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Huge abandoned houses. The terrible smell of sewage. A guy sleeps on the pavement in broad sunlight. A rusty iron bridge belongs more in some prison movie than in a tropical holiday destination. Old men shout at us from across the street. Dented, miserable-looking cars, rows and rows of closed

I ignore the blisters on my rugged hands as I tear a vine with a seemingly never-ending root from the soil. Yes, those hands that are routinely darting over the keyboard and performing other delicate tasks. After all, we become writers because we’re afraid of hard physical work, the heavy

Entering a new culture, you often wonder: is it safe? In Belize as well, we questioned the safety. If you don’t know what to expect, you expect the worst. The first week in my cute little student town in Tartu I walked around with a pocket knife in my palm.

I realise that the next confession is not going to win me many rock ‘n roll points. But fuck that, Truth is my core value. And besides, I’m too old to pretend to be cooler than I actually am. So here it goes: I like statistics. Don’t get me wrong:

“Kitty, kitty, kitty!” our guide called, and he threw another sardine into the reddish-brown water. It was so hot on Caye Caulker, Belize, that the bottoms of my sneakers melted on the wooden bridge. About one thousand insects buzzed around my head. The only things missing from the mangrove were