The search for the Pangolin

Today is World Pangolin day and so I thought I would share with you a little bit about my search for this amazing little creature.

Pangolin are the world’s most illegally traded animal. The Asian market uses the scales for jewellery and medicines (most likely for impotence) and drain foetal blood for an elixir to reduce blood pressure. This wonderfully funny looking creature is now critically endangered.

The Pangolin is the only mammal covered in scales (made from the same material found in a rhino’s horn), it can live on the ground or in trees, it eats up to 70 million insects a year and its tongue can be longer than its body. In 2012 Sir David Attenborough chose the Pangolin as one of his ten favourite species he would save from extinction.

I first became intrigued about Pangolin when I was asking a Zimbabwean local about black magic.  He told me a story of a worker at a cotton mill near Harare in Zimbabwe who had found a Pangolin in the bush. The worker didn’t know what the bizarre creature was; describing it as a lizard that walked on its hind legs that had fish like scales. So he killed it.

African tribal beliefs are that the Pangolin is a mythical creature. This belief may partly lie in the fact that Pangolins are attracted to eat shiny objects and as such, years ago, when you killed a pangolin and cut open its stomach it sometimes contained diamonds.

The worker in this story showed the Pangolin to his co-workers who explained what it was and that it was very bad luck to kill a Pangolin because it held magical powers. Because the Pangolin was already dead the workers ate the animal. That day the cotton mill they were working at stopped. Without warning and without explanation.

The German owners of the mill called for their technicians to source the problem but no problem could be found. They engaged electricians from Harare who also could find no problem with the equipment. They had no choice but to call on their German headquarters to fly down experts in the machinery mechanics but they too could find no trace of a problem with the mill. It was a mystery that the mill could be in perfect working order but simply would not turn on.

Eventually word got round the crew of the worker who killed the Pangolin. Some of the men went to the site manager and explained that the killing of the Pangolin had caused the machinery to stop working. The German managers at first dismissed this information but as the days grew to weeks they became increasingly desperate for a solution.

The workers finally convinced them to call in the local tribal chief who suggested if the bosses promise not to punish the worker for his mistake in killing the pangolin, and for a moderate fee of course, he would be able to fix the situation. The German managers reluctantly agreed to payment on result and the chief called in the local witch doctor.

The witch doctor performed a ritual and when he was finished the chief sent the managers back to the mill. The machinery began to work immediately.

 

I have been searching for a Pangolin in the wild for over a decade throughout Africa and Asia since hearing that story and last year I got my best chance yet to finally see one.

My friends and I were staying at Erindi Reserve in Namibia. It was my first time back in Africa since I finished working as an overland tour guide many years ago. The first few days we had been on morning and evening game drives and by night we braii over a fire twenty metres from a waterhole where we were visited by Hippo, Crocodile, Oryx, Springbok, Impala, Blue Wildebeest, Red Hardtebeest, Elephant, Kudu, Giraffe and Zebra. Not bad viewing over our boerewors.

However this day we were to join our guide PJ to monitor a male Pangolin on the other side of the Reserve. We started out through the savannah of Erindi following a weak signal from the tagged Pangolin’s transmitter. PJ uses the transmitters to gather information about the Pangolin to help ensure their survival in the wild.

Early into the drive we encountered an Aardwolf with her cub. Aardwolves are shy nocturnal insectivorous mammals. It is extremely rare to see one at all, especially in the middle of the morning. Two Aardwolf cubs peek from the hole in their midden and curiously glance at us before darting away and returning. We unfortunately must interrupt this beautiful moment, we have a more pressing engagement with the Pangolin.

We continue through the scrub when we spot a Lion pride of nine. PJ identifies this pride as one led by Etosha, a strong and aggressive matriarch. Always a blessing, we must give appropriate time to appreciate the majesty of this animal. As we sat transfixed to the scene metres in front of us, two new males approach the pride.

PJ turns to me with an excited look.

“Takeover?” I ask. He nods back with a grin. This was truly a rare experience and one that sent thrills through our group. Traditionally the approaching males will kill all the cubs, bringing the lionesses in oestrus so they can start to build their own pride.

We watched on for hours as the lions tactically positioned themselves and attacked. However, after an aggressive and violent start, Etosha was too powerful and the males submitted, leaving her pride in tact. We still had a long way to go and had burned valuable Pangolin time. A detour that no one regretted.

One more stop to fearfully admire a three metre Black Mamba that crossed the path of the vehicle. I am told if a Black mamba bites you it is best to find a shady tree and lie down beneath it… dead bodies don’t smell as much in the shade. We watched on and followed slowly alongside the snake that seemed unphased by our presence. The Pangolin signal was strong, we weren’t far, so we said goodbye to the terrifying Mamba, all hoping we would never see one this close again.

Eventually we made it to where the transmitter was sending its signal but it appeared the Pangolin had already gone underground. We found fresh spoor as we walked around an Aardvark hole. We could smell the Pangolin, on musk, deep in the hole but he wasn’t coming out to meet us this day.

On the way home we found another pride of five lions. This one PJ said was led by Shadow. A 230kg male who terrifyingly got his name from his habit of following people home. We again sat transfixed to the pride before the declining sun cast a caramel hue across the savannah and beckoned us home. Diligently watching we didn’t have Shadow on our tail.

We eventually got back to our camp after an exciting day in the Reserve. Once again the Pangolin had eluded me.

Bizarrely, I kind of like that though. I love that nature isn’t on demand. Many years I have spent roaming the wild, looking for the Pangolin. Each trek leading me through breathtaking scenery and chance encounters with wildlife. It occurs to me, the experiences I have had in search of the Pangolin have contained some of the most deeply enriching and exciting moments.

I hope I see a Pangolin one day. Regardless of whether I am lucky enough to spot one though, given my encounters on the way, searching for this magical creature may bring some of the most rewarding times of my life.

 

London Calling

There is an appreciation of distance, of architecture, of scale when you ride a bike through London’s inner city suburbs. One that is not apparent when you take the tube.

Dean and I ride fast through the streets, across bike paths and down cobbled mews, pausing at sites of significance or at interesting buildings or to make comment of the street life as it occurs to us. Down past Hyde Park, past Marble Arch, through to the back of Westminster Abbey, the cool wind on my face giving my cheeks a ruddy glow and making my nostrils wet.

We stop in front of the Big Ben and I start to think of how many have stood in this place, admiring it’s iconic tower, capturing the sight like a Polaroid to take with them to reflect on. I wonder if this memory will stay with me, not only the vista, but the smells, the feeling of the weather against my skin and the feeling of being privileged to be here. I cast my eyes to the city streetlights who have witnessed a million of me struck by the magic of London but who cannot calculate what a moment like this is worth.

We set off again, gaining a new perspective on the city and a vibration that you can only feel from a place whose history dates back so many hundreds of years. Each monument, each building, wildly atmospheric in the foreground of low steely skies.

Eventually we must head home. Up onto the footpath we dodge the evening traffic. I accept a flyer from a small Asian man as I breeze by. It’s not until our next stop that Dean suggests this man was not actually handing out flyers, that it appears I had snatch the takeaway menu from some guy on his way home. When our laughter finally subsides and the stitch in our sides becomes bearable again, we continue on towards Paddington.

These streets give the city a human side. I feel compelled to learn, to understand the kaleidoscope of humans that have built this place, each with their own story, their own sense of London. I felt it in my bones, the heartbeat, the pulse of the city, it was telling me a story. A story of kings, war, fire, plagues and music. A story of poets ascending the highest heavens of invention, of famous murderers, sportsmen and designers.

On every corner history lives on and each step in the footsteps of those who created the story and made up the fabric of this great city. A woven thatch of culture akin to the underground map and the A to Z combined.

Faraday to Keats, Beckham to Bowie, Hitchcock to Chaplin….. Robbo?

A lo Cubano (The Cuban way)

You don’t walk through Havana, you stroll dreamily but with an excitement that really only grips you when you explore a new city. And when you do that in Havana it is as though everything you have known is forgotten and you are born again, learning a new world for the first time. The streets are alive, the musica heady and emanating from the corner of every old town bar. Street vendors sing for our attention and cats lazily watch on as we make our way towards our accommodation.

We rented an apartment in the old town for CUC40 per night. Options were scarce but our casa particulares was only the equivalent of AUS$30. The owner, like everyone else in Cuba, spoke no English. Usually this is no problem. In fact we revel in determining our way deep in another culture. However today two Nicoles booked to rent this apartment…. on the same day. This added a degree of difficulty to our interactions, as our Spanish had deteriorated to phrases used most regularly on Speedy Gonzales cartoons.

Our host confused, thought she had one guest named Nicole coming in on the evening flight and so didn’t pick us up at the airport in the morning. As travellers who always pack a healthy dose of patience and good humour, my Nicole and I made our own way into the city, unruffled. In fact we were delighted to do so, finding the incursion into new realms energising.

The building in which we were to reside for the next week had a dangerous look to it. There was no predatory vibe from the people, more from the broken staircase, the exposed nails and electrics, and the balconies that hung on the dirty facade out into the street. Hung sounds too secure, more dangle precariously than hung. Held by layers of peeling paint, remnants of a chore long since abandoned.

The doorbell didn’t work so we managed to follow someone in and meandered our way through the building, at times finding ourselves moving through people’s living rooms that had somehow over the years morphed into common walkways. They smiled and nodded, unphased as we passed by their tele.

There was no one home in our apartment but through an elaborate display of hand gestures and broken Spanish that may have looked like interpretive dance to the onlooking residents, a neighbour found what I guess were the communal keys to all apartments and let us in.

We somehow managed to sign out a need also for the owner’s phone number and after much referencing of our phrase book I managed to communicate to her that Nicole was aqui ….ahora. Here? Now? A squeal that seemed like a mix of delight and panic came down the line. Then click. Nicole asked if she was coming? I shrugged.

We spent the next 15 minutes taking in turns of walking onto the balcony and waving to the children on the opposite balconies, when our host burst into the room with a flurry of hugs and a niece in toe that could translate in broken English.

We worked out the apartment had been double booked and so a couple of phone calls later by our host and we were being led through the streets of the old town to our new apartment by the niece and her boyfriend who were eager to find out everything they could about Australia. The new accommodation was equally small, dated and tired but clean and our new host was lovely. So with that sorted we headed out into the city.

The streets of Havana are clean, save the rubble of abandoned building sites. The architecture captures perfectly time and place and still in places shows glimpses of their majesty in the 1950s. Now they are run down, their brightly coloured paint faded though to charming hues. Doors, walls and balconies maintained over the last 60 years only with bits of wire to keep them functional. The sides of some buildings possess the stigmata of stairways and rooms that were once in an adjacent building that didn’t survive the decay.

People sitting in corrugated iron doorways or on the footpath in front of their house watch on as we explore their streets. Their clothes dry in barred windows as they gather around a small television. Their doors all open to the street for ventilation. As we walk towards the centre of the old town we pass the faces of those who look worn and saddened by poverty, contrasted with those that laugh and dance in a carnival of energy and pizzazz. Vintage cars pass you in the streets and add to the scene which demands you to wander wide eyed. For a moment then, you are transferred to a world that looks like Las Vegas may have looked 70 years ago…. If nothing was ever maintained again. An intriguing and maybe a little sad product of the country’s politics.

A truck commercial on television in Australia 10 years ago was for a “one tonne Rodeo.” The commercial was set to the song Guantanamera. The country’s most noted patriotic song calls to us from every other bar. It has been slightly ruined for me now as I can’t get the damn commercial out of my head.

We head to La Floridita for my Daiquiri and La Bodeguita Del Medio for my Mojito. An old lady, craggy face, hat and long cigar, the Cuban portrait personified stares at me as we walk by and then bursts into a loud cackle throwing her head back in full body display. I think I missed the joke…..  or maybe it was me?

This was our first stop since leaving Mexico. Mexico was an easy lover. She provided brilliant food, breathtaking lodging and relatively easy travel. Cuba makes you work for her love. The food is not so great, you continuously encounter money situations and the accommodation is certainly questionable. But Cuba is a seductress. She has a rhythm, a vibe that is intoxicating, that takes you by the hand and draws you into a salsa dance curb side.

The smoke from fat Cohiba cigars drifts into the air around us, tantalising our cerveza cristal and 18 year old rum before catching the cool breeze and mixing with the music from the band. We sit back on our plastic chairs on the street corner, taking it all in as the humidity of the day lifts.  Glad we made it to Cuba before the western world arrives in droves, with their oversized red shoes and golden arches; putting a Starbucks and Hooters on every other corner.

I look across to Nicole enjoying the Cuban music and sing along….. “one tonne Rodeo, guajira, one tonne Rodeo.”

An African Morning

The shimmering mirage creating a river in front of us through the barren and alien landscape. Cruising through Kuisab Canyon, the sky is bright, the koppies familiar, plummeting into a maelstrom of ravines. A series of striated earthy colour surrounds us and creates a back drop in a study of browns. The wind is given form by the dust trailing our truck…. I know this road.

I had now been guiding in Africa for the best part of a year. We head north through Namibia and make our bush camp.

Sleeping in the bush can be confusing. The groans, gasps and cries in the night of animals I didn’t know initially disorientate years of conditioning. But now I am woken by a noise. It was a familiar sound and I lay there. Still. I feel the stony ground through my swag against my back. Breathing slowly and silently, terrified. Skin prickly, I hear the throaty exhalation of a male lion. Listening intently, trying to determine distance….. “huh….. huh….. huuuuhh”. It’s close, very close. I lift my head, ever so slowly and look into the darkness. There are no other points of reference. I can’t see anything. Slowly I release my arm from my swag, and ever so stealthily I reach behind me and grab hold of the side panel of the truck. Slowly I pull myself under the truck and peek out from under it.

Another low grumbling growl comes from the darkness. My hands tremble as I reach for my swag and pull it under with me. For the next hour, I keep a silent vigil. Eventually I fall asleep, satisfied the roar of the lion is now miles from me.

I wake up, as always just before dawn, crawl out from under the truck and kick the Black Backed Jackals away from the base of my swag. I wrap my maasai blanket around me, light my cigarette and move to tend the smouldering coals of last night’s campfire to life, grinning that Rod is also under the truck up the other end. He obviously faced his own midnight confrontations with the passing pride.

My Grandfather used to tell me pre-dawn was the best part of the day. It won’t be long until the older of the tourists stir but until then this is my time. The air is crisp and so still it can noticeably be disrupted by the turbulence of movement. The sky sand washed, dust cleansed, incrementally shading to blue. I stand there, the coldest part of the night. Watching the movement of elephant, of buck, of monkey as a side show to my focus on the horizon. Gripping the maasai blanket tight around my shoulders as I light another cigarette. Enjoying the cool against my face that barges past the fluttering edges of my blanket. And then the sun pokes up. The expanse providing room for awakening clouds to battle, tumble and streak away. Levitating herds grip the pinks and dissolve into the blues.

Sometimes a passenger gets up and tries to join me in conversation “Wait…..” I would say “listen, watch” and we stand there waiting for the brightness of the sun’s orange to force a squint upon us and the heat rush our faces. Then you notice the beating of wings. The birds darting through the tousled head of the tree tops, the hum of the insects keeping one pitch, then the whisper of the morning breeze through the acacia. I never believed my Grandfather until now.

Silently we stand, connecting. It’s a failure of the western world that it becomes an awkwardness when the silence lingers and inevitably nature’s magic is broken. I’m never the first to speak but when they do it is always in some blessing of the wild. It doesn’t matter. The troops are rising, back to the fire to get breakfast organised and to discuss the sounds everyone heard last night and their hypotheses on the creatures from which they emanated.

Acacia’s Parents

Everyone has that one amazing story. The one you will retell at the next hostel. Sometimes you will hear it in the first ten minutes and sometimes you will have to dig deeper, because not everyone knows their amazing story. It depends more on the listener rather than the teller.

I was thinking back over my travels. Thinking about the countless travellers I had met. One stuck out in my mind. It was a brief encounter about 12 years ago.

I don’t think I ever knew her name. If I had to guess I thought it may have been Susan. She was another encounter on my journey. Another person to pass time with, to share an experience. It was at Acacia Camp in Kenya that I met her. I only knew her for twenty minutes, though I walked away with a great respect for her as one of the people who bravely seek out a new way to live.

I asked her what she was doing way out here?

“We are back here visiting” She said. “My husband and I actually started this camp many years ago now and named it after our first born girl Acacia.” Acacia circled her legs, she had dark caramel skin with beautiful blonde curls in her hair.

Susan was a white Canadian who moved to the Mara years before to study the lives of the Masaai people. At first she wasn’t accepted by the women of the community but after time she began integrating into their way of life. It was then that she met her husband David. At least I think his name was David. He spoke no English and she no Maasai but they began teaching each other and their relationship grew.

In love and married they eventually became pregnant. Susan did not want the baby to be born in Africa so she got on a plane back to Vancouver. Unfortunately she had to take an earlier flight than David and so David made his way to Nairobi airport and caught a flight on to Heathrow for his transfer to Toronto.

David joined our conversation, he was tall and very dark with a strong look and kind eyes. David added that he had his spear taken from him when he reached Heathrow. So in full Masaai blanket, looped earlobe holes, a club , limited English and an onward ticket to Toronto he roamed Heathrow looking for his next flight.

This was the first time David had been out of his country. Another traveller who recognized him as a Masaai rescued him and directed him to his gate, telling him to sit there and when all the other people get up around him, he should follow them.

“So what was the most amazing thing for him being in a western civilization?” I asked. Susan jumped in to answer.
“Well he was so captivated by the light switch, he used to stand there and switch it on and off”

I asked David what he was thinking at the time, he chuckled subtly “I was amazed at being able to turn the sun on and off”

“Maasai men are very proud and, as a woman, you cannot teach them anything unless they request you to” Susan continues. “We were in the hospital one time when I was heavily pregnant about to give birth. I asked him for a can of coke from the vending machine. He took the coins, went to the front of the machine, assessed the coin slot and the buttons. Put the coins in and hit the button and with a clunk the can of coke rattled to the tray below him. He cautiously opened the tray, took out the coke and handed it to me sitting in a wheelchair. David then bent down and looked into the flap, straightened and moved from one side of the machine to the other then tried looking behind the machine. Nodding his head he seemed pretty comfortable that he knew what was going on. Of course I dared not clarify. Any questions he may have had were his to ask.

A few days later we were driving and we went through a McDonalds drive through. We drive up to the little box and a voice came out, ‘may I take your order.’ At this David was shocked. He had understood that there was a guy in the coke machine handing out cans and while he thought it was a terrible job to be in the box with no windows he could not believe how small the man in the box was at the McDonalds drive through. He has had to learn quickly.”

My time with Susan and David was cut short and although I got to share the briefest snippet of their life, my time with them is one that will stay with me for years to come.

I understand David now works at a hardware store in Toronto.

Karma Police

Karma has a funny way of repaying you for the childish antics of your youth. My mate Herman is Namibian and I found it quite hilarious over many years of travel to make subtle comments at the immigration desk as to whether Namibia was even a real country. This would often invoke twenty questions from the officials and would send them scurrying for their manual that had the list of recognised countries.

Sometimes countries, like Slovenia for example, have not updated their manual since Namibia was known as South West Africa which compounded the situation, making the following ten minutes increasingly uncomfortable for Herman as he attempted to justify the existence of a country the size of Texas; and increasingly funny to his infantile friends……

I worked out pretty quickly JFK doesn’t like me. In a bizarre occurrence that would be repeated in some shape or form over the next decade I made my way to the immigration desk. The lady behind the desk, unusually polite and upbeat processes my passport and welcomes me to The States.

“Thank you Mr Robinson, have a nice…..”

Then she stopped and gawked at the screen, before her hand reached down and furiously seemed to hit some sort of hidden button. Immediately two men appeared heavily armed and escorted me to another room sitting me down with a bunch of men who looked to be Mexican.

What an adventure I thought. Feeling comfortable I had nothing to be worried about, I sat there in the back room, scanning the men with their massive guns. Slyly glancing at the Mexicans, there were about seven of them. They sat there steely faced, silent. This is great, what a story. After a while I leaned over to the bloke next to me and whispered “what are you in for?” He however was no muy bueno! no muy bueno at all.

In New Zealand they ask you if you have prescription medicines, weapons, ammunition, explosives and narcotics as one question on the departure card. This puts the average migraine sufferer in quite a position by ticking that box. You’d think the Kiwis would separate out the prescription medicines wouldn’t you? Did I accidentally tick a wrong box I thought?

I started thinking about other countries I have been to, where they appeal to the honest jihadist by asking whether the flyer has engaged in terrorist activities. I have felt like asking if they can be more specific but thought better of it as Border Security rarely have an effervescent sense of humour. Why am I thinking about this? What’s taking so long?

Clearly keeping me here for such a long time was a tactic to start to breakdown the most hardened of criminals. I could see cracks appearing in the Mexican mafia next to me. It was probably only then that I started to feel some pangs of apprehension. Maybe this isn’t some exciting misunderstanding. I start to search my mind for some reason why I am being detained.

Maybe I should have paid that damn TV licence in the UK? Maybe I mistakenly left a debit on my Barclays card when I left England and it has caught up with me? Maybe my over stay in the UK has put some sort of flag on my file? My mind starts to race. Maybe the Malawi Gold my mates smoked in Africa has left a trace on my clothes?…. oh shit, maybe someone has put something in my luggage?

I started to sweat. What is my game plan I thought? Could I plead the fifth? I wonder how much a lawyer costs in the states? I’d probably end up with My Cousin Vinny. I wonder if Guantanamo Bay is nice this time of year?

After a while the guards took me to another room. One stood watch with his weapon trained while a man behind a computer started his interrogation. The next hour or so I was subject to the most frustrating interview ever. I will spare you the transcript but in sharing the below excerpts you can clearly see that as a younger man when I got bored or frustrated I had a tendency to get  a little cheeky.

“Do you have a drivers licence with you?”

“No”

“Why not?”

“I don’t intend to drive anywhere”

“How can you prove you are Michael Robinson then?”

“Um, it says it right there on my Passport next to my picture?”

“What nationality are you?”

“Australian”

“How can you prove you are from Australia?”

“It says it there below my picture, also on my Passport”

“Do you have any other evidence you are Australian?”

“No”

“Why not?”

“I’m confused, it’s my first time to America, you guys do use the whole Passport system here don’t you? I thought that was the generally accepted form of ID”

 

It was about here that I started overstepping the line.

 

“Sir, please evidence you are from Australia.”

“maybe by saying something?”

“huh?”

Baramundi’s a bloody big fish

“What are you doing sir?”

“Crocodile Dundee, It’s a little obscure a reference I know, but I didn’t want to use the ‘that’s not a knife, this is a knife’ line given where we are. You understand.”

“This is not a laughing matter.”

“I’m not laughing”

“How does this prove you are from Australia?”

“I don’t think it does…. but can you do this accent?”

 

Probably should rope it back in I thought.

 

“Have you any tattoos?”

“No”

“Have you had any tattoos removed?”

“No”

“Have you had any reconstructive surgery?”

“You mean like, was I born a woman?”

Answer the question sir”

“No….. Listen gents maybe if you tell me why I’m here I might be able to help you.”

Eventually, the lads gave in and informed me that the FBI are looking for a man with my name and age. I put it to them there may be more than one person with the same name as me and they accepted I was probably not the felon they were looking for.  Also the felon was African American….

They wished me well and sent me on my way to explore New York. Unfortunately, each time I enter the States, I am still subjected to the Spanish Inquisition at the immigration desk. I’m haven’t been transferred into a back room again but I usually have to put aside an hour and a half on arrival. Lately I start the engagement with “it’s not me but I know I am going to spend the next hour convincing you of that.”  It doesn’t work.

Herman finds this hilarious. As I said…. Karma.

The Bucket List

I finally found my travel bucket list. It was the list that was supposed to remind me to keep living. It consisted of the exotic, the dangerous, and the far off places. It embodied my traveller past and beckoned for me to dust it off, or more to the point to put it to use and get it dusty again.

I shuffled through the list of destinations and experiences. Dive sites. Monuments. Villages. Drawing a line through those I had conquered. Pondering the next secretly, never to be shared. Worried to some a list of this type would seem boastful and privileged, and to others unsophisticated and pedestrian.

To me it was a plan. A purpose. A structured approach to whimsy and spontaneity. An insurance policy to assure myself I wouldn’t lie in my grave wondering if I gave myself completely to using my days on earth well. I lay back, remembering. Perhaps the memory is still an important part of the journey.

But I shouldn’t confuse travelling with the journey. The journey lingers. As I grow from a combination of experiences. The journey lingers through reflection, through a change in perspective. As the past settles and cements, the journey continues. Travelling however can only exist in the today.

I hope my travel bucket list inspires a journey in you and I look forward to your comments and any helpful additions to my journey.

Taj Mahal, India

Everest Base Camp, Nepal

Three Games of Man, Mongolia

Blue Hole, Belize

Chichen Itza, Mexico

Humpback Whales, Niue

Great Wall, China

Machu Picchu, Peru

Great Barrier Reef, Australia

Stonehenge, United Kingdom

Petra, Jordan

Qin Terracotta Soldiers, China

Angkor Wat, Cambodia

Whitewater Rafting on the Zambezi Rapids, Zimbabwe

Deer Cave, Borneo

Foz Du Iguazu, Brazil

Arora Borealis in Tromso, Norway

Tulum, Mexico

Cinque Terra, Italy

Wildebeest Migration, Tanzania

Island Hop in the Caribbean

Captain a sailboat through the South Pacific

Amazon, Bolivia

Galapogas Islands, Equador

Madagascar

Pyramids of Giza, Egypt

Parthenon, Greece

Over Water Bungalow, Bora Bora

Havana, Cuba

Full Moon Party, Thailand

Hogmanay, Scotland

Dive with Great White Sharks, South Africa

Gorilla Trek, Democratic Republic of Congo

Antarctica

Anzac Day, Turkey

Whale Sharks, Ningaloo Reef, Australia

Munich Beer Fest, Germany

Ha Long Bay, Vietnam

Cruise Route 66, United States

Dive Sipidan, Borneo

Angel Falls, Venezuela

Sky Dive over the Namib, Namibia

Bungee Jump Bloukraans, South Africa

Running of the Bulls in Pampelona, Spain 

Grand Canyon, United States

Sistine Chapel, Vatican City

Masaii Mara, Kenya

La Tomatina Festival in Bunol, Spain

Easter Island

Okavango Delta, Botswana

Dive the Yucatan Cenotes, Mexico

Wailing Wall, Jerusalem

Milford Sound, New Zealand