To aid perspective, the siege of Sarajevo, the longest siege of a city in modern warfare, lasted five tumultuous years. The Serb forces of the Republika Srpska and the Yugoslav People’s Army brought this city to its knees during the Bosnian War. It must have felt like living in a concentration camp; the fear, the uncertainty, the death pervading the air of every street corner. When I decided to travel the continent, this city was at the top of my list. Today, constant reminders of the war decorate the place in the form of bullet holes on every wall and even the looks in people’s eyes. The sinister views of forest fires around hills whisper violence through the windows of train carriages as they pass in and out. The panoramas from mountaintops should be beautiful here, but they aren’t. The moors are full of graves with the same four years on them: ‘92, ‘93, ‘94, ‘95. Clearly, there are legitimate reasons for this ‘epidemic’ of depression.

However, Sarajevo is a beautiful city, which might be news to the reader. The centre is full of wonder. At the end of a line of ordinary shops and cafés, you are met with a mirage of something magical. A new world can be discovered here, something so strange and diverse: The Turkish Quarter. This transcendent feeling can be experienced further south, in the savaged city of Mostar. Cobbled pavements and stony pathways lead you back in time. Three distinct cultures living in such close proximity is certainly a sight to behold. Stray dogs mix with stray children to create an ambiance unique to this all-encompassing place.

Sarajevo thus portrays an intensely mixed image. I met a woman who was a student in Sarajevo during the siege and she guided me to the war tunnel. It was secretly built beneath the airport runways so the UN could get aid to victims. Her testimonies were horrendous but her stories of strangers giving her food in the darkest days were faith restoring. Sitting at the entrance to the rescue tunnel, listening to her talk, I realised that we, who have been brought up in the West, do not know hardship. As a country, why are we spending more on anti-depressants than here? Of course, the obvious answer is to do with wealth, which leaves a bitter feeling of injustice.

The horror of the war, together with increasing financial pressures, has left many people feeling helpless. One evening, watching a young boy sing his heart out in the street for spare change, singing beautifully in pure need, my thoughts widened. We might think it sometimes, in private moments of vain reflection, but we are not poor.

Bosnia is in economic dismay. The destruction of towns and businesses in the 90s has had such telling effects, as employment and poverty are rife. Many are pointing to the top. There is no central government, as the Muslim, Serbian and Croatian politicians all appear to be vying and squabbling for political positions. This political uncertainty has stalled potential EU aid of 96 million euros, a windfall that could impact the country’s economy in an immensely positive way.

After seeing the war tunnel, a taxi driver drove me back to the centre of the city. Sitting behind him in the car, I almost caught an addiction. I felt intoxicated from the breaths of this chain smoker, but that didn’t matter. I perceived the beauty in the destruction around me. I was eager to breathe it all in. But I was a mere tourist, happy to come along for the posthumous ride. Surely if I were a citizen, born in this country, my nationalism and cultural perceptions would be tainted by the bloody past, still present around me. I was taken on a panoramic view of the city, of the people. It was magnificent. What I learned from the people I met in Sarajevo is invaluable.

It is an inevitable side effect of war and poverty to have to deal with mental problems. But the fact that depression is a global issue, pertaining to every nation, shows that clearly there is something amiss in the way we function, the way modern society functions. Perhaps the pressures of the 21^st century are the main factors in all this. The growing concern over anti-depressants in Bosnia needs to be addressed before it is inherited by the next generation. But even with all the facts and figures, I can only talk from my own experience. The spirit of the people I personally met, the willingness to get back up and carry on, to make new lives, shows that families can be reunited, people can find strength if they look deep enough. There can indeed be light at the end of the tunnel.

Eddie is a trustee for Raleigh who aim to work in partnership with communities across the world, acting as a catalyst for change.  Former alumni include Prince William and Kate Middleton, but the charity hopes the introduction of the bursary will widen access for disadvantaged groups.

Depending on your personal circumstances, a bursary could fund anything up to the full amount of the trip, although the charity does expect the young person to raise some of the money themselves as a show of commitment.

When I met Eddie in the plush Radio 1xtra studios, he spoke of the potential of Raleigh’s expeditions: “If you’re looking to move your life in a different direction, if you’re looking for a challenge and you want to do something different, then Raleigh can help.”

Soho’s The Reading Room Gallery will play host to Botsio’s “In and Out of the Public Eye” exhibition from 5^th-30^th September, featuring images of well-known BBC stars and celebrities including Trevor Nielson, Tim Westwood and the current squeeze of Rolling Stone’s Ronnie Wood, Ana Araujo.

The exhibition’s free and the quirky gallery makes a perfect setting for the images: I’ve had a sneak peek and the portraits are visually stunning, offering a relaxed, candid view of the stars away from their day-to-day jobs. If you have a spare £300, you’ll even be able to snap up a limited edition canvas of your favourite featured celebrity (better start saving!).

Although a little out of the average student’s price range, the exhibition merits students’ support – after all, it could be you benefiting from a Raleigh bursary in the near future!

But like a good French Brie left out in the sun, my visions of cheesy bliss quickly melted around me. Completely enthralled in my daydream, I was unprepared for those painful words from our grinning waiter…‘Madame, your Paneer Butter Masala…’ and as I looked down at the white pieces of jelly floating ungracefully in spicy, tomato sauce, I can only say that I died a little bit inside.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with paneer, but it’s just not quite right either. For those of you unfamiliar with the Paneer Phenomenon, any Indian waiter may well convince you that ‘it’s just like cottage cheese’, but do not be fooled. It is indeed white and made from milk produce, providing a valuable source of protein for India’s 400 million vegetarians, but it is severely lacking in some key areas: notably that mouth-watering cheesy flavour and satisfying cheesy texture. Unlike Western cheese, paneer is cooked in rich, creamy sauces of various flavours and served with chapatti or naan. What I mean to say, is that there’s not a Jacob’s Cream-Cracker in sight either. So as I sat contemplating my fifth paneer dish of the week, I was struck with a sudden longing for home…or more specifically, those beautiful cheese-counters, found strewn generously across England’s green and pleasant lands.

Now quite beyond my control, a string of associations were formed inside my head…cheese, olives, sun-dried tomatoes, palma ham…My God, the list went on and on…until I found myself clutching a Virgin Atlantic ticket to London Heathrow, salivating as I imagined my return to what had now been pedalstaled inside my poor, desperate brain, as the Food Capital of the World.

The whole idea of a Trip Home was unexpected to say the least. I had begun my year-abroad with the unwavering notion that my time in India would surely turn into a life-long avoidance of the UK. But at that moment, Blighty had become to me a veritable Paradise on Earth, a nation of warm loving embraces with family, friends and, of course, smelly, mouldy, absolutely delicious Stilton cheese.

Blinded by romanticism, then, so too was the journey home quite unexpected. Cruising comfortably at 30,000 feet over Germany, the captain’s voice suddenly came over the tanoy… ‘London Heathrow has been closed due to heavy snowfall…We will be landing in Germany instead.’ So as the cabin crew set about preparing the plane for a quick landing, the cabin’s passengers mumbled and groaned until we touched down in a cold and snowy Hannover. I looked down at my feet, clad in a beautiful but entirely impractical pair of leather sandals. ‘Sh*t’, I thought to myself, until I suddenly remembered the pair of socks stashed in my hand luggage. I was awarded a sense of mild relief, though not quite enough to mask my intense shame at the criminal Socks + Sandals combination that was about to occur.

At least, I told myself, I was alone and therefore immune to the judgements of my fellow passengers, a vast sea of strangers, whose thoughts would be entirely irrelevant on my return to England within a couple of hours. However, hours soon turned to days, and whilst some passengers sat sobbing, the more practical among us drew up a list of food to request from the hotel for Christmas Dinner…a looming prospect as the snow continued to inundate both Hannover and our true destination across the North Sea. Visions of Channel 4’s LOST flashed repeatedly before my eyes. Holed up in (a rather grand) hotel, the story of Flight VI301 became a worthy TV serial.

I found myself surrounded by a brilliant cast: A cute French boy, a snooty ex-pat family and a hysterical Indian grandma, whose handbag (containing £5000 cash and 3 passports) had been stolen from the hotel. After hours of endless conversation and some quality people-watching, my fellow passengers were strangers no more, but three dimensional characters with much comedy value.

I soon learnt that three days stuck inside a hotel can illicit some fascinating human behaviour. As I sat minding my own business, I was approached by the plane’s most eligible bachelor, a twenty-something Indian, with beautiful tanned skin and a smile to die for. Sophisticated and clearly well-situated in life, he told me stories of his friend’s wedding at Mumbai’s Taj Hotel, attended, no less, by the (absolutely minted) Ambani family. Apparently quite unfazed by the monstrosity on my feet and the smell exuding from the clothes I’d thrown on in Delhi, he invited me for a drink at the bar, where I experienced two of life’s most precious blessings…dark Belgian Beer and the most awesome, utterly unbelievable Gouda sandwich. I had to ask myself if I had I landed in Hannover or Heaven…

Though in truth, such tiny episodes of bliss were intermittent in an otherwise entirely stressful and tense atmosphere. My spontaneous trip home had turned into a prolonged, agonising journey, the only saving grace being that we had been diverted to another nation of cheese-lovers. After many visits to Hannover Airport, only to be returned back to the hotel, I finally reached home two days before Christmas, for a two week sojourn, which passed predictably in a cheese-induced comatose state.

But for all the cheese in the world, nothing could cover an overwhelming sense of disappointment. Experiencing a mysterious case of counter-culture shock, I was hit by the lack of life on the British streets. Without the make-shift chai stalls and honking traffic, London felt foreign and cold and I soon realised that nothing much had changed since I had left. The impact of the recession could still be felt everywhere, and people continued to complain about their jobs and, of course, the dreary weather.

As I tore myself from the loving clutches of my family and friends for my inevitable return to life in India, I was hit by an age-old realisation that we must be thankful for the treasure that lies beneath our noses, appreciating each place for its uniqueness without succumbing to that longing to be somewhere/anywhere else. For now, I suddenly understood that my life is in India and that I should live it to the fullest. In fact, with minimal responsibilities, plenty of free-time and a wealth of amazing people around me, my life is the richest that it has ever been in these twenty-one years.

I must admit that for this sudden depth of understanding, I owe a lot to the import store recently found in central Jaipur, whose refrigerators are overflowing with Parmesan, Cheddar and a mysterious, holey Swiss number. Now, left wanting for nothing, I can only march forward in my campaign to make Red Leicester a house-hold name in every village, town and metropole from Kashmir to Kerala.

Colonialist or Philanthropist? Answers on a postcard please…