The BooksOne country at a time
The Author
‘I am a human being.
A proud father and a hopeless klutz.
A restless seeker and a dedicated public servant.
An incurable adventurer and a compassless cultural explorer,
with great faith in good stories and little patience for boring details.’That’s me in a nutshell.
A.H.T.
How the Books Come to Life
It began with a childhood dream: to travel to every country in the world. Sixty-one crossed off so far. Every country that gets its own book is one the author has spent a good deal of time in. Not just passing through, but staying long enough to know what the air smells like in a bazaar in the morning, and what people actually say to one another when no tourists are listening.
That’s the experience these books pass on to little globetrotters who haven’t yet had the chance to set off on their own.
That’s why the books steer clear of the postcard view. The monument can stay right where it is. That’s not where the story happens. The story happens in the street outside, among the people who live there, in the things that are different and don’t make sense at first, until, little by little, they do, as the child gets to know them.
The aim isn’t to put the world on display. It’s to meet it: with curiosity, with respect for what is different, and with the understanding that each of us is unique, yet at heart, we are all the same.
Excerpt
Chapter 2 · When the World Got Bigger
A brilliant flash of light.
Ava feels the ground beneath her feet again.
For a moment, she can’t breathe.
The air is heavy and hot, all the way down her throat. It smells of spices and dust, of something sweet and something burnt, all at once.
Then the noise crashes over her.
Voices. Hundreds of them. All talking over each other in a language she doesn’t understand.
Bicycle bells. Car horns. A little engine coughing its way past. And somewhere further off, fast, lively music.
Ava lifts her head.
The world explodes into colour.
Rolls of silk in cherry red and turquoise jostle for space with cottons in saffron orange and indigo blue. Cone after cone of spice in mustard yellow, and herbs in deep, dark green. Baskets of fruit and vegetables she doesn’t know the names of. It’s as if the whole rainbow has squeezed itself into one narrow street.
She is standing at the entrance to a market square, with stalls on both sides. Behind the stalls, low houses stand crammed together, every one of them hung with handwritten shop signs.
There are people everywhere. Some call out their wares. Others wave their hands and haggle. A man weaves through the crowd with a tray of tiny glasses of tea balanced on his head, without spilling a drop.
Ava glances up at the sky. The sun hangs there, white and blazing. So bright it stings her eyes.
This is not Dad’s office.
‘Great alpacas,’ whispers Cocco.
Ava stands frozen, mouth open, with Cocco clinging round her neck. She is gripping the globe so tightly her knuckles have turned white. It has stopped glowing. But the gold catches the sunlight and casts a warm, golden sheen across her face.
‘Cocco,’ she says quietly. ‘Where are we?’
‘Well,’ says Cocco, dangling from her neck. He sniffs the air and checks his phone. ‘We wished ourselves to wherever Dad went. And according to my GPS, we’re in India.’ His eyes sweep across the crowd. ‘So either this is a bazaar in India … or somebody’s set fire to the spice rack back home.’
Ava spots a large clock at the top of a tower above the stalls. It says half past ten.
‘Cocco,’ she whispers. ‘It was seven o’clock at home. How can it have jumped so far?’
Cocco glances down at the screen. ‘It hasn’t jumped. The day is further along here than it is at home. Same moment, different time. It’s called time zones.’
A boy on a bicycle whizzes past so close that Ava gives a start and jumps aside. Everyone is far too busy to notice a girl and a stuffed rabbit who have suddenly appeared in the middle of the street.
Everyone but one.
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