Midway between the islands of Margarita and Coche, the easterly wind kicks up, as do the waves that have had a clear fetch from Africa.

  Sorry, Bugsy.

  "Table for one" has taken on a whole new meaning for tourists in a country frequented by every civilization that came anywhere near the Middle East.

  Lying on the open-air yoga platform at the Hacienda San Lucas, a rustic but chic adobe resort, I try to ground my body and lengthen my spine, but really, I'm here for the view.

  Les Stroud travels to some of the most inhospitable places on the planet where he survives by eating such things as grubs, grasshoppers, rattlesnakes and leeches. So it's not surprising that he gives a lot of thought to food.

  We're standing in front of an inviting pool of clear blue water fed by a trickle coming from a cleft of rocks chiselled by the elements. We're swaddled in hoodies and wraps, barely willing to dip in a toe.

  There are two ways to reach Kidepo Valley National Park: a pleasant, 90-minute flight from Kampala, or an arduous drive along bone-rattling gravel roads that, at times, can be flooded by waist-high waters.

  Machu Picchu may be Peru's undisputed icon – it was recently named one of the new Seven Wonders of the World – but there is much more to Peru's Inca past.

  On an uneventful bus ride, after three weeks of travelling across Brazil, we come across our strangest sight yet: a bicycle lane.

  After descending nearly 400 steps into the 700-year-old Wieliczka Salt Mine just outside Krakow, I was staring out over a luminous underground lake and rubbing my aching thighs when a woman swung around and hit me in the stomach with her backpack.