Football & Travel: An Extraordinary Bridge Between People

By Nick, Founder and Managing Director

Mandalay, Myanmar, 1997

Over my fifty plus years of travel I have always found football to be an extraordinary bridge between people when there is no shared language. Whether in the arid Kalahari Desert, the lush Brazilian Amazon jungles or the High Himalaya the mere mention of Manchester United, Liverpool or Chelsea, almost always sparks animated conversation. Strong opinions are expressed through expressive faces, enthusiastic arm movement and plenty of vocal passion. Relationships are immediately created.

Myanmar was no different. Before the country sadly became non-viable as a travel destination, I used to host what were, without doubt, some of our finest escorted tours there. These were two-week journeys that included an 11-day cruise up the Irrawaddy River, travelling as far north as Bhamo, close to the Chinese Border.

Such expeditions were only possible from mid-August for around 6 weeks each year when river levels were high enough to make navigation possible. Orient Express’s exceptionally comfortable boat, The Road to Mandalay, which became home to sixty plus guests on this unique adventure.

We visited villages, schools and monasteries in some of the most remote regions of this beautiful and unspoilt country. Many of these areas could only be reached by boat and saw very few visitors. In most cases our groups were the only outsiders they had ever encountered, and for most the first Westerners they had ever seen.

On my first visit 1997 I was accompanied by my good friend Chris Caldicott, renowned photographer and author. Chris arrived at a hilltop monastery that, on this occasion, was full of young boy monks being educated. They had never seen a Westerner before and were utterly delighted to meet him. They gathered excitedly around Chris and insisted he follow them. He duly obliged and was led to their dormitory, where above many of their beds were large posters of David Beckham.

As can sometimes happen when encountering people of unfamiliar appearance, they assumed that all Westerners looked alike. Therefore, Chris had to be Beckham. Chris was the first white man they had seen. So, he must indeed be David Beckham. The young monks were beside themselves with excitement and insisted that he sign every single poster. Chris, ever the perfect gentleman, complied without hesitation.

So, if you are ever in Myanmar and are offered a David Beckham poster signed by him – beware!

By Rowan, Executive Director

Mount Kilimanjaro, Tanzania, 2010

Rising to a dizzy altitude of 19,341 feet above the plains of northern Tanzania, Mount Kilimanjaro is a truly awe-inspiring sight and has inspired writers, poets, artists and philosophers over the centuries. I simply wanted to get to the top of it, but I needed help.

Help came in the form of Jabari (brave or courageous in Swahili), a local lad who had probably skipped school to be my personal porter for the week. Clad in little more than a t-shirt, shorts and a pair of lightweight gym shoes, he skipped up the mountain seemingly unbothered by the weight of my obscenely heavy bag, while I trudged behind at a rapidly slowing pace as altitude was gained with Brasher Hillmaster boots, head to toe Gore-Tex, hydration backpack and reflecting telescopic poles doing nothing to narrow the gap.

Jabari had this somewhat disconcerting habit of always looking at my feet, and it took me a while to realise that this wasn’t a natural shyness but more a fixation with the astro football boots I’d taken with me to wear in camp. Adidas, replete with the telltale three white stripes.

At the end of a Kili expedition, it is customary to tip your porter with any items of clothing that you are happy to leave behind. It was an easy decision. They may have been a size or three too large, but Jabari got his football boots, and I got a smile as wide as the Tanzanian sky and a thumbs up which I like to think was for making it to the top. There was no need for words. The moment was enough to forge a connection that only the world’s most beautiful game has the power to deliver. And now several years on, I also like to think that Jabari is still putting the laces of those boots through a football somewhere and remembering our Mount Kilimanjaro moment.

By Matt Brazier, Head of Marketing

Thimphu, Bhutan, 2019

Bhutan has a way of surprising you. Sometimes the surprises come in the form of breathtaking mountain passes, ancient monasteries or extraordinary treks. And sometimes, unexpectedly, they come in the form of a football match you absolutely did not ask for.

Bhutan had been on my wish list for years. In 2018 I finally made the trip to complete the legendary Snowman Trek, one of the toughest treks in the Himalayas. Along the way I met a wonderful guide called Jamyang, and we kept in touch afterwards. So, the following year, my then colleague James and I returned to explore the eastern part of the country with him.

On the long drives between valleys and villages, James and Jamyang discovered a shared passion for English football. Hours would pass with the two of them deep in animated discussion about teams, players and matches. I mostly listened politely, thinking very little of it. What I did not realise was that Jamyang had started quietly plotting something. Operating on the entirely logical assumption that anyone from the UK must love football, he decided it would be great fun to organise a match for us. At first, I laughed it off. Surely it was a joke.

Then I found myself in a sports shop in Thimphu buying football boots. At that point I realised things had become serious.

This is probably a good moment to admit something important: I really do not like football. I do not watch it, I do not follow it, and I had not kicked a ball since school.

Roll to us standing on a football pitch wearing a full Bhutanese football kit that had been specially printed for the game. I remember standing there hoping, quite sincerely, that nobody would pass the ball anywhere near me.

To this day it still makes me laugh. Even when I tried to explain that I did not play football, everyone assumed I was joking. The Bhutanese found the whole thing hilarious. I lasted about ten minutes on the pitch. After that, I happily retired to the sidelines with warm tea and snacks and cheered everyone else on.

I thought completing the Snowman Trek would be the toughest part of visiting Bhutan. But somehow ending up on that football pitch felt just as surreal. It was one of those completely unexpected moments that travel has a way of creating. The kind you could never plan but never forget either.

By Tania, Africa Travel Expert

Texas, United States, 2016

When my husband and I set off on our road trip across the United States, we started our adventure in San Francisco, cruised down the 101 to the Big Sur, crossed the desert, wound our way through the mountains of Colorado, dipped into New Mexico, and eventually rolled into Texas. By the time we reached Houston on the 27^th April 2016, we were sun‑soaked, slightly dusty, and very much in road‑trip mode.

That particular date happened to be the night of the Champions League semi‑final: Atlético Madrid vs. Bayern Munich. Now, my husband is not a Bayern fan – far from it – but he is a devoted football fan, and missing a match of that magnitude would have been unthinkable. So, he did what any football‑loving traveller would do: he Googled where he might watch it.

And that’s when things took a wonderfully bizarre turn.

According to Google, there was a pub in Houston that hosted the official FC Bayern Munich Fan Club of Texas. Yes – Texas. Bayern Munich. An official fan club. In a pub. In Houston. It sounded so improbable that he simply had to investigate.

So off we went. I dropped my husband at the pub and took our rented Ford Mustang to a nearby place offering manicures and pedicures, expecting him to have a quiet, slightly lonely afternoon watching the match among a handful of strangers.

But when I returned a couple of hours later, I walked into something entirely different.

To my surprise – and his – the official FC Bayern Munich Fan Club of Texas had taken my husband in as if he’d been one of their own for years. They had welcomed him, fed him, and even presented him with a Bayern Munich scarf as an honorary member. Within just a short time, he had met around twenty people who had travelled from all over the state: Dallas, San Antonio, Austin, Fort Worth, El Paso, Lubbock, Amarillo – you name it. They weren’t just locals; they were a community.

The match itself didn’t go Bayern’s way. Atlético won 1–0 at home and eventually made it to the Champions League final, where they lost on penalties to Real Madrid. But the scoreline hardly mattered that night. What mattered was the warmth, the laughter, the stories, and the unexpected friendships forged in a Houston pub.

And the scarf? Well, that scarf didn’t stay in Texas.

Through Facebook, my husband stayed in touch with his new Texan football family. The scarf travelled with us across the Atlantic and found its way to the Stade de France in Paris during the European Championship. It made an appearance at the Germany vs. Poland match – a rather uneventful 0–0, but the Texans were thrilled to see their scarf crossing the big pond and making it into one of Europe’s great football temples.

A little piece of Texas, cheering from the stands in Paris, France.

And with the World Cup just around the corner, that scarf may yet find new adventures. Several matches will be played right there in Texas – including in Houston and Dallas – and I can already picture the FC Bayern Munich Fan Club of Texas gathering once again, filling their pub with jerseys, laughter, and that unmistakable Texan warmth. Who knows… perhaps my husband’s honorary‑member scarf will make another appearance, cheering alongside them as the world’s biggest football celebration arrives on their home turf. If I let him go….

It’s funny how travel works. You set out expecting landscapes and landmarks, and instead you come home with stories about people – unexpected, generous, unforgettable people – who turn a simple football match into a memory that warms you long after the journey ends.

By Jonny, Central America, South America & Polar Travel Expert

Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2018

I’ve had a think and one of my best footballing experiences was in Buenos Aires, watching Boca Juniors play Palmeiras in the Copa Libertadores in 2018. It was at La Bombonera, one of the most iconic stadiums in the world and in the heart of Buenos Aires’ La Boca neighbourhood. Everything around the ground is painted blue and yellow, Bocas legendary colours which were famously chosen when a ship with a Swedish flag arrive into port!

The ground was built in the 1930s and is crumbling around you. It physically shakes when you’re inside and you’re packed in like sardines. Even on the walk to the ground the atmosphere was electric. The hardcore fans (known as ‘La Doce’ – the 12th player) get to the ground hours before kick-off and position themselves behind the goal – setting off flares and waving flags throughout.

I was sat up in the gods, next to an old chap who must have been in his 70s and probably has been going to games since his was a child. As cliché as it sounds football is more than a sport in South America. It is a religion which you’re born into. The fans kick every ball and go through every emotion when watching. It is a sport that connects people and everyone around me knew each other and there were handshakes and hugs before the teams came out. I felt like an imposter but tried to get involved in the hand waiving and chanting when I could!

Boca Juniors lost 2-0, but it was still one of the most memorable football experiences I’ve had.

By Tania, Africa Travel Expert

Lviv, Ukraine, 2012

In the summer of 2012, my German husband and three of his friends set off from Berlin on a road trip eastward for the UEFA European Championship in Poland and Ukraine. It was the kind of carefree adventure you only have in your twenties or early thirties: long stretches of motorway, loud music, and the excitement of following your national team across borders. The drive was enormous. Berlin to Lviv is roughly 900 kilometres, and continuing to Kharkiv adds another thousand.

They crossed into Ukraine expecting the usual border‑crossing tension and instead met a scene straight out of a John le Carré novel: a policeman leaning against an old patrol car, cigarette in hand, looking like he had stepped out of a Cold War thriller. They braced for trouble, but all he wanted was to check whether they were alright and whether they knew where they were going. When told everything was fine, he smiled, saluted, and waved them on. It was the first taste of Ukrainian hospitality, and it set the tone for everything that followed.

Kharkiv itself surprised completely. My husband imagined something grey and Soviet, maybe a bit worn down. Instead, he found a city of wide boulevards, elegant tsarist‑era buildings, white facades, high ceilings, and luxury boutiques. Louis Vuitton, Gucci, bright cafés, and a buzzing central square. It felt grand, confident, and full of life. What my husband and friends didn’t have, however, was a hotel. Like the geniuses they were, they had arrived on the night of a major Euro match without booking a single room. Everything was full. They were already preparing for a night sleeping in the car or on a park bench.

And then a young Ukrainian woman approached in perfect English and asked whether the needed help. My husband explained the situation, half embarrassed, half desperate. She listened, smiled, and then offered something they could hardly believe: “You can stay in my apartment.” They hesitated. She insisted. She told them she was proud that so many people had come to Ukraine for the Euros, and she wanted visitors to feel welcome. So, four German football fans followed her home to her one‑bedroom flat, where she gave them her bed and went to stay with a friend. The next morning, she showed the group the city and guided them to the stadium. After the match (Germany won 2-1) they met her and her friends for drinks, celebrating football, friendship, and the kind of kindness you never forget.

Looking back today, that trip feels almost unreal. Kharkiv – the city that welcomed the Germans so warmly- has since become one of the most heavily targeted places in the ongoing war. The stadium where they watched football is no longer hosting matches. The boulevards they walked have been scarred. The cafés and boutiques my husband admired have been emptied or destroyed. The woman who opened her home to them has fled Ukraine. Her friends – the ones who toasted with them after the match – are now scattered across Europe or defending their country, or living through a reality none of us could have imagined in 2012.

Travel stories often age into nostalgia. This one has aged into something deeper: a reminder that behind every city there are people whose lives can change overnight. A reminder that hospitality is an act of courage and generosity. And a reminder that football – that simple, global game – can create bonds that outlast borders, politics, and even war. As the world prepares for the next World Cup, and as fans dream of new journeys, it’s worth remembering the spirit of that summer in Ukraine. The joy. The openness. The belief that strangers can become friends, even for a night. Especially now, when Kharkiv is enduring so much, it feels important to honour the people who once welcomed four clueless German travellers with nothing but kindness. Football brought them there. Ukraine’s humanity is what stayed.

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