This Kerala couple documents stories of travelling in a refurbished car

 The couple, who run the YouTube channel TinPin Stories, started a new travel series two months ago in which they plan to cover 13 states in India by car.

A young couple from Kerala’s Thrissur, Lakshmi Krishna, 23, and Harikrishnan J, 31, are behind TinPin Stories, a travel vlog that has been accumulating followers on social media by the day. The couple’s travel stories are unique in the sense that they are leading what they call a ‘car life’ – they travel in a refurbished car – sleeping, eating, travelling and living in it.

While their YouTube channel has been around for a year now, documenting travel stories from India and outside, they started a new travel series two months ago. Vlogs from this series have created quite a buzz. Till now, the couple has covered four states – Karnataka, Maharashtra, Gujarat and Rajasthan. They will cover Punjab, Jammu & Kashmir, Himachal Pradesh, Uttarakhand, Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, Andhra Pradesh, Telangana and Tamil Nadu before returning to Kerala.

Within a few days of the journey, their vlog has been amassing oodles of subscribers with a tremendous increase from 9,000 to 68,000 by the day.

Harikrishnan used to work as an inside sales officer in Bengaluru and Lakshmi had completed her internship as a graphic designer. The couple decided to quit their jobs to chase after their dream to travel and explore the wonders of the country.

“When we first started talking after our marriage was fixed last year, we realised that both of us share a passion for telling stories and we both love travelling. Once we got married, we started travelling more and decided to share the interesting moments in our journey through our YouTube channel,” says Lakshmi.

“We even thought of travelling to Thailand on a motorbike. However, we had to call off our plan due to the pandemic. When the country was returning to normalcy after the lockdown, we began planning new trips as we were tired of the humdrum routine at home,” Harikrishnan adds.

The idea of travelling by car began with the concept of making the trip budget-friendly, and on October 28, 2019, they set out to chase their dreams in a car. Now Lakshmi and Harikrishnan are Kerala’s first ‘Car Life’ couple.

The refurbishments to the car, done by the couple themselves in a low-cost manner, can easily be adjusted or removed when not in use. The changes are only for privacy purposes and no illegal modifications have been done.

“We have set up a bed in the car by folding the back seat. A small extension of a plywood piece attached to a steel rod is inserted into the back seat’s headrest slot, the height of which can be adjusted. We have also set up an exhaust fan using a laptop cooling pad on a polycarbonate sheet. The USB cable attached to it can be plugged into a power bank that works for 8-10 hours on a single charge,” explains Harikrishnan.

For privacy, a cut-out flex piece pasted with black vinyl paper is used to cover the windows of the back seat and the trunk. A curtain has also been set up to separate the front and back seating areas.

They carry a single-burner stove and use a 5 kg cooking cylinder that can be refilled, to cook at stopovers. To avoid using plastic water bottles, they carry three water cans of 10 litres each. Two are used for drinking purpose, usually refilled from RO filter stations, and the other for cleaning. The minimalistic setup has been done at the cost of only Rs 4,000.

“We prefer to explore rural areas and showcase the countryside, which are rarely known to people. Each place has its own beauty, dignity and culture. Our favourites are Kutch district in Gujarat, Gokarna in Karnataka as well as Badami, a historical place with lots of stories that is famous for its incredible rock-cut structural temples,” says Lakshmi.

Savouring authentic cuisine is an enticing part of their travel experience. They list Kutchi dabeli from the Rann of Kutch, the popular Maharashtrian dish Misal pav, and Aurangabad’s famous Naan khaliya as some of their favorites.

Talking about the practical difficulties of travelling by car, they said at times finding a safe place to park the car at night took a little longer than expected, which led to delay in sleeping.

“We try not to make it obvious. I make the bed and Lakshmi sleeps for a few kilometres before we can find a petrol bunk or a safe place to park the car so that people notice us less,” says Harikrishnan.

The couple also had some issues while editing and uploading videos in a timebound manner. Though their daily routine is a mess, they say they enjoy it. After seeking permission to use washrooms, they freshen themselves up mostly at petrol bunks.

The challenges that the pandemic threw their way were significantly less when the country was gradually returning to a semblance of normality in most places. However, after entering Rajasthan, they unexpectedly had to take a room as most of the districts in the state were under a curfew from 8 pm to 6 am.

The couple had begun their expedition with their modest savings and now their source of income are their YouTube channel and TinPin Stores, an Instagram store for ladies clothing and accessories run by Lakshmi.

“We would recommend such trips to any couple. The experience we get from the journeys is beyond words, it has made us better human beings. We get a chance to interact with so many people and learn from them. Travel make us humbler and we feel blessed to have been given these wonderful experiences. Our country is very vibrant and each place has incredible stories to share,” the couple conclude.

(Source: TNM)

From Bengaluru to the airport for Rs 10: Why new train service is a game changer

 Five trains are now plying between the city and the airport, offering a new path for thousands of passengers and workers.

On Monday evening, Rahul Bhakta, a 27-year-old resident of Bengaluru, frantically checked cab fares to Bengaluru International Airport, located 35 km from the city centre. The aircraft maintenance engineer had a flight to Chennai at 8.30 pm but scrolling through his phone, his face fell as he saw that the cab fare was almost half the cost of his flight ticket. 

“It looked like it was going to rain and that would mean a price surge in getting a cab,” Rahul said. He considered taking the bus to the airport but it still set him back by Rs 270. “There was also the evening rush-hour traffic,” says Rahul.

Until Monday, a bus or a cab were Rahul’s only options of public transport to the airport from his home in Kalyan Nagar. But a newly-launched service is now changing that and adding a third option to the mix  — a suburban train from the city to the airport at just Rs 10. 

“The timings matched my flight. The station was 15 minutes from my home so I went there and asked at the counter. They said that the train to the airport has started,” said Rahul, holding up his ticket. 

Five trains will operate from Bengaluru to the airport for the next few months — two trains will leave the KSR Railway Station at 4:45 am and 9 pm and three other trains will operate from Yelahanka (7 am), Yeshwantpur (8:30 am) and Cantonment (5:55 pm) stations. 

Five more trains will operate in the other direction from the airport to the city, with the earliest train at 6:23 am and the last train at 10:38 pm.

The five trains plying between the city and the airport could make a world of difference for the 25,000 people who work at the airport as well as flight travellers and those who accompany the passengers to the airport. 

According to officials at the Bengaluru International Airport, the daily traffic at the airport is around 30,000. The halt station was built by Bengaluru International Airport Limited (BIAL), the company which manages the airport.

“Till yesterday, there was no option to go to the airport without spending at least Rs 250. The train service is also a cheaper and safer way to commute to the airport since you are not exposed to the pollution of road traffic. These trains can take around 700 people considering the [physical] distancing rules. So the service can now be used by around 3500 people every day. The railways should aim to increase this number,” Rajkumar Dugar, convenor of  Citizens for Citizens (C4C), and one of the activists who advocated for the airport halt station, said. 

Rahul boarded the train at 6 pm and was the sole passenger to disembark at the airport about an hour and seventeen minutes later. Though the train provides an affordable and traffic-free path to Bengaluru’s airport, and has been a long-standing demand from activists, there is still little awareness among prospective passengers. 

And while Rahul was familiar with the service, he still nervously glanced at his phone every few minutes to follow the train’s path. Channasandra station: 6:24 pm. Bettahalasur station: 6:55 pm. 

“It is a new route and there was confusion among travellers. I kept checking the progress of the train on my phone because after all, I had boarded after seeing a Facebook post. I was still unsure that the train would take me to the airport,” said Rahul. 

To his relief, the train reached the newly-built airport station at 7:12 pm after leaving Cantonment Railway Station at 5:55 pm. The halt station is located near the boundary of the airport and a free shuttle bus awaited Rahul. 

Rahul reached the airport at 7.30 pm, an hour before his flight. “I spent Rs 60 for the auto and the train ride and I didn’t get late for the flight. Even though the train was delayed by 20 minutes, the ride was definitely more comfortable than being stuck in Bengaluru traffic,” a beaming Rahul said. 

Delays mar first day of service

However, all was not well during the launch of the service on Monday. The first train left KSR Station at 4.45 am amid fanfare and with high-profile passengers on-board. But commuters complained that the train from Yeshwantpur to the airport at 8:30 am was delayed by an hour. The train travelling from the airport to Cantonment Station was similarly delayed and only arrived at 9:30 pm, an hour late. 

Mohan, who manages an electrical shop in Chikkaballapura, is a regular commuter on the route from Yeshwantpur which extends beyond the airport. He said that there were no delays in the route in the weeks before the airport service was launched. “Today was the first time in a while there was a long delay, both while going towards the airport and later while coming back to the city,” Mohan says. 

A railway official played down concerns over the delays stating that it will review the trains in the line and decongest it. “We will be addressing the issues that came up on the first day,” a railway official says. 

The 24-km of rail line between Yehalanka and Devanahalli is a single track, which means that trains can only go once every 30 minutes in either direction. The airport halt station lies in between these two stations. “Ideally, the railways should take up doubling work on this line,” Mohan says.

Rajkumar Dugar however explains that since a double line may take years to build, upgrading the railway station in Doddajala to a crossing station at the cost of Rs 10 crore will ease the congestion. The Doddajala station, which is over 100 years old, is the penultimate station before the airport halt station while travelling from the city. 

Despite the challenges, commuters like Rahul say that the airport train is the only sensible mode of transportation to the airport. 

“When a cab ride can cost as much as a plane ticket, having a cheap train service to the airport is essential. I will be encouraging people to use this service. It can be improved but if you plan in advance, this is a great alternative to go to the airport,” Rahul said, adding, “The railways should ensure that there are minimal delays.”

(Source: TNM)

'There are more births in the car park': A midwife's experience of the Covid-19 crisis

These are strange times we are working in, but I haven’t felt frightened, and neither should the women I’m helping

The word “breathe” has never been more potent than at the moment.

The instruction to breathe is something midwives say an awful lot to women in labour. It’s also being said a great deal to patients on ventilators whose lungs have been taken over by Covid-19.

In the hospital where I work as a midwife, there are double doors leading from our midwifery unit to a makeshift intensive care unit. 

On one side, I am involved with the unborn who are yet to breathe, while on the other there are people unable to breathe independently. The proximity of brand new life and end of life separated by double doors is very affecting for me and all my colleagues.

The women I look after must be aware, but when they are allocated a delivery room, they are completely absorbed in giving birth. It’s almost a holiday from the shitstorm. These are strange times we are working in, but I haven’t felt frightened, and neither should the women I’m helping.

‘As a midwife, every transaction I have with a woman and her family is a political one.’ Photograph: David Gee/Alamy Stock Photo

Antenatal classes are online and a lot of care is delivered by telephone; it seems to have worked very well. If a woman has to come in, our emergency obstetric unit is open, but anybody else attending must wait outside. Most birth partners have been incredibly understanding, given that we don’t even provide chairs in the corridor outside. Often, there’s a line of physically distanced people.

More women have started asking to have an induction or elective caesarean section to try and gain a bit of control in the circumstances. Once someone is in established labour, the birth partner can stay until delivery. We try and keep people in there as long as possible, but it depends how many people are in at one time. 

Once the woman leaves and goes into postnatal care, it’s goodbye to the birth partner at the doors. The only exceptions we’ve made have been when the woman is experiencing mental health issues.

More people have been delivering babies in the car park than usual. It’s always been the third most popular place after the delivery suite and antenatal wards. People are leaving it to the last minute because of fears around coronavirus. More are coming in in advanced labour; some decide to stay at home until they get anxious and come into hospital.

The postnatal ward is a lovely place to be at the moment. The curtains are open, and women are helping each other and bonding in a way that we thought was a thing of the past. One of the things we will probably review is how often partners are allowed in. Now that is not happening, there is a spirit of female empowerment and togetherness. Those who have had babies before are helping first-timers with breastfeeding, for example. There is also the ability to share stories and to come to terms with your birth experience.

There have been cases of stillborn babies and the key thing that has changed is the way in which the death is registered. There’s a lot more having to be done online. Once a child has been separated from the mother there is no further opportunity to see the baby.

It is difficult, but not necessarily in the most obvious way. Sometimes, at the point of delivery women don’t want to see their stillborn baby; they’re completely and utterly closed to the idea and then change their mind a day later. Managing that situation requires sensitivity. We have very good bereavement midwives who are experienced in helping women down this road. 

We’ve been 20% down on the workforce generally, and have had to call in agency staff. It’s a busy unit anyway but it has felt most of the time like we’re slightly ahead of it going completely pear-shaped. We’re nine weeks into this crisis. It’s amazing what you get used to.

We are wearing various degrees of personal protective equipment (PPE). For women with coronavirus, we wear full PPE. It’s very hot. It’s also alienating because a huge amount of our job, which has a massive bearing on the woman’s experience, is done through eye contact, voice, movement and being able to read people’s facial expressions.

Panic has a huge impact on a woman’s perception of her experience. If you’re looked after by someone in a visor, where all you can see is a reflection of the window, you’re not seeing physical cues. The lack of human touch is another unfortunate consequence of PPE.

I became a midwife 10 years ago when I was in my mid-50s for political reasons, namely to support the NHS. Sadly, the biggest social change I have lived through has been the gradual denigration of the health service. I’ve benefited my entire life from an excellent welfare system. My father died very young having had fantastic treatment, and my husband died of cancer aged 44. He also received brilliant care which didn’t cost one penny.

As a midwife, every transaction I have with a woman and her family is a political one. I am the NHS when someone gives birth. By providing the service that I do, I feel I am making a persistent political statement that we should safeguard the amazing gift of our health service.

Angela Barry is a midwife in a London hospital

(Source: The Guardian)

'I left my campervan in Argentina'

Imagine breaking free. You sell your possessions, buy a van, pack it with what you need, and go. For months or years you live a frugal life, going wherever you want. But for thousands who made this dream a reality, coronavirus brought them to a sudden halt, writes Paula Dear, and left them stranded with a van and a vanload of kit on the far side of the world.

For Radka and Ivar the plan began to form when they met in 2016. Both working as personal carers for a disabled man in Trondheim, central Norway, they would cross paths as she finished the night shift and he took over for the day.

"We met for like five minutes, to change the shift. I was very charming in the morning," jokes Radka.

RADKA AND IVAR

"And then you would stay for breakfast sometimes," Ivar adds.

Radka was the more experienced traveller. She had previously hitchhiked from Russia to south-east Asia and was preparing to do the same from Argentina to Alaska. But after falling in love with Ivar, who was in the process of retraining as a nurse, she faced a dilemma.

"There were lots of conversations. I said, 'You have to promise me that once you're done studying you'll go with me.' It was a deal-breaker, and Ivar adopted my dream very quickly!" she says.

In the meantime, Radka took a six-week trip to Patagonia with a friend, and at one point hitched a lift with a woman called Silvia from Ushuaia in Argentina, the world's southernmost city. They stayed in touch, and three years later this would turn out to be a critical stroke of luck.

Radka and Ivar's plan slowly morphed from backpacking to travelling the Americas by van, and they picked up a second-hand Toyota Hiace. With help from Radka's dad, they built a basic bed and kitchen in the back, and storage for their gear - including climbing and freediving equipment, bicycles and an inflatable canoe.

"We needed a van because Ivar has a shedload of sports stuff," says Radka. "But also it's the freedom of it. When we are inside the van, with gas for two months and food for several weeks, we can be totally off grid. We thought it would be great to have comfort and the ability to drive wherever we want."

RADKA AND IVAR

Ivar, who'd previously been a climbing instructor, studied hard for his nursing degree and they worked "every single job that came our way" to save money, says Radka, who would often finish a nightshift and go on to do cleaning jobs before having four hours off ahead of the next nightshift.

She developed terrible sleeping problems, she says: "I burnt out and made myself ill. But I did it because I had a dream, and I wanted to make it come true."

In the flurry of preparations, they were still making last-minute modifications to the van on the day they drove it to the port in Germany for its voyage across the Atlantic and through the Panama Canal to Chile.

Six weeks later, in early January they were in San Antonio to collect it and begin their epic journey. It was the height of summer and their plan was to loop down at a leisurely pace to the southern tip of Argentina - the symbolic start of their one-to-two year trip - and then drive north, all the way to Alaska.

So, stopping frequently, they slowly headed south, enjoying hikes in the Chilean island of Chiloé and Argentinian trekking hub of El Chaltén, and a trip to the 5km-wide Perito Moreno glacier. Camping out in nature soon started to smooth out Radka's erratic sleeping patterns.

El Chaltén was "absolutely amazing", says Radka, who had long fantasised about photographing the famous fiery reds and burnt oranges and yellows of the Patagonian autumn, which by this time was already beginning.

"But the weather forecast was bad, so we said, 'Let's go to Ushuaia and when we come back this way it's going to be even nicer colours,'" Ivar says.

By this stage they were hearing reports of Covid lockdowns in Europe, but were reassured by friends in Argentina and Chile that similar moves seemed unlikely there.

"We were discussing whether we should go to Ushuaia or not, because it's locked in with a Chilean part above it. But there really wasn't any news, and when we asked people they said it was just recommended to wash your hands, no more. So we decided to go. And then it all happened really quickly and we couldn't get back out," says Ivar.

RADKA AND IVAR

Hours after they arrived on 15 March, the borders unexpectedly closed, trapping them on the Argentinian side of Tierra del Fuego island, which can only be exited via a Chilean ferry.

With people being ordered to stay at home or in hotels they decided to drive out of the city and wait out the initial 14-day lockdown in their van. As camping was banned, they had to conceal their plans from the police when they encountered a checkpoint at the edge of Ushuaia. An hour north, at a forest lake called Laguna Margarita, they found a spot to wild-camp.

"We were afraid someone would see us and report us. But we were really deep in the woods, and nobody came," says Ivar.

When the weather allowed, they paddled on the lake or went running. Ivar taught Radka how to rope-climb in the trees. It was tough going at times, too. The wind and rain often forced them inside and there wasn't enough sun to replenish their solar-generated electricity. On day two they ran out of cooking gas, and they were washing in near-freezing water.

But they weren't too worried. Once the two-week confinement was over, they would return to El Chaltén and wait out the crisis - they could happily spend months hiking in the national park's mountains. The lack of gas, however, forced them to drive back towards Ushuaia, and when they picked up a phone signal again it became obvious the crisis was deepening. 

National parks had closed. They read increasingly desperate reports from fellow nomads on Facebook forums.

Moreover, they were "really afraid" they would get into trouble from the police for camping in the car during lockdown. 

"We didn't know how to explain where we'd been for those two weeks, or where we were going," says Radka. She messaged Silvia, the woman who had given her a ride in 2016. Could she vouch for them or provide an address?

En route back to Ushuaia they hit a police checkpoint.

"They were filming us and the car, asking where we had been, where we were going. We tried to tell them we'd been camping but we don't speak good Spanish. I'm not sure they understood," says Ivar.

"We were so stressed we then took off in the wrong direction. When we turned back we were met by two police cars with sirens."

The officers weren't pleased.

"They said they would escort us to our hostel in Ushuaia. They didn't realise we didn't have one."

On the way Radka tried Silvia again, and luckily she responded. Within the half-hour drive she had secured them a friend's rental apartment, and they were escorted right to the door by the police.

RADKA AND IVAR

Two weeks of lockdown in the apartment followed. It was much like those seen elsewhere, with trips to the supermarket or pharmacy allowed, and little else.

"For the first few days we felt OK, binge-watching TV series, enjoying hot showers. But we started to realise this was not going to be a situation for a couple of weeks, and that we really couldn't afford to pay for accommodation for up to six months, because even if they then opened the borders, we'd be out of money. We were quickly getting more and more tired and depressed, and I started having problems sleeping again," says Radka, tearfully.

"When you are at home, I imagine you find things to keep yourself busy - clean or paint or bake, whatever. But being in a foreign flat in a foreign country where you were not planning to stay, it's maybe different," says Radka. "You can't focus on doing something new. You spend your day researching every desperate possibility to get out of there. We were even looking at whether it was possible to sail across the ocean! And when each one is a dead end it feels like such a waste of energy and motivation."

Ivar adds: "It's like waiting in a bus stop, when you don't know exactly when you're going to leave and it's not the place you want to be."

But the decision to leave wasn't straightforward. It slowly crept up on them, says Ivar: "It kind of evolved from possibly going home because it's going to be boring to wait, to realising if we stay three of four more months our well-being might suffer."

When Radka received an SMS from the embassy to say there were repatriation flights from the capital, Buenos Aires, she felt an irresistible pull homewards.

"I felt a bit like a failure when I started to consider going back. We have friends who are staying. It was like we were giving up. But everybody's situation is different."

Radka and Ivar are part of a sizeable community of people who travel and live in vehicles for months or years at a time - sometimes permanently - and are known as "overlanders" or "vanlifers". Some work as they go along, or stop for a while to volunteer, others have already retired. Ask them to #stayathome and, well, it can be a bit complicated. Where?

You might think that as they are equipped to live off-grid, they would be fine during lockdown. In reality, their lifestyle choice depends on the ability to move around, camp, and access services like water, power, gas and toilets. With regional and national borders closed, most campsites shut and wild camping banned, "outsiders" being discouraged in many areas, and bureaucratic headaches over visas and complicated vehicle permits, thousands of travellers around the world are either trapped or having to abandon their homes on wheels and return "home".

In some ways, Covid-19 has been like a game of musical chairs for overlanders, who have found themselves in varying situations depending on where they happened to be when the music stopped.

Around 10,000km north of Ushuaia, in the Colombian city of Medellín, Berliners Anne and Martin are living in their VW Westfalia camper in the driveway of a hostel, where they can use the toilets and showers. That wouldn't be allowed in many places under lockdown but they happened to be staying there while fixing some mechanical issues, when the crisis began. The owners allowed them to stay and they decided to sit it out in their van.

Anne and Martin when the going was good. Anne And Martin

"For us there was never a question of leaving the van behind," says Anne.

"We also didn't really see the point of returning back to Europe as the number of infected people was much higher than here. We don't have a home, as we moved out of our apartment and sold all our belongings. We could stay at our parents' places but, in our mid-30s, it's not really our goal.

"The days are getting really long and repetitive. We are safe and healthy, but we are stuck. We miss being on the road," she says.

Radka and Ivar missed it too, but they couldn't see a light at the end of the tunnel. Luckily, the airport in Ushuaia re-opened and they booked a flight to Buenos Aires. The van and their gear would have to stay behind. But with strict rules in most countries, including Argentina, about how long a foreign-plated car can remain there, they had just one day to work out the logistics and find a place to park it. Again, through Silvia's network they managed to secure written permission from a resident who would allow the van to be parked at his house, and a letter from the customs authorities enabling them to leave it behind until the crisis is over.

"It was a stressful day. We really hope that everything is OK with the papers," says Ivar. "It's incredible how it worked out, although when we parked the van and left it there I was nervous about handing the keys over because we had never met the guy. There's a part of us that's afraid we won't see the van again. Maybe we'll show up and they'll be like, 'What car?!'"

Radka on the journey south, in Los Glaciares national park. RADKA AND IVAR

After they arrived in Buenos Aires, their repatriation flight was refused permission to fly. Just before the next flight, a week later, they were told they hadn't made the list. For nearly three weeks the couple waited in a cheap hostel room in the city, feeling increasingly despondent. They started to question whether they really would get out. Finally, on 7 May, they boarded a Norwegian Air flight to Oslo, costing them €1,300.

Back in Norway, they had to complete 10 days of quarantine, but were lucky to have access to a rural family cabin, where they sat it out in peace.

"We have gone through all the emotions… but right now we're just really happy to be back in Norway," says Ivar.

"On a scale of one to 10, the disappointment is 11," says Radka.

"The longer we stayed and the worse I felt, I said 'OK I admit it, I can't imagine spending another four months like this, so I'm willing to spend some of our savings on going home to Norway where people have a bit more freedom.' I was going crazy."

The self-confessed pessimist of the pair, she worries about whether they can gather the funds to return to Argentina and, if they do, whether tourists will still be welcomed under the "new normal".

"And I feel like we have lost time. If we start the trip again in, say, January, that was a time when we were supposed to be somewhere else [in our life]. I have a hard time letting go."

A few months in Norway will give them some perspective, says Ivar.

"We would have felt worse if it was something that we should have seen coming. I think we did everything we could, and I am at peace with that. I feel like we're pretty lucky compared with many other people. I know we will continue the journey."

'Our car is in Tanzania: we could be fined €1,400'

Many overlanders who have abandoned their vehicles are risking penalties, from fines to confiscation, for failing to drive their van out of the country by the time agreed when they entered. When you drive into a country you usually temporarily import the vehicle for a fixed period, after which penalties begin to be imposed.

ARMIN AND TANJA

Armin and Tanja, from Germany, were driving their 2004 Mitsubishi camper through Tanzania, as part of a planned two-year trip through the Balkans, Africa and South America, when the pandemic struck. Initially hoping to stick it out, they eventually decided to take one of the last repatriation flights out.

"We found a place to store the car safely on private ground. If we hadn't have found that place we definitely would not have left our camper behind," says Armin.

Their carnet de passage - a type of vehicle permit that has a cash deposit related to the value of the car - will expire in June. Attempts to arrange special dispensation with the customs authorities before they left were unsuccessful, and they have so far been unable to get hold of the right people in Tanzania to help them.

ARMIN AND TANJA

"The penalty for an expired carnet in Tanzania would be €1,400 in our case, as it is 20% of the carnet car value. We are lucky that we have quite an old car but still we hope to get out of this without paying. We will ask for a flexible solution," says Armin.

The delay has caused them to cut out the South America leg of their world trip, but they hope to return to Africa by September.

Read Radka and Ivar's blog here.

(Source: BBC)

Child miners aged four living a hell on Earth so YOU can drive an electric car

Awful human cost in squalid Congo cobalt mine that Michael Gove didn’t consider in his ‘clean’ energy crusade

Picking through a mountain of huge rocks with his tiny bare hands, the exhausted little boy makes a pitiful sight.

His name is Dorsen and he is one of an army of children, some just four years old, working in the vast polluted mines of the Democratic Republic of Congo, where toxic red dust burns their eyes, and they run the risk of skin disease and a deadly lung condition. Here, for a wage of just 8p a day, the children are made to check the rocks for the tell-tale chocolate-brown streaks of cobalt – the prized ingredient essential for the batteries that power electric cars.

And it’s feared that thousands more children could be about to be dragged into this hellish daily existence – after the historic pledge made by Britain to ban the sale of petrol and diesel cars from 2040 and switch to electric vehicles.

It heralds a future of clean energy, free from pollution but – though there can be no doubting the good intentions behind Environment Secretary Michael Gove’s announcement last month – such ideals mean nothing for the children condemned to a life of hellish misery in the race to achieve his target.

Dorsen, just eight, is one of 40,000 children working daily in the mines of the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). The terrible price they will pay for our clean air is ruined health and a likely early death.

Almost every big motor manufacturer striving to produce millions of electric vehicles buys its cobalt from the impoverished central African state. It is the world’s biggest producer, with 60 per cent of the planet’s reserves.

The cobalt is mined by unregulated labour and transported to Asia where battery manufacturers use it to make their products lighter, longer-lasting and rechargeable.

The planned switch to clean energy vehicles has led to an extraordinary surge in demand. While a smartphone battery uses no more than 10 grams of refined cobalt, an electric car needs 15kg (33lb).

Goldman Sachs, the merchant bank, calls cobalt ‘the new gasoline’ but there are no signs of new wealth in the DRC, where the children haul the rocks brought up from tunnels dug by hand.

Adult miners dig up to 600ft below the surface using basic tools, without protective clothing or modern machinery. Sometimes the children are sent down into the narrow makeshift chambers where there is constant danger of collapse.

Cobalt is such a health hazard that it has a respiratory disease named after it – cobalt lung, a form of pneumonia which causes coughing and leads to permanent incapacity and even death.

Even simply eating vegetables grown in local soil can cause vomiting and diarrhoea, thyroid damage and fatal lung diseases, while birds and fish cannot survive in the area.

No one knows quite how many children have died mining cobalt in the Katanga region in the south-east of the country. The UN estimates 80 a year, but many more deaths go unregistered, with the bodies buried in the rubble of collapsed tunnels. Others survive but with chronic diseases which destroy their young lives. Girls as young as ten in the mines are subjected to sexual attacks and many become pregnant.

When Sky News investigated the Katanga mines it found Dorsen, working near a little girl called Monica, who was four, on a day of relentless rainfall.

Dorsen was hauling heavy sacks of rocks from the mine surface to a growing stack 60ft away. A full sack was lifted on to Dorsen’s head and he staggered across to the stack. A brutish overseer stood over him, shouting and raising his hand to threaten a beating if he spilt any.

With his mother dead, Dorsen lives with his father in the bush and the two have to work daily in the cobalt mine to earn money for food.

Dorsen’s friend Richard, 11, said that at the end of a working day ‘everything hurts’.

In a country devastated by civil wars in which millions have died, there is no other way for families to survive. Britain’s Department for International Development (DFID) is donating £10.5million between June 2007 and June 2018 towards strengthening revenue transparency and encouraging responsible activity in large and small scale artisanal mining, ‘to benefit the poor of DRC’.

There is little to show for these efforts so far. There is a DRC law forbidding the enslavement of under-age children, but nobody enforces it.

The UN’s International Labour Organisation has described cobalt mining in DRC as ‘one of the worst forms of child labour’ due to the health risks.

Soil samples taken from the mining area by doctors at the University of Lubumbashi, the nearest city, show the region to be among the ten most polluted in the world. Residents near mines in southern DRC had urinary concentrates of cobalt 43 higher than normal. Lead levels were five times higher, cadmium and uranium four times higher.

The worldwide rush to bring millions of electric vehicles on to our roads has handed a big advantage to those giant car-makers which saw this bonanza coming and invested in developing battery-powered vehicles, among them General Motors, Renault-Nissan, Tesla, BMW and Fiat-Chrysler.

Chinese middle-men working for the Congo Dongfang Mining Company have the stranglehold in DRC, buying the raw cobalt brought to them in sacks carried on bicycles and dilapidated old cars daily from the Katanga mines. They sit in shacks on a dusty road near the Zambian border, offering measly sums scrawled on blackboards outside – £40 for a ton of cobalt-rich rocks – that will be sent by cargo ship to minerals giant Zhejiang Huayou Cobalt in China and sold on to a complex supply chain feeding giant multinationals.

Challenged by the Washington Post about the appalling conditions in the mines, Huayou Cobalt said ‘it would be irresponsible’ to stop using child labour, claiming: ‘It could aggravate poverty in the cobalt mining regions and worsen the livelihood of local miners.’

Human rights charity Amnesty International also investigated cobalt mining in the DRC and says that none of the 16 electric vehicle manufacturers they identified have conducted due diligence to the standard defined by the Responsible Cobalt Initiative.


Encouragingly, Apple, which uses the mineral in its devices, has committed itself to treat cobalt like conflict minerals – those which have in the past funded child soldiers in the country’s civil war – and the company claims it is going to require all refiners to have supply chain audits and risk assessments. But Amnesty International is not satisfied. ‘This promise is not worth the paper it is written on when the companies are not investigating their suppliers,’ said Amnesty’s Mark Dummett. ‘Big brands have the power to change this.’

After DRC, Australia is the next biggest source of cobalt, with reserves of 1million tons, followed by Cuba, China, Russia, Zambia and Zimbabwe.

Car maker Tesla – the market leader in electric vehicles – plans to produce 500,000 cars per year starting in 2018, and will need 7,800 tons of cobalt to achieve this. Sales are expected to hit 4.4 million by 2021. It means the price of cobalt will soar as the world gears itself up for the electric car revolution, and there is evidence some corporations are cancelling their contracts with regulated mines using industrial technology, and turning increasingly to the cheaper mines using human labour.

After the terrible plight of Dorsen and Richard was broadcast in a report on Sky News, an emotive response from viewers funded a rescue by children’s charity Kimbilio. They are now living in a church-supported children’s home, sleeping on mattresses for the first time in their lives and going to school.

But there is no such happy ending for the tens of thousands of children left in the hell on earth that is the cobalt mines of the Congo.

(Source: Daily Mail)

Free buses are revolutionising one French city

Dunkirk is a month into a project that makes it the biggest European city to offer entirely free public transport to residents and visitors alike.

One month after the French channel port of Dunkirk introduced free public transport for all, a small revolution is taking place.

Two women, perfect strangers until now, are chatting across the aisle about nothing in particular. One admits she sometimes takes the bus “just for the fun of it”. A young man wearing headphones is charging his mobile in a socket just above the “request stop” button.

The free bus service in Dunkirk was initially offered on weekends and national holidays but was extended a month ago to operate every day. Photograph: Francois Lo Presti/AFP/Getty Images

On another bus, Claude Pointart, 65, who is retired, says free buses mean her pension goes further. “I’m saving money and they come every 10 minutes so I don’t have to wait long. But there’s a lot more people taking the bus so you have to avoid the rush hour if you want to sit. Still, I think it’s a good thing.”

On a city bus making its way around the historic port city, passengers smile at the driver and say “Bonjour” as they board. Some of the city’s fleet of new buses, painted in dazzling colours – pink, orange, green, yellow and blue, with upholstery to match – have wifi. The urban authorities have plans for debates, music and possibly the occasional celebrity on board. A “Sport-Bus” with an interactive game, quiz screen and a selfie camera is already in operation.

Georges Contamin, 51, says he has reconsidered how he travels about the city since the buses became fare-free. “Before, I almost never took the bus, but the fact they are now free as well as the increase in the cost of car fuel has made me reflect on how I get about,” Contamin says.

 I never used the bus before. It was too much bother getting tickets or a pass
Marie, passenger
At the bus stop opposite the port, even the persistent drizzle and howling wind rocking the boats cannot dampen Marie’s enthusiasm. “I never used the bus before,” she says. “It was too much bother getting tickets or a pass. Now I leave the car at home and take the bus to and from work. It’s so easy.”

Residents of Tallin in Estonia pay €2 for a green card which gives them free access to buses, trams and trolleybuses. Photograph: STRINGER/EPA

One month ago, Dunkirk – with a metropolitan population of 200,000 – became the largest city in Europe to offer free public transport. There are no trams, trolleybuses or local commuter trains, but the hop-on-hop-off buses are accessible and free – requiring no tickets, passes or cards – for all passengers, even visitors .

The scheme took its inspiration from Tallinn in Estonia, which in 2013 became the first European capital to offer a fare-free service on buses, trams and trolleybuses, but only to residents who are registered with the municipality. They pay €2 for a “green card”, after which all journeys are free. The city has reported an increase of 25,000 in the number of registered residents – the number previously stood at 416,000 – for which the local authorities receives €1,000 of each resident’s income tax every year.

Free urban transport is spreading. In his research Wojciech Keblowski, an expert on urban research at Brussels Free University, says that in 2017 there were 99 fare-free public transport networks around the world: 57 in Europe, 27 in North America, 11 in South America, 3 in China and one in Australia. Many are smaller than Dunkirk and offer free transit limited to certain times, routes and people.

In February this year, Germany announced it was planning to trial free public transport in five cities – including the former capital Bonn and industrial cities Essen and Mannheim. In June this was downgraded to a slashing of public transport fares to persuade people to ditch cars.

The largest in the world is in Changning , in China’s Hunan province, where free transit has been in operation since 2008. Passenger numbers reportedly jumped by 60% on the day it was introduced.

Free public transport for Dunkirk was a key promise of Patrice Vergriete’s 2014 electoral campaign. Photograph: youaintseenme/Getty Images/iStockphoto

A study into free public transport by online journal Metropolitics found an increase in mobility among older and younger people, and an increased sense of freedom.

Niort in west France introduced free buses for its 125,000 residents a year ago. Like Dunkirk, its income from fares was around 10%. The city authorities say passenger numbers have been boosted by 130% on some routes.

One month on, the Dunkirk mayor, Patrice Vergriete, who promised free public transport in his 2014 election campaign, says the project has been an overwhelming success, with a 50% increase in passenger numbers on some routes, and up to 85% on others.

Sitting in his large office under a poster of Nelson Mandela, Vergriete claims it is a win-win measure for his home city, where previously 65% of trips were made by car, 5% by bus and 1% by bicycle. The other 29% walked.

“The subject of free public transport is full of dogma and prejudice and not much research. This dogma suggests that if something is free it has no value. We hear this all the time in France,” he says.

Money, he says, is the obvious inconvenience. Before the buses were free, fares raised around 10% of the network’s €47m (£41.6m) annual running costs. A further 60% was funded by the versement transport, a French public transport levy on companies and public bodies with more than 11 employees, and 30% came from the local authority. Vergriete says a rise in the company transport tax has made up the fare shortfall – meaning no rise in taxes for local households.

Bus routes have been extended, with special lanes and city centre priority introduced. The fleet has been expanded from 100 to 140 buses, including new greener vehicles which run on natural gas.

“The increase in passengers since it went free has surprised us; now we have to keep them. We’re trying to make people look at buses differently. We have put the bus back into people’s head as a means of transport, and it has changed attitudes.

 It may be that the financial cost is too great, but don’t underestimate the social advantages. You can’t put a price on mobility and social justice.
Patrice Vergriete
“Before, when they paid, it was a service and they were customers. They may have been only contributing 10% of the cost of running the service but they thought it was theirs. Now it’s a public service they look at it differently. They say ‘bonjour’ to the driver, they talk to each other. We are changing perceptions and transforming the city with more vivre ensemble. We are reinventing the public space.

“Before the bus was for those who had no choice: the young, the old, the poor who don’t have cars. Now it’s for everyone.”

Free public transport, however, also has its critics. The French transport union UTP believes fare-free transport is often “associated in France with a lack of value and, by extension, a lack of respect”.

Passengers wait on a Paris metro platform. Photograph: Alamy Stock Photo

Claude Faucher of the UTP said: “That it should be free for those passengers with financial difficulties … could be perhaps justified. However, completely fare-free for all users would, we believe, deprive [public] transport of resources that are useful and necessary for development.”

In Paris the income from tickets on public transport is reported to make up half the running costs. When mayor Anne Hidalgo suggested she would look at scrapping fares, Frédéric Héran, a transport economist, said the measure “made no sense”.

“Who will the new public transport users be?” he asked. “All studies have shown they will be cyclists, then pedestrians and very few motorists. This clearly shows it’s an anti-cycling, anti-pedestrian measure and not very discouraging to cars.”

Vergriete believes this is all part of an erroneous received dogma. He admits free public transport may not work everywhere, but says that, as well as being good for the environment, it is a social measure, a gesture of “solidarity” and promotes a more egalitarian redistribution of wealth than tax cuts.

“We have been pragmatic: we looked at the advantages of free transport and weighed them against the disadvantages and decided €7m is not a lot to pay for all the benefits. If I can pass one message to other mayors it’s to fight the dogma. Put the advantages and disadvantages on the table and consider it realistically. It may be that the financial cost is too great, but don’t underestimate the social advantages. You can’t put a price on mobility and social justice.”

(Source: The Guardian)