The majority of tourists visiting Cyprus are blissfully unaware of the pain and division that has haunted the island since 1974. To most, the image and experience of Cyprus is one of sun and sand, the snow-capped Troodos Mountains and exquisite frescoes housed in Byzantine monasteries. For the island's inhabitants its a different story altogether. After gaining independence in 1960, peace between the Greek and Turkish communities was already fragile with the Turkish minority, representing 20% of the population, retreating into ghettos and enclaves after sporadic violence and harassment. In their defence, the Turkish army launched an invasion of northern Cyprus in July 1974 and occupied the northern third of the island, leaving thousands dead or wounded and huge numbers of refugees fleeing to their respective sides of the divide. That division of Cyprus has remained to this day.

Whilst the south has enjoyed international recognition and a booming economy boosted by tourism, the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus has found life a lot tougher and depends on its sponsor Turkey for its economic survival. Separating the two factions and running almost the length of the country and dividing the island's capital into two is the Green Line, also known at the Attila Line – a buffer zone maintained and patrolled by the blue-bereted peacekeepers of the United Nations. Talks of a reconciliation between the two sides have stuttered and stalled on many occasions and feelings still run high, fuelled by recent incidents like the deaths of the three Deryneia Martyrs in 1996.

This was the background to my visit to the island's capital city Nicosia, or Lefkosia as it's called today. The holiday rep at my hotel in Pafos had whetted my appetite when he told me that crossing the Green Line wasn't a good idea, as I might not be allowed back. That statement immediately sparked my thirst for adventure and my wife Sue and I set off early one morning in our hire car to cover the 150 kilometers to see for ourselves. Our first stop in the capital was the 11th floor of the Woolworths department store on Lidras Street, where telescopes gave us a bird's eye view across into the northern half of the city. At the end of the street, an observation platform allowed us to peer into the buffer zone to see a street with rubble-strewn buildings and rolls of barbed wire, left as it was in July 1974.

On foot, we followed the Green Line westwards, punctuated by a series of UN bunkers, roadblocks, a wall of sandbags and oil drums and signs forbidding photographs and stopped at the Holy Cross RC church, isolated inside the buffer zone and guarded by a solitary UN soldier. Nearby is the only spot on the island where you can legally cross into the north on a day excursion, at the site of the old Ledra Palace hotel. As we approached, Sue's nerves became a little more frayed when we encountered up to fifty wailing Cypriot women, dressed in black mourning clothes and holding pictures of loved ones still missing since the 1970s.The stern-faced Greek Cypriot border guards made little effort to disguise their disgust at our desire to cross as they slowly copied details of our passports onto a list and pointed at a sign that instructed our return by 5.30pm. It was a few minutes past eleven o'clock.

Leaving the checkpoint, Sue and I walked quietly along a connecting road, the ruined Ledra Palace hotel on our left, now used as a billet by the UN (who have 1,500 personnel on peace-keeping duty on the island), and desolate waste ground to our right. Two female UN soldiers nodded their hello as we completed the 300 metre walk and checked into the Turkish police control building. A few minutes later and the form-filling formalities completed, we were in northern Cypriot territory and Sue began breathing normally again. No real hassle at all but a mixed feeling of excitement and unease nonetheless, heightened by the soulful wailing of the widowed Cypriot women we'd left at the border post as we crossed no-mans land.

For the next four hours we walked around the old city, along narrow passageways and empty streets, enjoying the friendliness of the people, soaking up the atmosphere and visiting a few notable attractions including the soaring minarets of north Nicosia's most prominent landmark, the Cami Selimiye Mosque. Its a working church with a strong French Gothic style but it was empty as I stepped inside and removed my shoes for my first look inside a mosque. Next door is the sixth century Byzantine church ruin known as the Bedesten and nearby is another ornate Gothic church, the Cami Haydarpasa. Undergoing restoration work is the Buyuk Han, a rare example of a Middle Age inn, known as a caravanserai. Although closed, the foreman invited us in to look around before we finished off our tour with a ten minute walk to the Turkish (Mevlevi Tekke) Museum, the former home of the mystical Islamic sect known as the Whirling Dervishes. They are famed for their spinning, trance-like dance that flourished for 700 years until they were banned in 1930.

Returning to the old city, we stopped at a sidewalk cafe in the pedestrian zone and listened to a rock band playing an open-air concert. One unusual aspect which gave Sue a few jitters north of the divide was the distinct lack of female shoppers. Instead, large groups of young Turkish men were much in evidence, either standing on street corners or wandering aimlessly and appeared to be army conscripts in civilian clothes. With an hour to go before the border closed, Sue and I made our way back towards the crossing point via the quiet back streets where buildings have been left unoccupied, others are bullet-scarred and in ruins including a church and the Roccas Bastion, where Turkish Cypriots can look through a barbwire-topped fence into the southern half of the city and what for them is forbidden territory.

The smiling faces of the Turkish police were in stark contrast to the dour look on the faces of the Greek border guards as we returned to the southern half of Nicosia via the long and eerie walk past a lone UN soldier on sentinel duty midway between the two factions. The wailing widows were still massed just past the guardroom and we were handed a flyer asking if we knew of the whereabouts of Pavlos Solomi and Solon Pavlos Solomi, missing since the morning of 15 August 1974 and the beloved husband and 17 year old son of the old woman who'd handed us the poster. Her name was Panayiota Pavlos and she told us that 1,588 people are still missing from that time, their fate unknown and the encounter was a poignant reminder of the human face of the division that still separates Cyprus today.

For more information on Andy’s travels, visit his website which has lots of travelogue stories with pictures. Andy Brouwer's website

Amina Lawal to be stoned in Nigeria in the 21^st Century As you may recently have read in the papers, a court in Northern Nigeria has confirmed that 30 year old Amina Lawal will be executed by stoning due to giving birth to a child after her divorce. “The crime”, proved by Ms Lawal becoming pregnant was made at a time when the Law of Sharia was not yet legal in the area. Funnily enough, the father of the “crime” could not be prosecuted because of the requirement of 4 witnesses to the event, who, strangely have not come forward. The stoning will take place when Ms Lawal has finished breast feeding her 8 months old daughter. What’s more, Miss Universe are still considering scheduling their event in Nigeria, despite this sentence.

At Amnesty International (AI) England's home page you can sign an open letter to Nigeria’s President to protest against this cruel sentence. AI say that more than 18.500 people have already done so. To sign the letter, visit: Amina Open Letter

Well, where do I start? I left the UK on Wednesday 24 April 2002 to start a new life in Lisbon. My furniture and other worldly possessions left the UK on the previous Friday to sail to Lisbon and were due to arrive in port the day after I did – which meant that for the next few days I was anxiously eying up the docks to see if I could see my container. Portugal is renowned for its Bank Holidays and of course that week it had one, which meant that most people take the following day and make a long weekend of it – not very usefulto someone who is keen to know if her home has arrived safely.

We eventually moved into a flat on 1 May, under the walls of Castelo do Sao Jorge. It is on the top (fourth floor) with views over the River Tejo (Tagus) and the lower part of the city. We were so lucky to get it because flat hunting in this country is not an easy business. It is a large flat as it has three bedrooms, two bathrooms, kitchen, dining room and sitting room. We also have a 2 foot wide veranda at the front as well as a small outside area to hang washing, but the bonus is that we also have a garden which backs up under the castle wall – luckily we are shielded by lemon trees and vegetation.

The roads around the area are quite narrow and even more restricted by the fact that the parking rules mean that you park where you can i.e. on the pavement, against walls, often leaving just enough room for something to go through – most cars (and some are very expensive) sports cars along the doors and battered wing mirrors etc because of it. The pavements are very bumpy as they are made up of small blocks of stone – high heels are a definite liability – something with suckers would be more useful!

I’ve found a great store, it’s Spanish “El Cortes Ingles” – a John Lewis and Waitrose over nine floors (John Lewis), basement (Waitrose) and three underground levels of parking! And on Sunday we noticed that they have opened a massive UCI cinema complex inside as well. The shop also delivers!!!! Bliss.

The weather has been glorious and I cannot tell you what it is like to sit at the dining room table and watch the sun go down over the river and the 24 of April Bridge. It is also great fun watching all the ferries/car ferries and cruise ships going up and down and backwards and forwards. “The World” was in port a few weeks ago – that is certainly some ship. Saturdays and Sundays there are quite a few yachts out as well as speedboats. I keep waiting for a nasty accident as sometimes it looks like they are on a collision course with the ferries. Oh and the last ferries are at 2.30am – bit of a change from last bus from Swindon to Malmesbury at 6.15pm!!

Tourism seems to have felt the effect of 11 September as the number of cruise ships is certainly less than normal but at least it means you don't get blown out of bed by them sounding their horns coming into port at unearthly hours.

The whole transport system puts the UK to shame. Everything works and properly. Even the trams that were built in Sheffield before or just after the war still operate and look quite quaint compared to the huge new ones covered in adverts for Kit-Kat and Sagres Beer. Prices are so low: a return ticket for a 20 minute trip was 55 centimes – not even 1 Euro.

I am having Portuguese lessons three times a week, which is challenging and trying to watch as many programmes with subtitles as possible. We have cable TV, which means we get BBC Prime (good for catching up on Eastenders) and BBC World.

Eating lots of fish – we found a wonderful place, a warren of rooms (probably totally condemnable in the UK) and if you get in there early (12.00) you can get a table. You sit very small (and rather uncomfortable) wooden stools and for the princely sum of £7 ($10) for two of us, we had a bottle of house wine, two soups, two fish with large salad, two desserts, two coffees and two ports. Service is something that still has a long way to go before it reaches what we would class the norm, so you have to expect some Monty Python type situations occasionally, but in general they like the English very much and find it flattering when you choose to eat their home cooking.

We have had two water cuts – one totally unexpected which went on for about nine hours (ugh) and one today from 9am – 6pm but at least this time I was forewarned and able to store water so we could have drinks etc. When it came back on it was a delightful shade of rust!

To contact Sally and find out more about Lisbon, e-mail:

Sallypethybridge@aol.com

Fate has a strange knack of intervening in your live when you least expect it. 1999 had been the worst year of my life ending with the death of my father after a long drawn out illness. I just wanted to get away from everything. I didn’t care where it was so long as it was hot and I could sit on the beach, relax and recover. So I found myself in The Gambia for the first time in late December 1999. I loved The Gambia immediately. Although not scenic, I was captivated by the warmth and friendliness of the people. I had travelled extensively in Africa before but there was something indefinable about this place that drew me like a magnet. All I wanted to do was relax so I would rise early and lay on the beach for a couple of hours to set me up for the day. I enjoyed being on the beach early, most tourists were still in bed and the peace and the early morning sun revitalised me. I did not want to be sociable so I read or feigned sleep. However, I could not help but be fascinated by one lady who also at on the beach every morning. She was always surrounded by Gambians. They encircled her, sat on the bottom of her sunbed, chatting away. They called her Mama Africa. As the days passed my self-imposed exile began to waver and my curiosity surfaced. Who was she? Why were The Gambians always flocking around her? Why did they call her Mama Africa? In the end I could stand it no longer and I approached her and asked her my questions. That long conversation was to alter the course of my life. Mama Africa and her dynamic daughter Debbie worked tirelessly to collect medical equipment which they shipped to The Gambia in a container every year. They were also involved in collecting items for the schools and the emergency services. She gave me her address and I promised to try and help. Over the next ten months I collected items towards their next shipment. The more I came to know them both, the greater the respect and admiration I had for both of them. They worked tirelessly for The Gambia. The project was by this time expanding so rapidly that Debbie took the decision to amalgamate the medical, educational and emergency services under one umbrella to become an official charity. Thus GO GAMBIA was born. I was asked to become a Trustee and took on the responsibility of Sponsorship Program Administrator. We now run an educational sponsorship programme for 200 children as well as providing desperately needed equipment for the schools, hospitals and the emergency services. GO GAMBIA continues to expand and has become one of the great passions in my life. I could go on forever about it but it would be easier to log on to our website where our work is explained in detail. Go Gambia website Fate led me to that beach in The Gambia in 1999. I often look back and think how strange it was that a conversation on Banjul beach turned my life upside down when I least expected it. Any Globetrotters members interested in sponsoring a child’s education or who can assist the project in any way can contact us through the GO GAMBIA website. Alternatively, you may contact Rosemary by e-mail on: rahamblin@hotmail.coms