Gracias, Mauricio

Whanganui and Valparaiso get connected today, thanks to Mauricio. He's got a bit miffed about the Durie Hill Elevator's claim, faithfully repeated by me in a story written some time ago that's just been re-run, that it's unique in the southern hemisphere. As he rightly points out, with multiple links to online proof, it's actually not: there's another one, the Polanco Lift, in Valparaiso, with a 150m tunnel leading to a couple of lifts, which take people to the top of the hill, 60m above. Being Chilean, he's understandably offended - also though, being Chilean, perhaps he didn't quite appreciate in-joke of the 'World Famous in NZ' title of the feature, but that's ok. 

I did however think he was a bit over-sensitive in claiming that New Zealanders don't properly recognise that there are other countries south of the equator besides the English-speaking ones. As a nationality, I reckon we get around more than most others, and South America is certainly a popular destination for Kiwis. I've been there several times myself, including to Valparaiso.

That was way back in 2008, on my first big and very exciting trip to South America, when the main focus was on walking the Inca Trail. Before joining the (very small) tour group, I had a couple of nights in Santiago and was escorted to Valparaiso, which is about an hour's drive away through wine country and a range of hills you might call mountains if the actual Andes weren't in plain sight.

Valparaiso is old and very pretty, as well as modern and ugly, and classy and very down-at-heel - typical port city, then. The old part, which was far from being fully gentrified, was full of piled-up wooden Victorian villas painted fabulously bright colours, with towers and iron-lace verandas, set along steep cobbled streets intersected by plenty of narrow alleys where the "bad seňoritas" service the seamen. The sailors we saw were togged out in white dress uniforms with brass buttons and even white gloves, and clearly above such shenanigans...

There were stately buildings, tree-lined avenues, dinky fishing boats and stern grey naval ships, sea lions and pelicans on the rocks, and heaps of statues including one of the local horse that holds the world record for highest jump, 2.47m, set there in 1949 by 16 year-old ex-race-horse Huaso, who was then immediately retired. There were less athletic horses hitched to carriages for tourists, and, as ever in Chile, lots of stray dogs - most of them, I'm happy to say, apparently well fed and cared for by people who aren't allowed to keep them in their apartments. There was even an Easter Island moai, my first, which I was excited to see - not knowing then that I would be going there myself just four years later.

No actual decision here

It's being a long day in Whakatane for lots of people, one of them the Firstborn reporting on today's recovery mission to Whakaari White Island to retrieve the bodies of those who were killed during Monday afternoon's eruption. She was up at 4am to witness the blessing of a tour boat taking family members and elders out to the island to remove the rahui before the SAS team moved in later. Amongst all the weary horror of the details being revealed of the - so far - 16 victims and their hideous deaths, and the long, painful struggle ahead for those still in danger in hospital (all of it making it seem a fatuous exaggeration to label the currently still-emerging British election results 'a disaster'), I worried that the Firstborn wasn't looking after herself, and wanted at least to recommend somewhere nice to eat in Whakatane.

So, not wanting to walk the three metres to the drawer containing my notebooks, I did a search on this blog and look what I found, from September 2012: 

Tongariro hasn't spat the dummy again - yet; but White Island has been having hissy fits for months, and is particularly unwelcoming at the moment, with ash now featuring in the constant billowing clouds of sulphurous steam. Also, there are rafts of pumice stones floating downstream of the Kermadecs, so they've stirred into underwater activity too. These volcanoes are all on a line, along the edge of the same plate that our Volcanic Plateau sits on. Nothing to worry about, say the scientists airily. 

You can go out to White Island - it takes about an hour and a half by launch from Whakatane - and do a tour, kitted up with hard hat and, yes, gas mask. They're even running the tours right now: "It's a great time to see White Island at a higher level of activity," the website claims cheerfully, but I don't know that I'd be keen. That place has killed people before now (not tourists - so far) and evidently you're told not to walk too close to the person in front, presumably so you don't break through the crust. I've been to Rotorua enough times to be aware of how thin the layer can be between us and the boiling water or mud - but to risk dropping into a volcano? Not so appealing, really.

I wrote that five years before I visited myself, and found it, literally, a spectacularly memorable experience that I was pleased to have done. Already, people are talking about what this lethal eruption will mean to the future economy of Whakatane which, for the last 30 years, has hinged on White Island tourism - it's a nice little town with a good beach, but there are plenty like that in the country. Should people have been allowed to go out there to walk in the volcano's crater? Should they ever be allowed to go there again, now we know how violently, and suddenly, it can erupt when the activity level was only at 2 out of 5? It's easy, of course, to be wise after the event.

A huge part of New Zealand's tourism industry is the thrilling stuff people can do here - throwing themselves off high places in umpteen different ways, hurtling down steep slopes ditto, skimming along a shallow river in a high-speed jet boat just inches away from rocky cliffs, category 6 white-water rafting: all that, and much, much more. The reason such potentially life-threatening activities are offered so routinely is because of ACC. The Accident Compensation Corporation, established in 1974, provides no-fault insurance compensation for everyone in the country, resident or tourist. So nobody can sue anyone for millions - if they're injured, they get what it's officially calculated they need to cover their care, expenses and a percentage of lost income, if relevant. (Hospitals, of course, are free.) We pay for it all through our taxes. Naturally, the system has its drawbacks, and it's probably significant that no other country has copied it, but it does mean that it's possible to let people do all sorts of dangerous things, commercially, and that's a great attraction.

Which isn't to say you can't put your life in danger in other countries too, even in the US. There, naturally, you need to sign waivers that cover every minute variation of things going wrong - before even a tame a ride on a horse, for example, there's a form to sign that includes a veritable thesaurus of terms covering every sort of movement the horse might make. But, despite all that, you can still do dangerous things, commercially, all over the world: hurtle down the *cough* Death Road in Bolivia, take drugs in the jungle in Ecuador, swim with whales (and whale sharks) in all sorts of places, stare down a wild lion from two metres' distance in Africa and paddle past hippos, climb Everest, jump into the sea in the Antarctic, teeter along cliffs in China, bounce in a boat remarkably close to a fire-hose of magma in Hawaii.

I've done some of those things, and they were exciting and fun, and I'm still here. So is the vast majority of everybody else who's done them. If they'd gone wrong, it could have been every bit as bad - possibly even worse, longer-lasting, more violent and painful - than the hopefully almost instant deaths (though not the injuries) of the victims of White Island. But it didn't. Instead, I had a good time, made vivid memories, and lots of people made honest livings from that.

I've seen the photos of the White Island victims, read their biographies, heard their families and friends speak about what they were like, and of course none of them deserved to die, or have the rest of their lives wrecked like that. It's a tragedy of the most extreme sort, made even worse by their having chosen to do that tour, for fun. 

So, should they have been able to? Is there a line that should be drawn, allowing some things but not others? Who decides? Is that fair? Where would it all end? Big questions. 

Fuller(s) excitement

I don't know. I've been all over the place, going up in hot air balloons and small planes, riding horses, swimming with whale sharks, getting close to bears and rhino and lions, climbing peaks and going down into caves, scuba diving and kayaking, and the most proper drama I've witnessed was heading across to lunch in the city today on the Waiheke ferry.

Well, actually, there was that time I was mugged in Santiago - oh, and dislocated my shoulder in Norfolk, and, um, got tipped out of a white-water raft near Taupo, and, that's right, ran aground in a ship off Stewart Island... but I'm sticking to my premise, that this afternoon it could have got really nasty on board Fullers' Quick Cat. 

Not that it did, of course, I'm here typing this and besides, this is New Zealand, even a fire on board a ferry is a laid-back experience. Because that's what happened: I was sitting reading the local rag in the main cabin when there was a flurry behind me and a serious-looking life-jacket-clad staff member was opening a hatch I'd always wondered about below the window, and dragged a fire hose out of it, and across to the door. An announcement told us that there was a problem with one of the engines and we might like to go outside to avoid any fumes. Not many did.

Then we were told that, actually, we all had to go up to the top deck because the starboard engine had caught fire and we needed to be in the open. So we trooped up there, a bit bemused, no-one particularly worried, tourists laughing, and got whipped about by the chilly wind for a while until we were allowed down into the upper cabin. "The fire is contained," we kept being told and, apart from a faint smell, that seemed to be it. 

Except that obviously the engine was out of commission, so we had to limp across the harbour on one engine at just 8 knots, so our journey ended up being about three times longer than usual. Never mind, we had entertainment: the Coastguard gave us an escort, and the police launch Deodar III came alongside so three firemen in all their clobber could leap on board.

Eventually we chugged up to the pier where, kudos to the skipper, we eased into the mooring with no hiccups. There was a fire engine waiting by the Ferry Building, and more firemen on the pier, a couple pushing a stretcher for a crew member who, we learned on the TV news that night, had been overcome by fumes. And that was it. Apologies from the skipper, and thanks for our understanding, and everyone trooped ashore as usual, faintly relieved at not having had to get wet.

All in all, it was a lot more traumatic way back in 2006 when I fell off the side of a staircase in a holiday house we were renting on Waiheke, knocking myself out on the washing machine below, and breaking my wrist. The local ambulance people took me to the jetty - somehow, can't remember - and I rode in the original Deodar across the harbour to a waiting ambulance that took me to hospital. I missed out on being delivered there from Waiheke by the Eagle helicopter because it was attending a big crash up north, which also meant that I was left waiting for hours on a stretcher under a bright light while the casualties from that accident were seen to. Not that I'm bitter, at all... Oh, and they sent me home next day in a taxi, bare-footed and wearing somebody else's ghastly too-big top because they'd cut mine off. Tch.

Good news is no news - also, probably tempting fate now

I've just written an editorial about how nobody's interested in hearing about your holiday unless it was a disaster. It's true, isn't it? How was your holiday? Lovely. And that's the end of the conversation. None of those supplementary questions I used to coach my kids to ask of their friends' parents when they were playing in their houses, in order to look intelligent/ingratiate themselves. The only people who have the slightest interest in your trip are those who have just been, or are about to go, to the same place, so it's all entirely selfish - especially the first group, who just want to be able to reassure themselves that they had the better time.

Disasters, though. I've had a few - too many, in fact, to fit into 300 words. It was quite fun to recall them. Stand by.

Dislocating my shoulder by jumping off a moving boat in the Norfolk Broads. Falling off a staircase on Waiheke, knocking myself out and breaking my wrist. Tripping and falling down a flight of stone steps at the Red Fort in Delhi, hitting my head (again - explains a lot). Falling into the Tongariro River thirty seconds after setting off on a white-water rafting expedition. Falling over twice on a glacier in Iceland and whacking the same knee each time. Missing the train in Alice Springs and, out of money, having to subsist on a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter for three days till the next one. Getting mugged in Santiago, by having my antique gold chain snatched from my neck from behind by invisible ratbags. Having a man expose himself to me on the street at night in Brisbane as I waited for a bus. Watching my camera cartwheel down a rocky hillside on the Isle of Skye. Dropping a speeding Segway wheel into a pothole in Queenstown and falling off. Being dumped by a wave on Waiheke on two separate occasions and losing my glasses in the surf. Having my husband whisked away by airport authorities and waiting alone for him for a fraught hour and a half in Moscow. Having to wade thigh-deep through freezing water along the flooded Milford Track. Being followed down a tunnel to an underground market in Delhi by a one-legged, long-haired beggar who was just a creepy silhouette against the light. Having the expedition ship I was on shudder to a halt as it ran aground on a rock. Breaking an arm off my glasses by sleeping on them on a plane and having to wear them like lorgnettes for half a holiday in France. Riding a horse in a bikini (me, not the horse) in South Australia through a shoulder-high thicket of spider webs. Flushing my hire car keys down a public loo in Brisbane, leaving me stranded at night with no money or phone.

There are doubtless more, that I've blotted out of my memory. Still, that's a good enough list to enable shameless name-dropping. Which is what it's all about, really, when you're back from travelling, isn't it? And probably why nobody else (see above) is interested. So what a good thing it is that I'm a travel writer, and get to describe all my trips in great detail, and even get paid [a pittance] for it. Funny, though, isn't it, how there's a call for travel stories in newspapers and magazines, but in person no-one's bothered? Or maybe it's just me...

Umm...

I've been revisiting Australia. Not in person, you understand, but through the media of my notebooks and photos, and, to a much lesser extent, my memory. The impetus for this was a call from one of my editors for content to fill an Aussie-special issue coming up. "I can do that!" I thought. "I've been there so often, I've used it up! I've been everywhere!"

And (referring you here to the title of this blog), that's no way an exaggeration. I've been sent there for work many times, all over the continent, from the Tiwi Islands to Tasmania, from Ningaloo to the Great Barrier Reef. So you'd think coming up with story material would be a piece of cake. But - you'll have guessed this already - it wasn't. See, the thing is, you forget, don't you? Stuff merges, or evaporates entirely, and flicking through the notes and the pics is almost a revelation: Oh, yeah, that camel ride! The beanie festival! Boab trees! All those bats!

Maybe this is why those pedestrian types keep going back to the Gold Coast every year: because the detail slips out of their memories within weeks of getting back home, and all they remember is that they had a good time. So they're like my old grandmother, who had a pile of Agatha Christies by her bed that she just read one after the other, instantly forgetting each plot so that it was fresh next time she got to it.

That's fine for them, but what about me? I've been to so many amazing places that I'll never get back to, and it's all disappearing. Yes, yes, I'm getting old, I can't even remember where I left my phone or what was on the shopping list I forgot to take to the supermarket with me; but this is serious!

Is this why people have latched onto Instagram with such fervid zeal? Is it not really so much about impressing their friends, as compiling a file of memory aids? And writing blogs, ditto? A propos of which, it's a marvel to me that Moleskine (WHY that final e? Drives me crazy!) maintains such a presence in fancy stationery shops. People may buy those elegant notebooks with great intentions, but I've never seen anyone writing in one - whereas me, with my trusty Back to School-5c-special 3B1s, I'm jotting stuff down all the time.

Because I'm doing it on the run, though, they're untidy and scribbled, and full of destination-specific abbreviations that seem so obvious to me at the time, and which are totally unintelligible when I'm trying to decipher them back home again. I'm never going to sit down with one and read it like a book. Equally, I'm not going to set my editing program to Slideshow and just lie back to watch - mainly because I take so many photos that whittling them down back home is just too daunting a job and so I lazily just file them all away, with the result that the good stuff is smothered by all the crap shots. (Speaking of which, have you ever seen a professional photographer at work and noticed HOW MANY shots they take, constantly referring to their screens to review them? Maybe they're checking their histograms, but it still looks to me as though they're winging it. Shouldn't they know what settings to use?)

And there's another downside to fading travel memories: now and then, when my brain's in neutral (so, quite often, actually) I'll get a sudden vivid impression of somewhere I've been - a town square, a castle, some lookout - and it'll drive me crazy for ages trying to remember where it was. Lisbon? Rudesheim? Santiago? Honestly, the choice is so wide and the memory so tenuous, quite often I never get to the answer.

What's the solution? Don't go to so many places? Yeah, right. Only go to strikingly individual places, like Antarctica or Easter Island? Take clearer notes? Do memory-improvement exercises? Or just shrug and accept the loss and the drawing-in of the borders? Cripes. Depressing, much?

Silver Explorer, Day 1 - Sailaway

With thanks to Silversea for this hosted cruise

It's not what you expect, that the day you join a cruise on a ship with the luxury Silversea line, you have to drag yourself out of bed at 4am. But, thanks to an impending general strike at midday today, everything was brought forward in order to ensure our getting to Ushuaia without hold-ups. It's a three and a half-hour flight, over the vast sprawl of Buenos Aires, flat farmland, lakes and then the sea to, eventually, Tierra del Fuego, which looked remarkably like Fiordland from the air. Mountains, Indian snow, green bush, rivers.

When we landed, though (at a pretty and modern airport with the fastest baggage carousel it's been my challenge to seize my suitcase off) everything looked much more like Anchorage: colourful, lots of corrugated iron, a bit ramshackle, a distinct feel of remoteness. The surrounding mountains are the end of the Andes, the Beagle Channel links the Pacific and Atlantic, the wind powers through, in winter there are only 6 hours of daylight, and in summer 12 degrees is as hot as it gets (it was a delightful 11 today). Still, it's bustling, and the population is 80,000 and growing. First it was prisoners, then beaver hunters, and now tax-free industry - all designed to make sure people were here so the land could be claimed by Argentina (Chile is within sight). There's also a Hard Rock Café here, by the way - the world's southernmost (that's a label they're unashamedly fond of using, understandably).

We took a drive in a bus, which didn't let us get out in the town; instead we had lunch at a hotel up on the hill, before some of us went on an escorted walk through the 'forest' - which to me looked just like our bush, mainly due to the dominant beech trees, though they're deciduous here and in new leaf. "Make the most of the green!" instructed the guide, rather ominously, referring to all the blue and white we have ahead of us. She also took care to point out to us the dandelions, buttercups and daisies in the grass. I guess when you're emerging from the sort of winter they have here, any splash of yellow is a delight.

And then we went to the ship, the Silver Explorer, its last guests evicted and brutally sent to take their chances with the strike, while we were welcomed on board by a line of smiling crew, especially our personal white-gloved butler Ivy, a Filipina (of course - all the best people in hospitality are). Our cabin suite is on Deck 7, near the bow (so, not the best position for rough seas) - it's an overflow room for the adjoining Owner's Suite, which according to the plan is huge and undoubtedly eye-wateringly expensive. But ours, while somewhat snugger, is still amply big, with a proper bath and shower, a veranda, and on the table a gorgeous gingerbread house decoration that I will never be able to bring myself to defile.

We did our own unpacking this time (I know!) and then had a bit of an explore on the way to cocktails - the ship is naturally much smaller than our other Silversea homes, but still classy and recognisably Silversea, and there will clearly be no stinting. The staff are all typically multinational, enthusiastic and welcoming, and the food is ruinously irresistible. We did the lifeboat drill and then relaxed into drinks and dinner, discovering that a surprising number of people have been this way before. I really expected it to be a one-off bucket-list thing for everyone, but not at all.

Our sailaway was delayed to give the wind time to drop, so it happened as we ate - sharing a table with Tone and Sasha from Holland - and the low sun and then long dusk over the Andes' last gasp along the Channel made for a dramatically pretty backdrop, especially the romantically (if slightly erroneously) named Lighthouse at the End of the World. (There's another further south on Cape Horn, apparently.)

Hot v cold

This excellent photo by @stevefrancees on my Instagram feed is exactly the reason why I'm done with hot places. I mean, look at it: it could be anywhere! My first thought was Tahiti, specifically the Manava Suites resort I stayed at way back in 2007 - or, possibly New Caledonia. Or Fiji, or Aitutaki in the Cooks - or, honestly and truly, pretty much anywhere around the world between the tropics of Cancer and Capricorn: turquoise sea, coconut palms, thatched sun shelters, pool... It's actually Aruba, which I've had to Google (yes! I know! shocking admission for a so-called travel writer but the Caribbean is untrodden territory for me). (Apart from having sailed through there when I was three, that is.)

Anyway, the point is that, admittedly gorgeous as it is, you have to admit, it's all a bit samey, innit? And also, there's not much to do, other than lie in the sun trying to avoid getting burnt, or snorkelling, or maybe going for a kayak (or sailing in a dinghy helplessly towards the horizon and having to be ignominiously rescued by a bored resort worker - but that's another story). Relaxing, I suppose, but that's not what I need in a holiday. My everyday life is pretty relaxing. (Sorry.) And if I want turquoise sea, all I have to do is look up from this computer and out of the window. (Again, sorry.)

No, what really appeals to me these days is cold places. All you need is the right clothes, and then you can really get stuck into the dramatically different scenery, and wildlife, and culture and history. I did try to get to Iceland this year, but it didn't happen because I've lagged behind the trends, and everyone's going there, two million tourists a year, and the 300,000 residents have had enough. So they're not looking for any extra publicity, dammit (though that has at least relieved me of the difficulty of choosing between summer trekking on an Icelandic pony, or winter viewing of the Northern Lights). I wouldn't mind popping up to Churchill to see the polar bears, either, while they're still there, poor things. 

But neither of those things has been a possibility for me this year (let's not lose hope - it could still happen). What I have managed to set up though, after about three years of hints and nudges, and more direct requests this year, and lots of patience and quite a bit of luck, is a cruise to - tarah! - Antarctica. (Though the house-sitter is surprisingly unenvious. I dunno, something about Waiheke in summer.)

It's a cruise with (regular readers - ha! - will not be surprised to learn) my old mate Silversea. Not, fortunately as it turns out, Silver Cloud, which was strengthened this year and refitted for sailing through icy waters but, *cough* recently had to turn back from its maiden Antarctic voyage because of engine problems, but instead Silver Explorer, which is less fancy but more workmanlike. It still has butlers and such, of course - this is Silversea, what are you thinking? - and all the usual trimmings, so we'll hardly be slumming it, I know you'll be reassured to hear.

It's an 18-day cruise, from Ushuaia, southernmost city in South America, to the Falklands/Malvinas, South Georgia (for Christmas), Elephant Island and the Antarctic Peninsula, finishing with what I'm hoping will be an uneventful crossing over Drake Passage, one of the roughest stretches of water on the planet, back to Ushuaia and thence Buenos Aires.

So, I've written up Africa, I'm tidying away some NZ pieces, the weather here has recently and dramatically switched over into summer and I'm - honestly - on the verge of having my first swim in the sea; and I'm also thinking about layers and merino, and gloves and scarves. And penguins, lots of penguins. And, who knows, perhaps even, finally, endlich, an orca or two. Fingers crossed. Or, you know, watch this space.

(This is Mauritius, which came to mind because the sole American in our Africa tour group was heading there next - and HAD NEVER HEARD OF THE DODO!!! Can you believe that?)

Awaiting your call, 2017

And so begins a new year, which everyone is innocently hoping will be a better one than 2016, as if something as artificial as a numbering system will make any difference whatsoever to current events. And, yet, it might, since it's people who - mostly - cause current events; and people are suckers for concepts like new year, new slate. Let's hope so.

This year begins for me, as usual, totally blank. Since last year ended with a bit of a travel flurry, which will take me some time yet to work through, story-wise, I'm in no rush to hit the road again. Also, spending summer (once it actually begins for real) on Waiheke Island is the sort of thing many people aspire to doing, so it would be a bit churlish of me to swan off away.

In the past, I've speculated about where I might end up going to in the year to come - Africa, Galapagos, the Kimberley Coast - and, sooner or later, it's happened. Sometimes, twice. So, in the spirit of getting it out there and seeing what happens, here's the current bucket list (possibly somewhat influenced by having been to a number of hot places recently): Iceland, Finland, northern lights, polar bears, orcas, Torres del Paine, Japan, Antarctica, gorillas and some of the local luxury lodges I've written about recently but never yet been to - Eagle's Nest, Kauri Cliffs, Huka Falls, even The Boatshed just up the hill. Right then, providence. Get cracking.

Consider me spiced

There's certainly no shortage of variety in my life at the moment. Today I've been writing about machine guns, diggers and dancers in Las Vegas, as well as tweaking another story about a Hitler tour in Munich. I'm getting emails about walking through the Outback in South Australia (starting from the Dig Tree of Burke and Wills fame, which I just happen to be reading a book about). Someone else is wrapping up loose ends from my airline disaster in Tahiti, which is the destination I'm writing about next. Meanwhile I'm organising a house-sitter and liaising with the PR people from Visit England and Visit Scotland about my trip there next month; answering questions about Hobbiton from someone in Kuwait; and going green with envy at the countdown for my South Africa buddies to their epic car rally from Namibia to Zimbabwe. Oh, and getting stuff together for another stay on Waiheke Island at the weekend while messaging a daughter in Chile.

It's hard to imagine what it's like to be my dear old aunt, who has no desire to travel whatsoever and has rarely ventured beyond the county borders of Surrey. It's not that she's uninterested in what the rest of the world is like: she just doesn't want to go there herself. There are still people like that around, in every generation. I met a young man yesterday who's lived in Auckland for years and has never been to Waiheke; the car hire girl at Townsville airport has never made the 20-minute crossing to Magnetic Island, either. "I get sea-sick," she protested. Well, pft. Pathetic.

Not wanting to go places, being perfectly satisfied with just seeing them on TV or in magazines, is really missing out, I reckon. It's literally 2D, and nothing like being there, feeling the heat or cold or humidity on your skin, smelling the frangipani or curry or drains, hearing the wail of the muezzin, the racket of galahs at dawn or the roar of millions of litres of water pouring over Iguassu Falls. You don't get the buzz of being somewhere famous, or connecting with people who on the face of it are very different from you but turn out to be pretty much the same after all, or doing things that are a bit challenging and scary.

It's sometimes tempting, as you squeeze yourself into the middle seat in a crowded plane with every overhead bin crammed with outsize bags, to remember the glory days of the '70s, when fewer people were travelling and you could get whole rows to yourself, and to regret that everyone seems to be on the move these days. But actually, it's just great that all those minds are being broadened. Now, if only the bodies that go with them could be a little less so...

What does adventure mean to you?

Adventure isn’t an event: it’s a state of mind. Finding a dead mermaid under Brooklyn Bridge was startling; so was desperately flailing to get out of the way of a seven-metre whale shark. Riding an eager horse who wanted to be in front, please, on a week-long back-country trek was exhausting; and so was battling with thin air for four days following the Inca Trail. I’ve slept in a swag on the banks of a crocodile-infested river in the Outback, been mugged on the streets of Santiago, had an up-close encounter with an irritated rhino in South Africa: they’ve all been adventures, and all have given me great stories to tell back home.

But adventurous travel doesn’t have to mean physical challenge and danger: it’s more about openness and acceptance. It’s sharing food with a stranger on a train, walking out of your hotel in a new city without a map, connecting with someone whose language you don’t speak, but whose face you can read like a book. It’s about stepping outside self-imposed boundaries, feeling awkward, risking rejection and doing it anyway.

Sometimes the scariest and most inspiring travel experiences have nothing to do with launching yourself backwards into the void, or walking alone through woods where bears live: sometimes, just accepting an invitation to join in with a group of elderly Indian ladies dancing at a picnic, and trying to be as loose-hipped and easy as they are, will give you memories that stay sharper than any crocodile's teeth.