​Luminous orange overalls flap in the strong wind, an egg-yolk sun cracks against the horizon.   It’s been a physically tough hike, stumbling over loose rocks, my face caked in black volcanic dust.   Atop the cone of Cerro Negro, one of the youngest active volcanoes in Central America, the countdown has begun.  All that’s left to do is sit down on my wooden board, lean back, grit my teeth, and hurl down the cone,  0 to 40 km/hr in eight, wild seconds. 

​You can tell the “next big travel thing” by watching the trends of budget travellers, and they’re heading in droves to Nicaragua.   The beaches, colonial towns, accommodating locals, and prices are a backpackers dream, along with Bucket List activities like volcano boarding.  From the roof of Leon’s cathedral, the largest in Central America, you can see eleven of thirteen surrounding volcanoes surrounding the city.  They sit like a chain of pearls on a necklace, and when they erupt, as Cerro Negro did as recently as 1999, it can cover Leon in a layer of fine, ashen dust.   Not that it bothers the backpackers at Bigfoot Hostel.    When I inquire about the conspicuous absence of waivers for volcano boarding, its affable owner explains some of the legal differences between Nicaragua and the United States.  If tourists want to pay twenty bucks for the opportunity to throw themselves off an active volcano, that’s their problem!   Even though the volcano is at the tail end of its regular eruption cycle, and could explode any day, Bigfoot is doing a roaring trade, with about a dozen clients of all ages heading out daily, a wooden sleigh in hand, anticipating a Bucket List ride of a lifetime.
 
It took some time to figure out the right apparatus to accomplish such a feat, with everything from fridge doors to second-hand mattresses tested to strike the right balance of speed and relative safety.   One thing is certain: while Cerro Negro appears to have soft, sandy steep sides from afar, the granite dust is as sharp as broken glass. Protective overalls, eye-goggles, and remaining seated (as opposed to traditional upright sandboarding) is essential.  Wiping out would tear you to shreds.  

​It’s a forty-minute drive to Cerro Negro National Park, and it’s no accident the adventure takes place during late afternoon.  The sunsets in this part of the world are atomic, November through June, night after night.   We pay a small fee to enter the park, grab our boards, and start the climb up the rear of the ominous looking black pyramid.   Once we begin our steep ascent, the wind picks up considerably. Blackened lava from the last eruption sits like an Exxon mess, the thick oil spilled over the countryside. At the back of my mind, I’m well aware that nobody can sandboard faster than an erupting volcano.  
 
The loose rocks are sharp but we scramble over them, shifting the awkward weight of our boards from arm to arm. Half an hour later we arrive at the outer edge of the crater to find steaming hot sulphuric ash.   You can burn your hand on the ground here, so we keep walking around the lip, a silent prayer that the monster below us remains asleep. With the sun perfectly poised, our guide Gemma explains how to use our feet to break and steer.  
“Keep the mouth shut unless you want to chew rocks for dinner.  Back straight, lean back, and smile for the radar gun at the bottom!” 
 
A thin metal sheet is fixed to the bottom of the wood, along with a piece of plastic that increases speed.   As I begin the five hundred-metre slide, the grating sound of granite against metal sounds like an engine, revving fast.  Rocks and sand attack my goggles, stabbing my lips, sieging my shoes.  I’d scream, but it’s wiser to keep lips pursed and board straight (cone-burn awaits those who flip).     
 
Active volcanoes have intrigued many a Bucket Lister, but only in Nicaragua will you find one so creatively accessible.   Safely on the bottom, the group cracks celebratory cold beers and compares experiences.  “Now that’s something to do before you die!” says one backpacker.  I certainly agree.  

Three hours drive from the Chilean capital of Santiago is a ski resort without any shops, malls, or promenades.   There are no restaurants, bars or hotels either.  There’s not even a ski lift.  Yet it still attracts clients from around the world, and for good reason.  Ski Arpa is the dream of a lifelong ski instructor who scrapped and saved over three decades to open a mountain for anyone in love with stunning views, and untracked snow.    Here, two Pisten Bully Snowcats shepherd up to 22 skiers to the top of the mountain, where they have mind-boggling access to 4000 acres of skiable terrain.   

Toni Sponar, a veteran ski-instructor of Aspen, Banff, and number of South American ski resorts, bought 5000 acres of land back in 1983.  At just $5000, it was a bargain even for a ski instructor.   The location was ideal.    From atop the peak of Alto del Arpa you can see the Pacific Ocean to the west, and Mount Aconagua, the tallest mountain outside the Himalayas, to the east.  The south facing slopes receive plenty of sun, protected from harsh winds, with chutes forming in natural abundance.    Surrounding you is the Andes mountain range in all its glory - so different from the view in the Rockies, or the Alps.

A year after his dream purchase, Toni installed a ski lift and set to work creating an 8km switchback road to the base lodge. Then disaster struck.  A massive storm dumped metres of snow, causing an avalanche that wiped out the lift, the lodge, and all of Toni’s savings in the process.   He would still visit his mountain with friends over the years, but it would take another 20 years before he could resurrect his dream of a skier’s ski resort. He purchased two Snowcats, aligned with booking and marketing agents, and finally created the most rewarding catskiing operation on the continent.   Clients visit from around the world for the powder, the sweeping vista, and the unlimited fresh tracks.

As we slowly make our way up the switchbacks, the van abruptly stops and one of my fellow passengers throws up.   It’s a rough road, which Toni maintains himself, zig-zagging 600m up the valley.  I’m feeling a little queasy from the altitude, but the excitement seems to settle my stomach.  I only discovered the joy of snow when I moved to Canada in my twenties.  When I was 6 years old, a once-a-century freak snowstorm hit Johannesburg.   My schoolteacher, having never seen snow, made the class hide under our desks. She thought it was nuclear fall out.  

I was retelling the story in the van as the switchbacks became ever steeper.  Finally, our Swiss driver announces we have arrived.  Next to the parking clearing is a humble, rustic building, built deliberately into the hill to avoid being wiped out by an avalanche like its predecessor.   I am blessed with perfect conditions – the sky is clear and blue, and a 20cm of snow fell overnight.   I sign a waiver, and get handed an avalanche transmitter by Anton, Toni’s son and partner in the operation.   There are a dozen clients today, made up of Americans from Colorado, some French, some German.  This is not Whistler or St Moritz or Aspen.   We have all packed our own lunch, and accept the simplicity of the amenities.   We have come for the snow, not the glitz.

It takes 45 minutes for the powerful snowcat to make its way up the mountain.   I am standing at the back of the outdoor passenger area, watching Toni and another skier being towed behind us.   The snowcat eats the steepest of inclines, charging like a tank up towards the peak.   The air gets thinner and colder, and suddenly, the full might of the Andes appear on the horizon, a true alpine wonderland.    After a final push from the powerful cat, my back against its protective rails at a near 45-degree angle, we arrive on the peak and dismount.    The groups split up respectively, choosing a wild multitude of lines. Mount Aconagua, nearly 7000m high and dividing the Argentinean and Chilean border, beckons me forward.  I let out a Wilhelm Scream, for if you can’t scream at the top of the world, where can you?  Within seconds, I begin carving this mountain like a Thanksgiving turkey.  
​
A full day with Ski Arpa includes four runs with a guide. By my third run, I am feeling braver, dropping into a gully to attempt an unsuccessful launch through a chute.  It takes a while to dig myself out.   Toni joins me on the next run, rocketing down his mountain, enjoying the start of another stellar season in Chile.  He whips down so gracefully I find it hard to believe he’s old enough to be my grandfather.  Meanwhile his clients are bonding over fat smiles and white powder.    Warming up in the sun outside the base hut, we all agree: Who needs malls and promenades when you have a 1000m vertical descent on some of the best powder in the world?   Especially when you have it all to yourself. ​

As we've established, I usually travel with a small bottle of hot sauce.  When applied liberally, it can save any meal (even boiled cabbage in Siberia, although you might need more than one bottle).   Fortunately, there are some destinations where carrying my hot sauce is completely unnecessary.   These are the places where the Mighty Chilli roams free, and pity the fool traveller who shows it disrespect. 
 ​

Mozambique
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The African birds-eye chilli was spread around the world by Portuguese seafarers, and for good reason.  Known as peri peri, the small birds-eye releases a chemical that has been proven to trigger a sort of culinary buzz.   You can’t get addicted, but after years of craving a steady fix, I believe I’ve come pretty close.   You can also chase the peri-peri burn in Portugal, Brazil, and at a top notch South African franchise called Nandos Chicken worldwide.  ​

Szechuan, China
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Chinese cuisine is not afraid to use chillies, but the region most famous for its culinary heat is the Szechuan Province.   Perhaps its most famous dish is the hot pot, whereby different ingredients are added to a pot until everything is just right.  A locally grown “flower” pepper adds the heat the region is famous for. ​

SIDE NOTE: The World’s Spiciest Dish
​
Phaal curry is made from various peppers, but there’s only one you should worry about.   The bhut jolokia, aka the nala jokolia, aka the ghost pepper, aka you-have-to-be-out-of- your-mind-to-eat-this-pepper pepper.   It’s been certified by the Guinness Book of Records as being the strongest pepper known to man, with a Scoville rating of over 1,000,000!   The thick Phaal curry is served in India and Pakistan, to diners who will shortly lose all communication with their oral cavity. 

It was easy enough to rappel 30 stories into the cavernous abyss, watching a faint glimmer of light reflecting off a crystal clear pool at the bottom.   By now I’ve rappelled on several continents, and just the day before, I had lowered myself 90 metres alongside a spectacular waterfall known as the Mouth of the Puma.  But the Abismo Anhumas, sheltering a subterranean water wonderland, comes with a neat little twist.  If I was ever to walk again beneath the glorious sun, I had to climb back up the very rope I rappelled down.  Hand over hand, inch by inch, breath by breath.

Caves are plentiful here in Brazil’s Pantanal, the world’s largest wetland.  A huge compression in the earth’s crust has created a 150,000km [squared] freshwater floodplain, stretching into Bolivia and Paraguay.   With so much water, the Pantanal is one of the most biologically diverse regions on the planet, a birdwatcher and animal lover’s paradise.  It has also been under threat, since over 95% of the land is privately owned, and rich waters make the wetland fertile for crops, cattle, and of course, mosquitoes.   On the other side of the mountains that frame the wetland,  a small town named Bonito has reinvented itself to become one of the most important eco-tourism destinations in South America.  Besides wildlife trips into the Pantanal - where tourists can enjoy night safaris, river cruises, hikes and horse rides in protected areas – Bonito is also a launch pad for caves, waterfalls, and several tasty adventures.   These include unusual dishes in the local restaurants, like grilled caiman and piranha stew.  

After years of destruction in the Amazon, Brazil has committed to protecting this fragile environment.  New laws have been passed, tourism standards created, and farm owners have increasingly begun to see the value of eco-tourism over traditional cattle breeding.   Take Rio da Prata, where 80% of the farm’s revenue comes from its extraordinary attraction.   In limited groups, we are handed wetsuits and snorkels to float on our bellies down a crystal blue spring, amongst thousands of freshwater fish.   With a current ebbing us along, there’s no need to kick, or swim.  The visibility is breathtaking.    I’m relaxed in awe floating past schools of large fish, like the golden Dorado, which is big and ugly enough to demand a wide berth.   It was an incredible experience, but I was looking forward to dropping into the abyss. 

Although there are daily tours into the abyss, guides test their clients the day before to see if they can hack it.  After all, anyone can be lowered down, but climbing up a 72m rope through a narrow rock shaft requires an adventurous kind of stamina. Don’t worry, if you can scale up their 7m high in-store platform, you’re set.  Discovered in 1984, and opened to the public in 1999, the Abismo Anhumas has an unparalleled draw.  Inside sits a cave pool 80m deep, lifeless save for tiny fish, but home to massive underwater cave structures that can be explored by scuba or snorkel.   While your typical spectacular stalactites drip from above, some of the conical underwater stalagmites are over 20m tall.   The descent is easy enough, in that terrifying “I’m only alive because of this wet rope” kind of a way.   Once I arrive on the bottom, I put on a wetsuit, and with a flashlight in hand, float weightlessly above the alien world, a scene from a movie, a waking dream.

The tranquillity is shattered when I am strapped into a belay device to begin the long climb back.  The modified harness cuts into my water-softened flesh, as I heave with my legs, and steady with my arms.  After ten minutes, muscles are burning, but if I need incentive, all I need to do is look down.   Suddenly, the darkness below looks like a watery grave.   Connected as a backup to my climbing partner, the rope shakes as he quakes with fear.  But each thrust brings more light, until finally, after squeezing through an unassuming crack the rock, we reach the top.  Having spent a few hours in the cool abyss, floating in its calm water, the heat and humidity of western Brazil is like a punch in the gut.   Next time, I’ll rent the scuba gear and enjoy the abyss just a little bit longer. 
​
The Abismo Anhumas is located 27km from Bonito, an eco-tourism hotspot in the state of Mato Grosso do Sul.  Tours leave daily but due to the ascent are limited to 16 people.  Only 4 scuba dives are allowed each day, and you must have Open Water certificate.  Equipment and guides are provided.  Visitors are assessed and trained beforehand in the Visitor Centre.   More info at: http://www.abismoanhumas.com.br

Surrounded by twenty warriors clad in medieval uniforms, I felt as if I’d stumbled into a kung-fu movie.   Only this isn’t China, it’s Georgia (the other one).  I’m about to get a hands-on lesson in Europe’s only martial art, providing I can keep my arms from being wrenched out of their sockets, and my hands from being twisted right off my wrists.   I am wearing a heavy, scratchy 200-year old outfit, resurfaced along with other aspects of Georgian culture repressed under decades of Soviet rule.   The warriors move closer.   To learn how to punch a man, I must learn how to take a punch.   I crouch low, breathe deep, and steady myself for the blow.

Here on the rich coast, they say "Pura Vida".  Pure Life.   It beats Zanzibar's "Hakuna Matata" (No Worries) or Nicaragua's "100% Manana" (100% Tomorrow, which is akin to The Check Is In the Mail).    So, as I sucked back my third "happy juice" on a yacht, watching the sun glow across the warm Pacific, I reflected on a week of canyoneering, ziplining, rafting, horse-riding, animal spotting, skinny dipping and beer drinking.   The only way to describe it, naturally, would be "pura vida." 
 
"Technically, um, this might be referred to as Golden Showers," I tell Nicole, who is clutching her lower leg in pain.   Our group had spent much of the afternoon on the pristine beach inside Manuel Antonio National Park, checking out three fingered sloth, white-faced monkeys, iguanas, woodpeckers, and various bugs, before resting up under the shade of coconut trees.  The sea was warmer than pee in a wetsuit, and Michelle (from Canada) and Margarida (from Portugal) seemed content to wade in it all day.  Dennis and I went for a jog along the crescent beach, because the scene was begging for it, and he was a little jumpy after a rare armadillo fell off a tree and nearly landed on his head.   It was unlucky for Nicole that no sooner had she taken a dip than she'd been stung by something stingy.  Since it was a good half-hour walk out the park, the only solution, according to an episode of Friends that everyone could remember, was to pee on the sting.   Just my luck that I'd been holding one in, being too damn lazy to get off the sand and flood a shrub.  Thus, on Nicole's pleading, and as the group stared on incredulously, I whizzed into an empty water bottle, and she quickly poured 100% Esrock Piss onto her wound.    Naturally, the pain subsided instantly.   "You need to drink more water," says Michelle, who works in a medical lab, concerned that my output was more Belgian fruit beer than Bud Light.   Whatever.  Besides that minor hitch, and the odd roving coati (imagine a large rabid badger), it was another day in paradise, and difficult to believe that we'd spent the previous day zip-lining through cloudforest canopy in cold rain and gale force winds. 
 
There really is no shortage of things to do in Costa Rica.   While other countries in Central America have spent decades mired in civil war, and all their wealth buying the tools to fight them with, Costa Rica is unique for disbanding its army in 1949, conserving its nature, improving its economy and standard of living, and yet somehow still managing to ensure that its road are potholed to hell as to conform to worldwide developing country standards.   All this peace and pure life attracted America, which protects Costa Rica as an important trading post, a surfing paradise, and a destination for US college kids who think Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale is like, so yesterday.    It's my personal belief that tourists flock to Costa Rica because they get a kick out of drinking tap water in Central America. The fact that the country is scenic, friendly, affordable and full of perfectly legal prostitutes might also contribute.  After a 5am start to catch the mini-bus, ferry, taxi, and bus to the San Jose from Nicaragua (including a painful 90 minute-stop at a flake-paint border), it took forever to find a taxi driver willing to rip-off our travelling bunch of gringos at the bus stop 8 hours later.   Most visitors to Costa Rica arrive in San Jose so they can get the hell out of it, missing the charm of its transsexual hookers, trash-lined streets, and suicidal drivers.  We left some more of the group behind, picked up a few more, and drank the night away at a hole in the wall bar with a great jukebox, broken pool table, and cross-dressing bartender.   I would have liked to explore more of the city, the way I might explore the dirt behind my fingernails, but we departed early for La Fortuna, and the perfect thimble volcano of Arenal.

Now if you're going to travel to Central America, you're going to see a lot of volcanoes.   You might even get the chance to poke sticks in moving lava (Guatemala) or fly down one on a plank of wood (Nicaragua).  Arenal, one of the most famous and volatile volcanoes of the Americas, was covered in cloud and all but invisible.  It erupted, unexpectedly, in the1970's, killing about 80 people, and launching a tourist industry.  La Fortuna, the nearest town, seems a bit too small for the many tourist agencies offering all manner of adventure/eco-tourism activities.  Each day, tourists flock here to see fiery rocks fall down the slopes of Arenal at night, or better yet, explode high above the crater.    Even with the thick cloud cover, I saw sparks ripple down its side, but as travel-buddy Peter remarked with typical English dryness: "The lava is nowhere near as nice as when you're standing right next to it," referring to our previous adventures at Pacaya in Guatemala.  For the new folks in our group, seeing an active volcano for the first time was still a major thrill.   As was smuggling in booze into the Baldi Hot Springs.    Costa Rica had mayoral elections that weekend, and instituted a three-day alcohol ban across the entire country.  The idea being, if you're too drunk you might vote for the wrong guy, even if you're a tourist, even if you're not voting (according to the local Tico Times a few days later, not many people did).   Maybe if they get voters blind-drunk in the US, they might vote for the right guy, but this has nothing to do with the fact that I soon found myself running between a dozen thermal pools and massive, fake-rock hot tubs, seemingly imported from the Playboy Mansion.  We set up a wet bar behind some bushes, and spent the night flirting in hot springs in the moonlight shadow of a volcano.  It's not every day...
 
But the thrill of La Fortuna lay in the Lost Canyon.  Former tour guide Christina, possibly the only person from Wisconsin who can say "I've done the Inca Trail 16 times" and her adventure-mad husband Suresh, have painstakingly cleared a canyon a few miles out of town, and have added this "discovered" canyon to their list of impressive activities at Desafio Adventure Company.   We were one of the first groups to rappel off the 50m plus wooden platforms.    The last time I did something like this was in New Zealand, where I rappelled into a cave, yelping in agony as I'd caught my left nut in the harness.   This time, I just yelped at the breathtaking sight one is privy to when dangling mid-air beneath a waterfall.   It took a couple hours to make our way down river, including two huge drops and a couple fun obstacles.  The other group encountered a snake, which may or may not have been poisonous (the way stingrays may or may not be dangerous), but everyone had a rosy watermelon smile at the end, perfect to fit the fresh-cut watermelon waiting for us after the steep climb out.  Next up I went river rafting over a long, turbulent stretch of rapids that provided three thrilling moments:  firstly, when Gary of Melbourne went over the edge, requiring a quick Gonzo rescue that provided one of those few moments of pure adventure we all crave outside the movies.   Secondly, when we pulled into shore to find locals having a river party, selling cold beer despite the ban (punishable by three-months in jail), serenading us with an accordion.  Finally, when I left the boat to float down the rapids on my ass, catching my toe in the rocks, which, were it not for the covered toes of my Keen sandals, would surely have broken just as sure as I was, later that night, when we attacked a bottle of Nicaraguan Flor de Cana rum.   
 
Cloudforest is different from rainforest in that misty cloud passes through the trees, as opposed to constant rain.   So there was really nothing to be surprised about when I arrived in Monteverde to find it wet and cold, with howling winds and a chill that planted itself in my very bones.    It was the type of weather that renders glasses useless (if they're not wet, they're fogged), and is a general affront to good time sensibilities, especially if you're on a winter-sun vacation in Costa Rica.  But the old saying goes: gale force winds should never stop a night walk, and into the Monteverde Cloudforest we go, searching for sleeping birds, bugs and fat, hairy tarantulas.   Our knowledgeable guide informs us that animals are wiser than humans because other than some porcupines and the odd tarantula, most creatures know better than hang around a forest during a wind storm.     Besides the thick forest teeming with wildlife, people also come to Monteverde to zipline, which involves strapping oneself onto a harness and jumping off a platform to slide through the canopy.  It's generally not too extreme, unless you're on ziplines spanning over 700m long, 100m high, and operating in conditions that would send most people home to board up their windows.    By the time our group reached the 11th line, we had to go two at a time to avoid being blown in circles.   Wet, cold, extreme wind - in terms of Gonzo, the weather conditions were just perfect.

The Fire Doctor of Taipei has coated my back with a brown paste of herbs, covered me with a towel, and spritzed on some alcohol.    After lowering the lights, he tells me to be calm, and then lights up the blowtorch.     I hear a sound not unlike that of a gas burner being lit, and catch the reflection of flames off a nearby mirror.   It takes a few moments to register that the source of the fire is my back, followed by the sudden rush of intense heat.

For over a dozen years, Master Hsieh Ching-long has been using open flame to rid the pain. Master Hsieh (pronounced Shay) created fire therapy a dozen years ago after medical training in Beijing, applying his knowledge of traditional medicine, martial arts, and pyromania to invent a powerful treatment for muscle aches and sports injuries. Photos on display in his small clinic depict the doctor with several dozen local celebrities, and he tells me that business is booming.  “Not anybody can heal with flame,” says the Fire Doctor.   It requires years of martial arts training, so that you can channel your inner energy and use your hands as iron.   I’m not sure what this means exactly, but it sounded comic-book cool, and when he demonstrated the above by ripping an apple in half with his thumbs, I knew I was in good hands. ​

Karl, the facially scarred East German barman, had three teeth missing, and a grin full of mischief.   Four days into an epic adventure up the tributaries of the Orinoco Delta, I am convinced he is mixing more than just rum into my stiff Cuba Libres.   I had been warned that after a couple nights sleeping in a hammock wrapped inside a mosquito net, this high up in the northern Venezuelan jungle, chancing upon a remote lodge with a well stocked bar could lead to some vicious tropical jungle juju.   Defined as:  Taking the barman on the speedboat to view the sunset, and ultimately, diving into a river widely known to contain flesh-chewing piranhas.   No sooner had we entered the water, than a rare pink dolphin leaped into the air, her skin glistening with all the colours of the rainbow.  OK, I don’t know if it was a female dolphin, but only a pink lady could look that beautiful.  According to the indigenous Warao Indians, seeing a pink dolphin is a sign of immense luck.   This explains why I am able to climb back on board, at loss for words from the experience, but fortunately with all digits in place.
 
With teeth like razors and skin like barbwire, piranhas have the sunny disposition of a Filipino death squad.   Sharks may be the grunt soldiers of aquatic terror, but South American piranhas are riverside hit men, shredding their prey with efficient ferocity.   Found within rivers from Argentina to Colombia, they hunt in large packs, sending out scouts to locate the prey before initiating a feeding frenzy characterized by a scene of boiling water.   Kayaking through piranha infested waters along the Orinoco sounds more like an adventure tourism sales plug than a reality, until my Warao guide Pina hands me a stick, some gut wire, and a crudely fashioned hook.   Rather alarmingly, all I need to do is splash my stick on the water surface to attract the beasties, and within seconds, my bait has vanished.  The combination of heat, storms of mosquitoes, and inhuman humidity make me want to dive into the river, but the combination of bloodthirsty carnivorous piranhas make me want to stay on shore more.   Although they only grow to 2ft long, nature has equipped piranhas with deadly tools, from interlocked teeth to excellent hearing and unparalleled teamwork. Each fish takes a mighty munch and instantly moves out of the way for his pal.  Theodore Roosevelt, on an expedition to Brazil in 1913, described a horrifying scene of a cow being attacked and stripped to the bone in minutes. 
 
Eat me?   Eat you!   I am determined to catch a piranha, both as a challenge, and to reaffirm my place in the food chain.   With dark clouds of mosquitoes raining down on my neck and a skinny loyal Warao dog at my side, I persist, constantly replacing the bait that seems to vanish seconds once it hits the water.   Finally, I tug up at the right time, and a small, sharp, and thoroughly bemused piranha is on my hook.  A hot makeshift grill, a dash of strong lime, some trusty Tabasco (I always travel with a bottle), and I have to confess: piranha is a tasty, albeit bony fish.    It’s not enough to quench a major hunger, but at least you’re on the right side of the fork.
 
Cut to: The following day.   For hours, a torrential downpour dumps its moist guilt on our twin-engine open-roof speedboat.  I’m excited at the prospect of sleeping on a real bed tonight in a rustic shack so much more attractive than another wrapped up buggy night in a hammock.  Large tapirs are running up and down the wooden boardwalks in this remote jungle lodge, while banana-beaked toucans and chirpy macaws rest on the tables at the bar.  Drinks flow.   Hey, lets go watch the sunset at the congruence of three tributaries!  Hey, let’s bring our sketchy free pouring barman along!  Swimming with piranha: a good idea at the time.  Of course, the local Warao swim, drink and bathe in the same waters, and in truth have more problems with rabid vampire bats than bloodthirsty piranhas.  For piranhas tend to attack weak fish first, and healthy humans last.  Still, how big a thrill is a jungle adventure in the Orinoco Delta?    As big as a piranha’s appetite. 

​When the going gets tough, the tough get wet.  Presenting 10 of the world's mightiest rivers for bucket list rafters.   Paddle up, there's rapids ahead! 

The Nahanni, Canada 
Rafting UNESCO’s first ever World Heritage Site is one of the grand Canadian adventures.  From Virginia Falls, where a 90m cascade plummets in to the river, canoe and kayak trips typically spend a week paddling downriver through huge canyons and pristine wilderness.
 
The Colorado, USA 
Spend a week in a motorized raft (or two weeks with paddles) floating down the Colorado River, through one the world’s true natural wonders, the Grand Canyon.  Thrilling rapids, epic geology, waterfalls, creeks and companionship await. 
 
The Zambezi, Zimbabwe 
Regarded as perhaps the world’s best one-day whitewater rafting experience,  conquer the mighty Zambezi River at the foot of Victoria Falls.  The most thrilling runs take place during low water between February and July, when the rapids are so rough as to be almost unpassable.  Do your best to stay on board, and watch out for the small (harmless) crocodiles. 
 
Futaleufu, Chile 
Enjoy the staggering scenery of Patagonia aboard a whitewater raft, as you navigate the Class 3 to 5 rapids of the Futaleufu River.  You don’t have to rough it during this week-long journey:  Earth River Expeditions have permanent camps with hot showers, stone hot tubs and comfortable beds.
 
The Ganges, India 
Raft the Ganges from outside the town of Rishikesh, as the river bursts forth from the Himalayas, safe from the pollution it gathers further down.  Rafting trips run from hours to days, starting October through June, although it can get pretty chilly around December/January. 
 
White Nile, Uganda 
Flowing through the heart of Africa, the Nile is a mystical river with a storied history.  Its source was the subject of doomed expeditions and controversy. You won’t be thinking about any of it as you crash through a series of Class 4 and 5 rapids.  Half and full day tours depart from the town of Jinja, located about 80km northeast of Kampala.
 
Kaituna, New Zealand
It’s not the Ganges or the Nile, but the lush Kaituna River does allow you to experience the highest commercially rafted waterfall in the world.  There’s a 50/50 chance your raft will flip as you plummet over the 7m high falls, but that’s all part of the fun.
 
The Yangtze, Nepal 
The Big Bend of China’s Yangtze River flows through a dramatic 10,000 foot deep gorge.  That’s almost twice as deep as the Grand Canyon.  A 10-day rafting tour runs 120 miles through the bend, crossing Class 4 rapids aplenty.  Along the way you’ll get the chance to explore rural villages, and do some serious hiking too.
 
The Saint Lawrence River, Quebec 
You don’t have to travel far to challenge the Saint Lawrence.   Located close to downtown Montreal adjacent to Habitat 67, the Lachine rapids offer some of the world’s largest standing waves.  Various class of rapids means even kids can conquer this mighty river.
 
Igauzu, Brazil
Sharing its borders with Brazil, Argentina and Paraguay, Iguazu is well known for its spectacular waterfalls.  You can also climb into a raft to conquer the river from below, spending an hour crossing Class 3 rapids amidst the dense vegetation and exotic wildlife found in Iguazu National Park. 
 

​Thin metal rods are poking out of a giant tree, spiralling up and up (and up) towards a wooden platform, seventy-five metres in the Western Australia sky. These karri trees are among the tallest hardwoods in the world, and this particular tree, the tallest in the forest, was used as a fire lookout for any trouble smoking in the area.   It seems like an innocent enough roadside attraction, just fifteen minutes drive from the gas and beef pie pit stop of Pemberton. How often we find Bucket List experiences in the most unlikely places. 

I drive into Warren National Park out of curiosity, captivated by a sign directing visitors to the Dave Evans Bicentennial Tree.   Playing on my iPod is U2, a sign of perfect synchronicity.   Dave Evans is the real name of guitarist The Edge, and his namesake tree, a pure coincidence, seems destined to deliver the same.  

At the top of this lookout tree sits a large platform weighing two tons.   To get there I must climb 130 erratically staggered thin black rods, thrusting myself up between ever widening gaps.   From the bottom it looks harmless enough, mostly because one can’t see the top.  I start eagerly, one pole at a time, a little unnerved by the thin wire safety net. Good for a falling baseball cap, not the person attached to it.   Looking down for the first time, my knees become as wonky as a Central African government.