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“The Pope, The Pope!” A construction worker was vigourously waving his arms and yelling at me. “The Pope, no entrada!” Seeing my obvious confusion, he came running over and introduced himself by way of tattooed name on his forearm. Pito explained that the attraction I had come to see, was closed, in preparation for a visit from the Pontiff.

I first saw it through a 1973 Holden Belmont station wagon’s smoke-stained window. Staring back at 11-year-old me was a blue and yellow sign: ‘Pig Dog Training School / Bookbinder’. Located just outside of Torere, Joshua Kauta’s iconic landmark still stands, symbolising the next 300 kilometres. Known yet mysterious, friendly yet wary, this is the East Coast.

The town known for those fat juicy you-know-whats, and the place where every New Zealand fundraising ride / walk / tour seems to end, is having a modern-day renaissance. Bluff is one of the oldest settlements in New Zealand but rather than resting on its oyster laurels its quickly becoming a destination of its own.

Indonesia’s centuries-old shadow puppet-making tradition as practiced by artisans today​

The leader reaches in between the freshly cut, drooping skin and through to the open organ cavity. Twisting his hand with a precision that only comes with age, he pulls out the bloody liver. The baboon dripping in front of him will be dinner, and perhaps breakfast, for the four families gathered under the ledge.

Deep in the Baliem Valley of Indonesia’s Papua region, size really does matter. The Dani tribe, first discovered by air in 1938 and still isolated in the mountains today, are known for a particular appendage: the horim.

“Salem has 400 years of history, yet all people want to talk about was the single worst year we ever had”. Our gregarious Witch City Walking Tour guide, Sean, with tongue firmly planted in cheek, introduced us to what put this Massachusetts town on the map – the Salem Witch Trials.

As I left the room, I respectfully bowed my head and thanked my host, Tanjkeara. His wife, Francisca, who I had met at a cock fight had invited me into their home, impressing upon me that her husband spoke English, Dutch and Bahasa. As it was Tanjkeara didn’t say much - he hadn’t since he had died three years ago.

As the road softly curved under a canopy of maples, rusty reds and golden yellows tumbled to the ground. A solitary man, belt braces strapped over his checked shirt, stood out against the wall of crimson trees. Tailgate down on his Chevy pickup, twin American flags bookending his sign, his bottles of homemade liquid sweetness magnified the sun’s rays.

The runway was approaching and we still didn’t have clearance. We’d reduced speed but the control tower was looming closer. Suddenly we got the green light. “There it is,” pointed Geoff, “Up in the tower”. Sure enough, a green light beamed back at us, permission to continue on the railway that cuts through Gisborne’s airport.

“38!!” laughed Alison, when I asked her the population of Ngawi, the small fishing village we’d just set out from. We were aboard the fishing vessel Elan skippered by her husband Andrew, who had generously agreed to take me for ‘a spin around the point’.

Marden was ashen, it was obvious that the poison was starting to take effect. I knew what would happen next – the toxins making their way into his bloodstream, then his glands and finally hitting his central nervous system. With a small first aid kit there was nothing I could do. Not that he wanted me to.

“Li-ber-tat! Li-ber-tat!” The chant was sweeping across the square like a Catalan wave. The crowd ignored the soaring heat to remind the world that their pro-independence leaders were still in exile or jail. “Libertat-del-presos-politics!!”

Vasillia gently touched my arm and leant in. “You are an Orthodox at heart,” she whispered, her eyes lighting up. “Yes, yes, I can see it inside you!” For the first time in my life I had to disappoint a nun.

"Um, aren’t we a little low?!” shouted my fellow passenger over the Cessna’s engine. She was right of course, we were only 50 metres above the ground and below us impala were scattering everywhere. “No, of course not,” I reassured her while secretly enjoying a personal ‘Out of Africa’ moment as she gripped the armrest.

I was warned about getting shot in Colombia. The balaclava, reflective sunglasses and combat fatigues in the southern city of Pasto were a giveaway. I should have just run. Instead, I'm hit twice - not with bullets but with white foam shooting out of a canister by a 12-year old boy shouting “Viva Pasto!”

“Smash it on the head” yelled Geranio, our guide. “Quick!” The freshly caught piranha was flip-flopping in a desperate attempt to get back to water, sharp teeth biting at air as I brought a rotting stick down upon its head. Minewa, a 60-year old local tribesman, added it to his string of dead fish and smiled at me. “Now you are a warrior!’”, laughed Geranio.

“Hold on, I just need to scrape something off…” My guide had removed his gumboot and was reaching for a knife. Slowly he sliced the blade down his leg to remove the blood sucking leech that had attached itself to him. “Welcome to Mentawai!” he said with a broad grin.

Even the most ardent solo traveller at some stage will need a guide - someone who knows their cantons from their arrondissements better than you do. I’ve used more than 20 guides around the world, from well-known tour companies to random taxi drivers, so here are a few simple tips that might help you out.

“In the olden days,” began Apinelu, a tone of longing in his voice, “it was never this hot. Never. Now everything has changed, not just the sea.” It was a very still 33° and my earlobes were sweating. Welcome to the small island nation of Tuvalu.

Y’all not from round here, are ya? Ain’t nobody drinks Budddd. This is Shiner Bock country, sir.” And with that the barman passed over a golden-labelled bottle of ale. I was in Luckenbach, Texas, population 3, a small town in the Hill Country west of San Antonio.

The lion was just metres away now. “Look, he’s trying to find some shade so the meat doesn’t rot quickly,” whispered my guide, Nicholas. In the big cat’s mouth was a Maasai calf, being unceremoniously dragged across the plain towards a desert date tree. It was nature at its primeval best in Kenya’s most famous game park.

“Don’t worry ‘bout a thing, cause every little thing, gonna be al-riiight…” It seemed only appropriate that Bob Marley blared out the front of the pick-up as we bounced along the dirt road. After all, this was the country of Emperor Haile Selassie, recognised by Rastafarians as the Massiah of African Redemption and head of their religion.

“Why Albania?” “Why not?”
“What have they done to us?” “What have they done for us?”
“Nothing….”
“See, they keep to themselves. Shifty. Untrustable.”

We both looked up. It was a strange sound, obviously unfamiliar to my host. “When was the last time it rained here?” I asked. A pause. “Um… this is the first time this year. Might settle the dust though,” said Nick laconically. Perhaps a good omen to mark the centenary of what some would say is Australia’s strangest town.

“When the alarm goes you grab this,” Officer Cadet Dusan said as he pointed to my lifejacket. “And this.” An orange survival suit. “We muster on C Deck, starboard side.” I didn’t know if it was a good or bad thing that my welcome was bringing up Titanic-like thoughts.

Oh my god, he’s going to do it!” screeched the American teenager to my left. Sure enough with a quick wave to the crowd, a furtive glance downwards and a tuck of the pants, over he leapt. One of Mostar’s bridge-jumpers had just taken the plunge into the icy Neretva River below. I’d just witnessed something that wasn’t possible two decades before.

A car’s side mirror on a plinth. Next to it, a mounted set of papier mache breasts. Between them, a hanging axe. I was standing in front of one of the world’s strangest – and strangely inviting – exhibitions.

Before you pull out the atlas, a word of warning: Patagonia isn’t officially a 'place' as such. Rather it’s the name given to an area spanning southern Argentina and Chile, and everything you have heard about it – barren, windswept, sparse and beautiful – is true.

We clap our hands for many things, but until this year I’d never actually applauded the sun going down – that is, until I was at Ipanema.

It might not have been the largest plane in the world but it certainly was the friendliest. As we disembarked to the hot sticky tarmac, the pilot literally poked his head out of the cockpit to say “bye” to each of us, adding a cheery “Welcome to Gizzy!”

Platform 3, Beijing Railway Station. And there she was - the fabled Trans-Siberian, ready to take me on the longest train journey in the world. A surreal three countries, five time zones and 8300km of steppe, snow and stations lay ahead... but first of all there was Beijing.

When you're in Morocco colour is inescapable. The contrasts, hues and shades that make up this North African country are evident from the moment you land. Travelling through the country is an unbelievably vivid experience, an intoxicating blend of colours, photo opportunities mixed with spicy smells and the strange sounds of a foreign land.

For years the name Beirut evoked images of a vicious civil war and a hotspot of clashing cultures. It’s been a while since tourists flocked to the ‘Paris of the Middle East’, so you can imagine my surprise when I discovered a Lebanon of high class fashion, vibrant beauty, worldly citizens and some of the most amazing nightlife in the Middle East.​