Chapter 1
From Delinquent to Documentarian: A Life Transformed Through Travel
Simon Reeve's journey from troubled teen to renowned travel documentarian has captivated millions worldwide. His book "Step by Step: The Life in My Journeys" has become a surprising bestseller, spending weeks on the Sunday Times bestseller list and earning praise from celebrities like Michael Palin who called it "a gripping blend of adventure and soul-searching." What makes this memoir particularly compelling is how Reeve transforms his personal struggles into a universal message about human resilience and the transformative power of travel. Unlike typical celebrity memoirs, Reeve's story begins not with privilege but with profound despair-a suicidal teenager who found salvation through curiosity about the wider world. His unique perspective as someone who once contemplated ending his life gives him an extraordinary appreciation for the world's beauty and complexity that resonates deeply with readers seeking meaning in their own journeys.
Chapter 2
The A-Team and Malaria's Harsh Lesson
Everything felt wrong. I was damp with sweat, head thumping, limbs aching, lying face down on a hotel bed in my muddy boots in Gabon. Opening my eyes, the room spun violently as I staggered to my feet, knowing this was serious-not a hangover or food poisoning, but something much worse. It was 2006, and I was filming "Equator," my first major television series. Now I was feverish, shaking, and vomiting blood, my first thought being the terrifying possibility of Ebola.
Despite my condition, I foolishly tried to continue rather than seeking medical help, dragging myself downstairs to meet my colleagues Sophie, Sam, and our Gabonese guide Linel, who were horrified by my appearance. They immediately took me back to bed as I mumbled about quarantine. Our return journey was delayed when drunk elephants, intoxicated on iboga fruit, derailed a train. The stationmaster explained with annoyance that the elephants "get intoxicated and stagger around on our lines."
When I finally made it back to Libreville, my temperature soared to 39.9C as I hallucinated, convinced Mr. T from the A-Team was in the room. Two doctors diagnosed malaria-a relief compared to my Ebola fears, but still dangerous. Dr. Jenny brought Artemether, a promising new drug derived from Vietnamese sweet wormwood. After taking six chunky tablets, I experienced the most intense sickness of my life as the drug forced the malarial parasites to attack before they were ready. The assault lasted twenty-four hours, leaving me profoundly weak.
Throughout history, malaria has been humanity's greatest enemy, possibly killing half of all humans who ever lived. It still infects millions of Africans yearly, with thousands of children dying daily. Some African regions have infection rates exceeding 200%, meaning people are infected multiple times annually. I was lucky to have access to qualified help and rare drugs, though I'd foolishly forgotten to take my preventative medication. Before malaria, I felt immortal; I've never felt the same since.
Chapter 3
Childhood Roots and Early Influences
I grew up in Acton, West London-the hinterland between inner city and suburbs-in a modest three-bedroom semi my parents purchased through years of hard work. My father Alan, a competitive man from rural Norfolk, narrowly missed qualifying for Wimbledon as a young tennis player and became a maths teacher at a tough comprehensive school. My mother Cindy studied domestic science and worked various jobs including selling sausages when she met my father.
My earliest memory is extreme pain. At age four, I was misdiagnosed with sinusitis when I actually had meningitis-a condition my mother recognized when doctors didn't. After recovering, I contracted tonsillitis and pneumonia, nearly dying again. Our family was small with no extended relatives except Grandma Lucy, who became my rock. Despite her polio and leg caliper, she would take us on "magical mystery tours" in her adapted Ford Escort, sparking my lifelong thrill of discovery.
Acton Hill Methodist Church shaped me profoundly. Initially just a playground where I'd climb the spiral staircase and swing from poles, it became a place that nurtured my questioning nature. At age seven, I tested religious teachings by attempting to walk on water at Studland Bay. Standing for an hour trying to believe hard enough, I ultimately lost my faith when gravity prevailed-a pivotal moment when my childhood wonder cracked.
The church was remarkably diverse, with dozens of countries represented. My parents regularly invited visitors home, exposing me to stories from around the world-like George from Ghana who championed sweet potatoes to fight poverty, or Uncle Angelo from Sri Lanka who described tensions and uprisings. Through church fundraising and hearing about global suffering, I developed empathy and awareness of my own good fortune. By ten, I told my mother I wanted my life "to mean something"-though my immediate ambition was merely to be a van driver or policeman.
Chapter 4
Descent into Delinquency
Historians note that bicycles transformed Britain by giving ordinary people mobility, and my BMX similarly expanded my horizons. By eleven, I was exploring Acton, White City parks and estates while taking the 207 bus to school with older kids who taught me to misbehave. I became adept at avoiding bus fares through innocent smiles, convincing lies about lost tickets, or simply jumping off moving buses when caught. What began as petty mischief like making prank calls to London Zoo asking for "Mr. G. Raffe" soon escalated to vandalism and shoplifting. I even held my school record for stealing twenty-seven Kinder Eggs in one go from W.H. Smith while wearing my uniform.
By twelve, I'd moved to a high school with older troublemakers. Our home life deteriorated into constant conflict-my father, a teacher at one of London's toughest schools, approached parenting with the same confrontational style he used in the classroom. Though he had a softer side, our relationship became increasingly violent. I put my foot through doors, Mom turned over the kitchen table, and neighbors sometimes called police during our worst fights.
Dad's betrayal of trust-promising not to hit me during an argument, then striking me when I approached-left me feeling a profound sense of betrayal. As a competitive man quick to anger, he lacked the skills to communicate effectively with a confused teenager.
To escape, I'd retreat to my bedroom, staring at posters of exotic beaches that represented freedom from our grey London streets. Meanwhile, my delinquency escalated-I began carrying knives at thirteen, first a flick knife and later a combat blade ordered through mail-order. I even acquired and once brandished a replica handgun during a fight with older travelers. Though I never used these weapons violently, I reveled in their secret power, selling knives to other kids and hiding my stash under floorboards.
Chapter 5
Rock Bottom and the Bridge
After years of petty crimes without consequences, I was finally caught destroying a brick wall near our home. When the owner came to our door, my father made me apologize and pay 147 to rebuild it-a fortune from my pocket money and knife-dealing profits. The public humiliation wounded my ego deeply.
Shortly afterward, while playing in a park, I suffered a serious injury when a half-brick struck me directly in the eye. At Hammersmith Hospital, doctors warned I might lose my eye as they painstakingly removed bits of brick and grit from my eyeball-an excruciating procedure that left me with a lasting fear of anything pointed toward my face. With already poor vision in one eye, this injury to my good eye forced me to get thick glasses at the worst possible time-when my teenage awkwardness was at its peak.
My confidence plummeted further when I suffered a grand humiliation-walking straight into a lamppost while trying to impress a girl I fancied, in front of 150 schoolmates at a bus stop. Unlike a more confident kid who might have styled it out, I scrambled pathetically for my glasses and slunk away, utterly mortified. School discos became torture chambers of inadequacy as I watched others dance and kiss while I remained frozen with insecurity. My parents' purchase of a mustard-colored Reliant Kitten-similar to Del Boy's van in Only Fools and Horses-felt like a final social death blow.
School had never been my strong suit, though one book-Schindler's Ark by Thomas Keneally-profoundly affected me, showing me how truth could be more powerful than fiction. But my academic performance spiraled downward as my personal problems mounted. I began drinking during school hours, sometimes returning to class drunk. My smoking habit became so severe that doctors warned the veins in my neck were furring and I might lose my hands.
After leaving school with no qualifications, I fell into profound depression. I spent my days isolated in my bedroom watching a small black-and-white TV and drinking Special Brew. My family had no idea how deeply I was sinking as my thoughts of suicide transformed from passing ideas to stronger desires. I eventually found myself on a footbridge over Western Avenue, contemplating jumping in front of a lorry. The sound of a horn jerked me back to reality, and fear of the pain saved me. I chose life, though nothing immediately changed-I still had no money, no job, and no prospects. Eventually, I signed on for Income Support at the DSS office, where a kind woman gave me advice that would guide me for years: "Take things step by step."
Chapter 6
The First Steps Toward Transformation
After hitting rock bottom, I decided to face my fears by taking a journey. With money borrowed from my mum, I bought a train ticket to Scotland-my first solo trip outside London. In Glencoe, I hired a tiny red Peugeot and began hiking up a mountain despite being improperly dressed. Ignoring warnings from properly-equipped hikers, I pressed on as dusk fell, muttering "step by step" to myself. Each step increased my sense of self-worth as I climbed through Coire Gabhail, The Lost Valley. In darkness, I reached a high ridge and felt euphoric. Though getting down proved challenging, I made it back safely and spent a freezing night in my car, completely elated. This small adventure taught me that even in despair, there was hope. Setting small, achievable goals rather than distant dreams had worked for me.
After my mountain climb, I noticed my confidence slowly returning. I began chatting with strangers on the train home and realized that small steps could help me climb out of despair. Rather than setting unrealistic five-year goals, I focused on getting through each day. I took a part-time job at Waitrose collecting trolleys and volunteered at charity shops, where I organized rosters for forty volunteers-diplomatic training that rivaled negotiating with Pyongyang. Despite applying for countless jobs and facing rejections, including a humiliating van driver interview and being fired from H. Samuel jewelers for accidentally taking home the safe keys, I persisted.
My father rescued me by spotting an advertisement in The Sunday Times for post-boys and post-girls with potential journalism training-specifically aimed at non-graduates like me. Despite feeling completely unqualified among thousands of applicants, I poured everything into my application, turning my CV into a newspaper and including an essay on Schindler's Ark. To my astonishment, I was offered one of five positions from over 5,000 applicants. Though terrified of failure, I decided that my fear of regret outweighed my fear of failure. I would overcome my nerves by taking everything slowly... step by step.
Chapter 7
Breaking Into Journalism
Starting at the Sunday Times was terrifying. As a post-boy, I sorted mountains of mail into pigeon-holes and delivered it throughout the building, walking miles daily. This humble position gave me perfect insight into the newspaper's operations. Recognizing this as my life's biggest opportunity, I made myself indispensable by mastering the ancient photocopiers that produced the crucial page proofs-a skill that made me unsackable when they inevitably broke down. I lived at home with nothing else going on in my life, so I poured everything into the job, volunteering for extra tasks and helping journalists with research.
My careful attention to detail and enthusiasm caught notice. After compiling a collection of scathing theater reviews for arts editor David Mills, I earned my first tiny byline. Soon I was helping Peter Hounam, the chief investigative reporter, with research tasks that grew increasingly complex. Then came my big break-foreign editor John Witherow asked me to follow a lead on South African neo-Nazi terrorists possibly hiding in Boston, Lincolnshire. Despite my inexperience, I found myself meeting two dangerous men who had bombed taxi ranks in South Africa. They showed me documents proving they'd been funded by the South African Defence Force to destabilize the country. I brought them back to London for interviews, realizing I'd found my calling in this dark world of investigative journalism.
My first mission with the South African terrorists led to many more investigative assignments, often while still juggling my post-boy duties. The Sunday Times was surprisingly meritocratic-people cared about results, not my background. I found myself investigating arms dealing, smuggling, and the collapse of the Soviet Union.
I learned investigative techniques from Peter Hounam, my unofficial mentor. The newspaper became my education-teaching me how to dig for information, mirror people, and move between worlds. My principal weapon was the telephone, and I mastered the art of silence to encourage others to speak. I utilized company records and databases, spent hours on surveillance sitting in vans watching targets, and employed tactics in a grey zone of legality-all for investigations I believed served the public good.
Chapter 8
The New Jackals and 9/11
On 26 February 1993, a huge bomb exploded underneath the World Trade Center in New York. Six people were killed, hundreds injured, and America was rudely awoken to international terrorism. I was at the Sunday Times working on an IRA investigation when news reports came in from New York. Within an hour I had switched focus and began collating information on the WTC attack.
After years at the newspaper, I witnessed various incidents and became increasingly disillusioned with the environment. Despite being the youngest staff writer in the history of Times Newspapers, the atmosphere had soured. I negotiated a redundancy package and left to write a book about the World Trade Center bombing, convinced it represented a new type of terrorism.
Living in Hampstead with flatmates from the Sunday Times, I tried balancing research with a vibrant social life-working in my dressing gown by day and partying by night. After securing publishing deals in both the UK and US, I became more focused. My research followed two tracks: the "Tradebom" investigation run by the Joint Terrorist Task Force in New York, and a more secretive global intelligence operation studying the wider terror network.
It was Benazir Bhutto, former Prime Minister of Pakistan, who first mentioned Osama bin Laden to me during breakfast at a small Kensington hotel. Despite having a blob of strawberry jam on her lip that I awkwardly tried to signal to her about, she spoke forcefully about bin Laden posing a huge threat to Pakistan and the West. She emphasized that Muslims were terrorism's first victims and described how Ramzi Yousef had attempted to assassinate her twice.
My book "The New Jackals" about Ramzi Yousef and bin Laden was published in 1998 but received little attention. I'd warned that Yousef represented a new breed of terrorist with no moral restrictions on mass killing, and that more were being trained in Afghanistan and Pakistan. The Sunday Times dismissed my "apocalyptic vision" as scaremongering, which felt like betrayal from my former paper.
Then 9/11 happened, and suddenly I had written the only book in the world about the group behind the devastating attack. When I saw the first tower had been hit, I instantly knew who was responsible and was physically sick. Everything I had feared had come true. My phone began ringing constantly as news desks worldwide sought someone who could explain what had happened. Initially I didn't answer-this wasn't just a news event for me; it was personal. I knew people who worked in those towers.
I traveled to the States for endless interviews and met with White House officials. I advised pursuing terrorists as criminals while addressing underlying issues driving people to militancy, including the Arab-Israeli conflict and Western support for corrupt Middle Eastern regimes. People nodded but didn't truly listen. During lunch with a Bush aide at the Old Ebbitt Grill, he focused only on hunting down those responsible, saying "We have to put their heads on sticks."
Chapter 9
From Page to Screen: The BBC Breakthrough
My breakthrough into television came during a Saturday football game with friends in Kensington Gardens. A BBC producer overheard me saying I needed a substantial project and invited me in for a chat. Unknown to me, the BBC had already researched my potential as a presenter. I met Karen O'Connor, head of international documentaries, who proposed I journey through Central Asia for a TV series. We wanted to create something between a travel show and current affairs documentary, exploring both "the light and the shade" of these little-known countries.
Before departing, I completed mandatory BBC training: chemical weapons training in a gas chamber and a six-day "Hostile Environment Course" run by ex-special forces soldiers. We learned to find hard cover during gunfire, identify weapons, navigate minefields, and handle kidnapping situations. The medical training was impressively thorough. We learned to stop blood flow by pressing into the upper inner arm or groin-techniques that work immediately for catastrophic bleeding. The ex-soldiers shared practical tips like using tampons to pack bullet wounds and crisp packets with gaffer tape for chest wounds.
In Kazakhstan, we encountered the "Kazakh Beatles" who had discovered forbidden Western music through a smuggled tape during Soviet times. For them, it was revolutionary-they'd lived in a world where entertainment was carefully monitored by authorities. Music became their emotional lifeline in a colorless Soviet existence where even listening to Beatles songs required secrecy. Despite living in a remote region used for nuclear tests and missile launches, they maintained their musical passion until the Soviet collapse freed them to play openly.
After leaving Kyzylorda with hangovers, we traveled through broken towns in a Soviet Lada until reaching a village hosting a traditional baby-naming ceremony. The villagers honored me by asking me to name a child (who screamed throughout my theatrical speech). Then came kokpar-a traditional horseback game fought over a headless goat corpse. Despite my poor horsemanship, I participated briefly, gripping the goat by its testicles while on horseback.
"Meet the Stans" was a profound awakening. Back in London after filming, I felt more alive than ever-happier and more confident in ways noticeable to friends and family. The series aired in 2003 to fantastic response, with the Guardian calling it "a thrilling postcard from the edge" and BBC Two's head describing it as "electrifying."
Chapter 10
Places That Don't Exist
A chance conversation about Somaliland-an unrecognized country-sparked my curiosity about places that technically didn't exist. I scribbled the name on paper and later researched, discovering scores of unrecognized states with their own governments, armies, and even postage stamps, yet unable to join the UN or send teams to the World Cup. Together with Anya, a woman I'd met and fallen for at a publishing party, I delved into research about these forgotten nations, eventually attending a conference of the Unrepresented Nations and Peoples Organization in The Hague. Soon, my second travel series "Places That Don't Exist" was commissioned by the BBC.
Landing in Mogadishu thrust us into chaos where I felt like I was in a science fiction story where everything was out to kill me. The city was destroyed by years of fighting-buildings pock-marked with bullets, streets strewn with debris, resembling the aftermath of Stalingrad. According to our fixer Ajoos, we were likely the only white people in this city of a million inhabitants.
Despite the danger, I felt alert and alive. We visited the site where American Black Hawk helicopters were shot down in 1993-an event that reshaped American foreign policy and possibly set the stage for later events like 9/11. The failed mission left 18 Americans and over 500 Somalis dead.
In the absence of government, we met Mr Big Beard, who sold me a genuine Somali diplomatic passport for $50 with no questions asked. Our days were filled with surreal experiences-paying for our guards' khat (a stimulant drug), nearly getting electrocuted in our guesthouse, and facing a terrifying standoff with another armed gang where anti-aircraft guns were pointed directly at me. In that moment, I experienced an unexpected calm, accepting there was nothing I could do but wait to see if I would live or die.
Upon landing in Somaliland, we immediately noticed the difference from Somalia-a smartly dressed immigration official in uniform stamped our passports, signaling order and stability. Though rarely found on maps, Somaliland is home to about 4 million people and borders the Gulf of Aden, Djibouti, and Ethiopia.
Despite being ignored by the world, Somalilanders impressed me with their determination to build an independent state from scratch, complete with democracy, women in parliament, and functioning institutions. Though war with Somalia remains possible, I left hoping for a future where Somaliland gains UN recognition and tourists flock to its treasures.
Chapter 11
Unrecognized Nations and Global Inequalities
I left Somaliland with genuine gloom, heading next to another unrecognized country-Transnistria, a sliver between Ukraine and Moldova with 400,000-700,000 residents. After the Soviet collapse, two-thirds of Moldova's Romanian-descent population wanted Western ties while the remaining third preferred connections with Russia and Ukraine. A short but fierce war resulted in the unrecognized Transnistrian state east of the Dniestr River.
Traveling through Moldova, I was shocked by the grinding poverty just on the European Union's doorstep. With most citizens earning less than $2 daily, Moldova was Europe's poorest country. We passed villages with crumbling buildings and mud roads, populated mainly by young children and elderly grandparents. In one village, I met men who had sold their kidneys to foreign buyers for less than $2,000 each-money quickly spent on basic necessities like washing machines or livestock. All reported subsequent weakness and illness.
Moldova's economic devastation stemmed partly from mass emigration-around one million of its four million citizens had left to seek work in Europe or Russia. Entire villages stood nearly empty of working-age adults, revealing a rarely discussed aspect of migration: the devastating impact on source countries. This brain drain phenomenon extends beyond Moldova-Ethiopia has more doctors in Chicago than in Ethiopia itself, 77% of Liberian-trained physicians work in the US, and over half the doctors from several African nations now practice in wealthy countries.
Attempting to film a secret Russian military base in northern Transnistria, we were suddenly surrounded by KGB agents in trench coats who detained us at secret police headquarters. During questioning, I asked if we were being arrested. "No," the officer replied, searching for the word, "detained." Fortunately, my guide Larissa-impressed by my distant relation to Sir Christopher Wren-arrived at KGB headquarters banging on doors, insisting they couldn't arrest someone "related to the Queen of England" as it would "bring terrible shame on Transnistria." Surprisingly, a senior KGB officer appeared, apologized for the "misunderstanding," and offered to smooth things over with drinks.
Chapter 12
The Privilege of a Passport
After filming "Places That Don't Exist," I began planning a more ambitious journey around the equator. The first segment ended badly when I contracted malaria, requiring weeks of recovery and soul-searching conversations with my wife Anya about whether to continue. Despite friends ribbing me about my "holidays," I explained the genuine hardships of these filming trips-cramped accommodations, repetitive meals, constant movement, terrible roads causing back problems, and endless bureaucracy.
Yet I couldn't deny these journeys were extraordinary privileges. Filming for the BBC opened doors to remarkable experiences and people. Within two months of recovering from malaria, I was flying back to continue my equatorial journey across Africa, feeling fragile but supported by an excellent team.
When fighting broke out in Somalia where we planned to visit next, I decided to fly as close to the border as possible, landing at the Dadaab refugee camps on the equator in eastern Kenya. This decision profoundly shaped my future travels.
At what was then the world's largest refugee camp, I met families who had fled violence in Somalia. One woman had made the heartbreaking choice to leave two of her children behind during an attack, walking for three weeks with her remaining children to reach safety.
Most affecting was meeting Fatima, a 23-year-old Somali woman who had spent seventeen years in this "open prison." Despite being literate, well-educated and English-fluent, she was forbidden from traveling more than twelve miles from the camp perimeter. The Kenyan government wouldn't allow refugees to integrate deeper into the country, while returning to Somalia was impossible due to the violence.
Standing with Fatima at the camp's edge, the stark contrast between us hit me like a bolt-I had a British passport that granted me freedom to travel worldwide, while she remained trapped in a desert patch. In that moment, I knew I would never stop traveling or take my privilege for granted. Fatima's story continues to haunt me every time I reach for my passport, reminding me that travel remains an extraordinary luxury available only to a fortunate minority.
Chapter 13
The Golden Age of Travel
Visiting unrecognized places left me wide-eyed. These literally off-the-map locations feature eccentric customs, upstart energy, and patriotic locals desperate for recognition. Taiwan particularly showed me I could make compelling travelogues exploring light and shade almost anywhere-not just in war-torn or impoverished nations.
My approach now involves seeking alternatives to stereotypes-finding positivity in troubled places or exposing problems in paradise destinations. Getting off beaten tracks and exploring both light and shade creates more rounded adventures. People everywhere are willing to discuss their problems; for most, sharing with outsiders is cathartic.
While others might not want to replicate my riskier journeys, travelers could benefit from incorporating certain elements into their holidays. Memorable trips combine adventure with clear plans and destinations. Turning a break into a proper adventure with purpose and meaning guarantees lifetime memories-whether following a river from source to sea or exploring between destinations.
The best memories often come from taking chances and pushing beyond comfort zones. On any trip, I follow simple rules: visit strange places, take chances, ask questions, seek excitement, eat unfamiliar food, embrace foreign cultures, and welcome risk.
True adventure is more accessible than ever. Despite being sold a vision of the world as dangerous, reality proves it friendly and astonishingly hospitable. The further from tourist traps you venture, the warmer the welcome and more authentic the experience. While some romanticize a bygone "Golden Age" of travel with steam trains and white-gloved stewardesses, I believe we're living in the real Golden Age now-when travel is cheaper and safer than ever before, offering sensory stimulation, life enhancement, and priceless memories.
From a suicidal teenager on a bridge to a globally recognized explorer, my journey has been one of constant discovery-not just of distant lands, but of human resilience and the extraordinary capacity we all have to transform our lives, step by step. The world remains an endlessly fascinating place, full of light and shade, and worthy of our deepest curiosity and respect.
