brunnenmarkt, allegedly Vienna’s longest street market, fantasizing about all the specialty foods I would buy if I had kitchen access.

Visit a museum

I only had time to visit one museum during my free weekend in Vienna and chose the Leopold. It has a decent collection of paintings by Gustav Klimt. My favorite was Death and Life.

I am now also a fan of Egon Schiele, who I wasn’t familiar with before my trip to the Leopold. His existential angst is palpable, and I found it utterly relatable. According to a plaque in the Leopold, Schiele was “especially fascinated by death and described the process of ‘coming and vanishing’ as the central, transgressive path to a deeper understanding of the world.”

I found this moving and purchased a graphic novel of his autobiography in German.

Check out the municipal trash incinerator

If you had told me before visiting Vienna that I would buy an espresso in a cute coffee shop inside a municipal energy company, I would have been unable to imagine what you were talking about. But that is exactly the experience I had.

Friedensreich Hundertwasser, an Austrian visual artist and designer passionate about the environment, redesigned the Spittelau incinerator in the 1980s. He was known for saying things like, “The straight line leads to the downfall of our civilization.”

Vienna’s municipal waste incinerators produce energy for around 50,000 of the city’s households. You can tour the incinerator, and the employees will explain the whole process in addition to Vienna’s robust rules about recycling. The incinerator is also close to nightclubs.

The post An Exclusive Lazo Mag Travel Guide to Austria’s Capital first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

A group of islands off mainland Tanzania, with two large islands called Pemba and Unguja, Zanzibar has a 20,000-year-old history that brought both progress and oppression to the archipelago. For centuries, Africans, Arabs, Europeans, and Indians influenced this land known as “Spice Island,” creating a multiracial and multicultural society. 

Trade and the origins of multiculturalism

Historically, the Bantu people occupied Zanzibar. But trade began as early as 2,400 BC, bringing different peoples from around the world. 

The first traders arrived in dhows, traditional sailing vessels common in the Red Sea and Indian Ocean. Traders used dhows to settle in Zanzibar in the 11th and 12th centuries and intermarried with Africans. 

The first Europeans to arrive on the islands came with the Portuguese colonist and explorer Vasco Da Gama. He arrived in 1499 during the Age of Exploration. After that, Zanzibar was a part of the Portuguese Empire for almost 200 years. 

The European slave trade in the Indian Ocean began in the early 16^th century. The Portuguese established vast trade routes to sell enslaved people to the West Indies. It later evolved into the Indian Ocean Slave trade, also known as the Triangular Trade.

In 1698, Zanzibar fell under the control of the Sultanate of Oman, who imposed a totalitarian regime based on an economy that prioritized cash crops and trade. Spice plantations, ivory, and slavery formed the pillars of the economy. Stone Town, Zanzibar’s capital, transformed into the wealthiest city in East Africa due to exploitation.

At the time, hundreds of dhows sailed across the Indian Ocean from India, Persia, and Arabia, bringing dates, sugar, cloth, and iron. Traders left with ships full of copal, cloves, coconuts, rice, ivory, tortoiseshell, and enslaved people. The Sultan of Oman, Said bin Sultan al-Busaid, moved his capital from Muscat to Stone Town in 1840 because of Zanzibar’s prosperity. Zanzibar enjoyed international acclaim for its slaves and spices into the 19^th century.

A fraught history of slavery and exploitation  

Of all the economic activities happening in Zanzibar, slavery was the most profitable. Most of the Africans living on the island were stolen from across East and Central Africa and transported in dhows to the archipelago. 

Around 40,000 to 50,000 enslaved people arrived in Zanzibar each year. A third worked on the clove and coconut plantations of Zanzibar and Pemba. Many were exported to the Ottoman Empire, Arabia, Persia, and Egypt. 

Over 1 million people were sold into slavery, according to official records, but experts believe that the number was likely much higher. Over 30 percent of enslaved men died each year due to the inhumane conditions on the plantations, leading to an increase in the demand for slaves.

Slavery on the islands ended seven years after Zanzibar became a British protectorate in 1890. However, tensions sprung up between the local populations and the Arabs who controlled the slave economy. 

The British government gave Zanzibar self-governing rights in December 1963. A month later, the people rose up and killed several thousand Arabs and Indians in what became known as the Zanzibar Revolution. The revolution was one of the bloodiest incidents of anti-Arab violence in postcolonial Africa. 

New languages and fusion cuisine

Migration also shaped the national language of Tanzania, Swahili. In the 1930s, British colonial authorities worked alongside African writers and scholars to standardize the Bantu dialect in Unjunga and form the basis for the Swahili language. 

Today, over 200 million people in 13 countries in South East Africa speak Swahili, making it the most commonly spoken language on the African continent.

The history of multiculturalism on the island also gave birth to a wide array of fusion dishes. 

Born and raised in Zanzibar’s Stone Town, Lodi Mohammed launched Eat Like a Zanzibari, an authentic street food tour. He believes that “food brings communities together.” 

“Our quintessential Zanzibar dishes are most heavily influenced by Arab and Indian cuisine,” he explained. “African cuisine is of secondary influence.” 

Mohammed identifies the best food spots in Zanzibar as local kitchens. “Most of the ingredients for Zanzibar’s dishes are sourced right on the island.”

Mohammed’s personalized food recommendations

• Fresh Flatbreads – Hand-rolled chapatis to “mkate la ufuta” (a fluffy sesame bread) to “mkate wa ajam” (bread rolled and baked in stone ovens).

• Urojo – A savory, colorful bowl of soup made of either tamarind, mango, or sometimes flour and turmeric, and filled with tasty morsels like Bhajia (similar to falafel), Kachori (spicy potato balls), and Chipsi za muhogo (cassava chips). 

• ·Sweets – We love our Mahanjumati (tasty morsels) in Zanzibar. Kaimati are dumplings coated with sweet syrup, often served during Ramadan. Halwa is a jelly treat made with local spices. 

Other Swahili dishes:

• Pilau – The Swahili version of rice has cinnamon and cumin spices. The spice ranges from mild to severe, containing rice, beef, and legumes.

• Mbaazi za Naazi – Pigeon peas cooked in coconut milk and commonly accompanied with Mahamri. 

• Wali na Maharage – Swahili beans that can be spicy or sweet.
  
• Chipsi Mayai – A sauteed potato omelet.

• Mahamri – Sweet, deep-fried pieces of dough (similar to donuts).

• Bhajia na Ukwaju – This dish has a touch of tamarind sauce.

New arrivals and repurposing dhows

Zanzibar is one of Africa’s most popular tourist attractions today. There were 260,644 international tourists in 2020. That doubled to 548,503 in 2022. 

The spice industry has also developed through tourism, making spice farm tours increasingly popular.

On the islands, people now use dhows as commercial vessels to sustain the livelihoods of thousands of locals. Dhows are slowly becoming extinct, meaning that a vital aspect of Zanzibari culture could disappear due to competition from modern sailing vessels. However, dhows are still the villains and heroes of Zanzibar’s story, and today, they ferry locals and tourists around the island. 

Julia Björck, a travel agent from Dream Dhows Zanzibar, “combined history with comfort” by offering dhow cruises to tourists that are “an eco-friendly way to see the sea.” 

Björck said that centuries ago, dhows would “follow the winds and monsoons.” 

“Zanzibar was not always the last stop. Many continued down to Mozambique, which led Zanzibar to become a cultural hub for many different people,” she explains. “This is one reason why many mixed people are living in Zanzibar, including Indians and Arabs.”

Dhows were historically the most significant contributor to constant movement on and off the island. By using a dhow today, you can appreciate the slow and simple aspects of Swahili culture.

Modern tourism and innovations

Today, globalization has enabled migration and multiculturalism to evolve into initiatives centered around the Indian Ocean that create employment opportunities for local women. 

For the last several decades, the indigenous Mwani women have harvested seaweed in tune with the moon and the tides of the Indian Ocean to create skincare products. 

Klaartje Schade, director of Mwani Zanzibar, explains that this practice began on the island in the 1980s. It quickly gained traction, and currently, about 23,000 women farmers work daily on the company’s seaweed farms. 

Women farmers in Zanzibar often make roughly 30 percent of the local minimum wage. Mwani Zanzibar offers higher-paid work and benefits to all its female farmers. Seaweed farming has helped create employment for local women. 

Another international initiative on the island is the Marine Cultures, a non-profit that works on small conservation projects through Sea Sponge Farming. Thomas Saachi, the organization’s president, also works with female farmers. 

Because sea sponge farming is new in Zanzibar, Saachi said the organization is “constantly confronted with new challenges, new pests, new diseases.”

“There is very little knowledge about sponges, and everything has to be reinvented and tried out,” he said. 

Saachi believes the female farmers he employs “make a small contribution to understanding the interrelationships in the sea.” The organization also helps reduce plastic waste. 

On Stone Town

The old Arabian architecture of Stone Town is an ode to the past that provides an insight into the dark history that built the archipelago.  

Migration and multiculturalism are at the core of this island’s vibrant history and culture. 

While visiting the island, visitors can see the street food markets and spice farms and learn about Swahili culture from locals fighting to preserve their way of life. Ironically, the best place to eat Swahili cuisine is on dhows.

Mwende Mutuli Musau is an award-winning travel writer from Nairobi, Kenya, currently based in Brisbane, Australia.

This journalism was possible thanks to the generous support of George Mason University’s Mercatus Center and its Pluralism and Civil Exchange program.

The post On the Dark Origins of Tanzania’s Spice Island first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

Resilience and coexistence in the wake of colonialism

“Wakhtán,” came the customary greeting in the Kamëntšá language as I entered the house of Batá Margarita Chicunque, 80. Margarita is one of the most highly respected artisans in Sibundoy, locally renowned for her mastery of weaving. 

I had come to pick up a capisayo, a ceremonial poncho, which I had commissioned in the traditional style. 

Margarita waved me into her home with a smile that showed the gaps in her teeth. I sat to watch as she put the finishing touches on her work.

Margarita’s hands seemed to move automatically, drawing the fibers together, interweaving red threads with blue, white, and black — the traditional colors of the Kamëntšá. Even as her hands flew across the loom in a series of movements honed by decades of practice, her eyes were on the grainy screen of the antique television, whose light illuminated the narrow confines of her modest workspace.

The broadcast showed the inauguration of Gustavo Petro, the newly elected President of Colombia at that time — and the favored candidate among the two Indigenous communities of the Sibundoy Valley. 

Petro is one of those rare voices in Colombian politics who has shown concern for the welfare of Indigenous communities, who make up 3.4% of the nation’s population.

When my Kamëntšá hosts in Sibundoy learned that Petro had won the hotly contested election of 2022, they cried tears of joy. Many hoped that Petro’s presidency would mark a turning point in a history marred by discrimination against Indigenous peoples. 

For locals of Margarita’s generation, that history is well within living memory.

When Margarita was a girl, she recalls, few outsiders came to Sibundoy. The area was difficult to access at the time. There was only one road into the valley, built in the 1930s by Indigenous forced labor overseen by the Capuchin missionaries who ruled Sibundoy for the better part of the twentieth century.

Empowered by the Colombian state to rule over a large swath of southwestern Colombia, the Capuchins dominated Sibundoy from 1904 to 1970.

A history of forced assimilation

In the days of the Capuchin rule, children caught speaking Kamëntšá or Inga were beaten in the missionary schools and ridiculed by their mestizo peers. The Capuchins claimed they wanted to “civilize the savages” by stripping away their culture and replacing it with the Spanish language, Catholic doctrine, and the Colombian national anthem. 

The Capuchin fathers, who equated Indigeneity with backwardness and idolatry, hoped that with enough brutality, nothing of the Indigenous cultures they came to “civilize” would survive.

At the same time, the Capuchins sought to populate Sibundoy with mestizo settlers brought in from other parts of Colombia. By the mid-twentieth century, settlers from the neighboring city of Pasto and places farther afield like Antioquia — known as the “Whitest” region of Colombia — came to outnumber the valley’s Indigenous communities. 

With a combination of trickery and theft, the mestizos soon came to occupy the best land in the valley, pushing the Indigenous inhabitants to the marshy base, which floods each season and is ill-suited for cultivation.

Though the challenges faced by the Indigenous communities of Sibundoy continued after the dissolution of the Capuchin Mission in 1970, the resilience of people like Margarita demonstrates that the missionaries did not succeed entirely. 

Seventy years after learning how to weave the traditional patterns from her mother, who learned them from her mother before her, Margarita keeps the ancestral arts of her people alive — as do her daughters and granddaughters. 

But Margarita’s craft hasn’t remained unchanged during the decades she made her living at the loom. 

“When I started,” she told me, “we had only sheep wool to weave and stones as beads. We had to make our own natural dyes with plants, which we had to go out and find.”

“Today, we can buy synthetic yarn and plastic beads in all colors,” she added. “Now that the materials are much cheaper and more abundant, everyone can weave.”

Festival season: a microcosm of cultural and religious pluralism

Even though Indigenous traditions like Margarita’s weaving survived the Capuchin Mission, colonization still changed the Indigenous cultures of the valley. Today, the plaza at the center of Sibundoy is known as Interculturality Park, a nod to the mix of cultures in the region.

Both the Kamëntšá and Inga cultures are irreversibly marked by the experience of colonization and the following decades of coexistence with the mestizo population. Not only does every Indigenous person in the valley today speak Spanish — and many no longer speak Kamëntšá or Inga — but almost all are also practicing Catholics. 

Nevertheless, there is something different about the forms of Catholicism practiced in Sibundoy. One example is the festival of Clestrinÿe, which marks the culmination of the Kamëntšá calendar.

Every year on the Monday before Ash Wednesday, the Kamëntšá don their ceremonial regalia, take up their instruments, and embark on a procession that renews their people’s contract with their ancestors, Mother Earth, and the cosmos. Vibrant colors, discordant sounds, and all manner of sights and symbols converge in this gathering of a people celebrating an annual ritual of resistance and renewal.

Once forbidden by overzealous Catholic missionaries, today, the festival gets larger and more festive each year. 

The meaning of the festival, however, is still a topic of active debate within the community. Some ascribe Christian values to it. Others stand by the ancestral interpretations.

And even though the Capuchins failed to stamp out the festival, their successors rebranded it the “Carnival of Pardon,” claiming that Christian notions of forgiveness from sin are part of the festival’s symbolic acts of communal reconciliation. 

This Catholic gloss conferred legitimacy on the festival for some in the community. It also attracted outside interest in the Sibundoy Valley.

Others, however, rebelled against this cooption, preferring to emphasize the festival’s roots in the precolonial past — a world concerned with ancestral spirits, ancient deities, and the annual renewal of a delicate cosmic balance. Today, both interpretations vie for legitimacy in the tumult of the deeply syncretic Clestrinÿe festival. 

At stake in such debates is the question of what it means to be Kamëntšá following centuries of intercultural contact and exchange. This question permeates every aspect of life for the Indigenous communities of Sibundoy, where differing cultures and identities increasingly converge.

Tourism: a help or a hindrance?

In recent years, the growth of Colombia’s tourism sector has attracted increasing interest in the Sibundoy Valley.

Many of the foreign visitors who come through the valley come in search of yagé — the local term for a potent hallucinogenic brew better known as ayahuasca. 

As in much of the Amazon, the Indigenous communities of the Sibundoy Valley have long used yagé as a sacred plant medicine. 

At a ceremony with an Inga shaman, a French tourist in his mid-30s explained why he had come to seek the sacred brew.

“In the West, there’s no more spirituality,” he told me. “We’ve become disconnected from nature, from ourselves. Yagé helps restore that connection.”

Today, thousands of foreigners — mostly Westerners — flock to the Sibundoy Valley every year to experience the powerful visions produced by the brew. 

The valley’s indigenous inhabitants have mixed reactions towards these foreigners. 

Some members of the Indigenous communities regard the newcomers with suspicion. When I met with the governor of the Kamëntšá council to request permission to take photos and videos during Clestrinÿe, he initially suspected me of spying on the community’s inner affairs. My host family had to intercede on my behalf — with lengthy advocacy spoken in the ceremonial register of the Kamëntšá language — for him to agree. Such reticence is typical among the more traditional members of the community.

Not everyone is so suspicious of outsiders, though. Where some see threats, others see opportunities.

The 40-year-old Rosario Jacanamijoy, currently a government bureaucrat in the Colombian capital of Bogotá, dreams of someday returning to her native valley to buy back the lands that mestizo settlers swindled from her grandparents decades ago. Once she buys back her family’s land, she plans to build a series of cabins to start an ecolodge to promote sustainable tourism.

“We would like the whole world to know our community,” she told me. “Our colors, our weaving, our territory.”

Defending the land for future generations

Despite the optimism of people like Rosario, outside threats to the valley’s Indigenous communities persist in the form of multinational mining concessions, road development projects, and the long-lasting Colombian armed conflict. 

When the Capuchins left, others took their place. First came the oil barons, Western corporations that installed pipelines in the neighboring lowlands, rich in the so-called black gold of the Amazon. In the process, they displaced Indigenous populations and polluted ecosystems.

Then came the guerrillas, narcos, and paramilitaries, who brought the violence of the Colombian conflict up the slopes of the Andes and into the Sibundoy Valley. Locals soon found their family members threatened, or even disappeared, at the hands of these bandits. Such violence continues sporadically.

Today, Western-owned multinational mining companies like Libero Copper continue to threaten the autonomy and health of Indigenous communities and their natural environments. At the same time, projects like the long-stalled San Francisco-Mocoa Bypass, a highway development project, threaten Kamëntšá land claims and local ecosystems.

Even so, Antonio Juagibioy, an Inga shaman, land defender, and former Inga council member, finds cause for hope.

As we walked along a mountain path over the beautiful and verdant Sibundoy Valley with the Territorial Guard — an ethnically mixed Kamëntšá-Inga unit of land defenders who patrol the territory for trespassers — Juagibioy told me that their region has its own soul, life, and air. 

“Why do we defend the territory? For those on the way, the children, the youth, all those still walking behind us,” he said. “For them, we defend the territory so that one day they’ll have a place to say, ‘Thanks to the elders, those who came before, for leaving us this.’”

Rowan Glass is an anthropologist, journalist, writer, and filmmaker based in Colombia. 

This journalism was possible thanks to the generous support of George Mason University’s Mercatus Center and its Pluralism and Civil Exchange program.

The post Cultural Pluralism and the Indigenous People of the Sibundoy Valley first appeared on Lazo Magazine.

A group of friends went to Berlin for a long weekend in November.

There are some trips that are just short reprieves that quickly fade from memory. And then others should feel short because they are, yet are somehow so meaningful that they completely alter your state of mind. They pull you out of the parts of your life where you’re stuck and into the version of the world you wish existed, showing you that it’s possible to feel differently.

My recent trip to Berlin was one of those latter journeys. It’s hard to say precisely why. Maybe it was because I was so present and engaged with what was in front of me that I forgot about my responsibilities or worries in a way that felt revolutionary, as if my real life had completely faded away and all that was left was the experience at hand.

Perhaps it was because I was in an environment in which I fit in, something that rarely happens to me, a perpetual and professional interloper. Or maybe it was because I was surrounded by friends who showed me the type of platonic love I wished to experience during every mundane interaction. Perhaps the beats of Tresor rearranged my brainwaves, or I became entranced because the city is, as David Bowie said, “the greatest cultural extravaganza that one could imagine.”

Whatever it was, this short trip felt like true contentment. There was a warmth and glow to every interaction, a knowing nod of acknowledgment with every rumpled, hooded stranger, a sense that somehow I’d returned to where my soul was waiting for me. In other words, I had a very nice time in Berlin. I wonder why it took me so many years to go back.

And it seems I’ve brought back whatever magic I picked up in Germany because people keep looking at me and smiling. On the train and the streets, people make eye contact and nod for apparently no reason, as if there were some invisible sheen about me that I didn’t previously possess. I’ve come back softer and nicer and less tired, with a renewed enthusiasm for life and work. If only every short holiday could be like this.

My dear friend Aurélien Thome, a musician and audio engineer based in Paris, took some photographs of our trip. They’ll give you a glimpse of what we saw as we wandered around Germany’s capital. We spent most of our time in Kreuzberg, which I still think is somehow the most interesting neighborhood in Berlin, even 10 years after my first visit to the city.

The post Berlin: An Authentic View of Germany’s Capital first appeared on Lazo Magazine.