Mildura

Memorable moments: The carry-on carvers

In 2004, Ally and I went to Western Australia for a short holiday, knowing that we would be emigrating to the country sometime in the near future. We had a brilliant time exploring—cycling around Rottnest Island, wandering through Perth, sampling wine in the Margaret River, and walking among the massive trees in Shannon National Park.

During our travels, Ally decided to do a bit of shopping. She had been wanting a proper, high-quality set of kitchen knives for ages, and we happened to stumble across the absolute perfect find: a beautiful wooden board containing an array of incredibly sharp knives of varying sizes, ranging from a small fruit cutter all the way up to a giant carving knife.

After ten days of exploring, we reluctantly packed up our things, sad that the holiday was coming to an end, and drove to the airport. We successfully navigated the check-in desk, answered the standard security questions about packing our own bags, and watched our main luggage disappear down the conveyor belt.

Then, with our hand luggage in tow, we walked up to the security checkpoint.

As Ally’s bag rolled through the X-ray scanner, the entire terminal seemed to erupt. Alarms started flashing, sirens went off, and two massive airport security guards came running, descending on her bag with intense urgency. They snapped open the zipper, reached inside, and pulled it out.

There, gleaming viciously under the harsh airport fluorescent lighting, was Ally's brand-new wooden knife board, complete with its array of razor-sharp blades.

In the rush of leaving, Ally had packed her bags on absolute autopilot, completely forgetting that a collection of heavy-duty culinary weaponry probably shouldn't go in the overhead bin. The embarrassment was immediate and intense; we could feel the eyes of every single passenger in the terminal burning into the back of our necks.

Needless to say, the guards were not about to let us board a commercial flight with a giant carving knife. The set was promptly confiscated on the spot, and just like that, Ally’s years-long search for the perfect kitchen knives had to start all over again.

Memorable moments: The voice of the reef

In 2005, I traveled to Dahab in Egypt to complete a scuba diving course in the Red Sea. It was an extraordinary environment, but the true highlight arrived on the second day of our training when our group descended to a depth of twenty metres.

The coral reef was absolutely spectacular—a true wonderland of vibrant color and marine life. As we glided through the water, I was overcome by a profound sense of wonder and peace. I felt entirely present, experiencing a transcendent, spiritual moment of feeling completely at one with everything around me.

When I practice meditation at home, I often use a soft, humming "om" to anchor myself firmly in the present moment. Wrapped in the silence of the deep sea and filled with a sudden desire to express that connection, I let out a gentle, low "om" into my regulator as we swam alongside the reef.

After thirty minutes of exploring, our group finally ascended and exited the water. The moment we pulled off our masks, one of the girls from our group turned to the rest of us with wide, amazed eyes.

"My God," she gasped, "did you hear the coral humming?! I've never heard anything like it in my life!!"

I froze, caught in a wave of sudden embarrassment, and decided it was best to say absolutely nothing. To this very day, she is likely out there somewhere in the world, completely convinced that the coral reefs of the Red Sea sing a beautiful, spiritual song to those who dive deep enough to listen.

Memorable moments: A bright misconception

On our flight back from Zululand to Cape Town, a thick cloud of fearful anticipation hung over the trip. We had heard reports of a massive storm hitting the Cape, and we were braced for a wild, bumpy landing that would be a world away from the 34-degree sunshine we had left behind in Durban.

About thirty minutes before our scheduled arrival, I looked out the cabin window and saw nothing but brilliant, golden light. Relieved and confused, I turned to Antony and my sister, Jo.

"Wow, it's still sunny!" I exclaimed. "I would have thought it would be getting dark and stormy by now."

Antony looked at me with a mix of amusement and pity. "Yes, Graeme," he said gently, "that's probably because we are still above the clouds."

Sure enough, as the pilot began our descent and we dipped below that white, fluffy floor, the world transformed. The bright gold vanished, replaced by an ominous, dark grey. We landed safely in the end, but I left the plane with a newfound appreciation for the fact that just because you can see the sun doesn't mean the storm isn't waiting for you just a few thousand feet below.

The glow of Paradise Island

In 1996, Ally and I flew to Mozambique for a romantic getaway on the legendary Paradise Island. The hotel had been the height of opulence in the 1960s, but decades of civil war had left it in a state of beautiful decay. It was in the early stages of a renovation and, in the meantime, was offering a "rustic experience" at a price we couldn't resist.

The island was every bit the postcard: leaning coconut trees, brilliant azure water, and sand the color of gold. The hotel was equally atmospheric. When we arrived in our room, we found an assortment of candles left on the table by the friendly staff. We embraced the mood immediately, spending our evenings in the soft, flickering amber light, feeling like castaways in a more elegant era.

We spent an idyllic week lazing on the beach and chilling out by candlelight. We didn't even miss the hum of a bar fridge; the primitive, unplugged island life was exactly what we needed.

On our final morning, as we were lugging our bags toward the door to catch our flight, I happened to shoulder-nudge the old, peeled-away plastic switch on the wall.

Voila! The room was suddenly flooded with electric light.

We stood there, blinking like owls in the unexpected light, and burst into laughter. The modern world had been standing right there in the corner the entire time, waiting patiently for a single flick of a finger. We had spent the entire holiday in a 19th-century fantasy purely by accident. We didn't mind—the candles had provided a romance the local power grid never could have matched—but it was a hilarious reminder of how easily we inhabit the "reality" we think we've been given.

Memorable moments: The potjie and the peaks

In 2015, I was backpacking through South Africa with my friend Chrisel. We arrived at a hostel nestled in the shadow of the magnificent Drakensberg mountains and discovered they had a potjie—the traditional, heavy cast-iron cauldron used for slow-cooking over an open fire.

We went to the local shop and loaded up on supplies: lamb, heaps of vegetables, and stock. Back at the hostel, I set about building the fire in the garden. It wasn't something I did often, and the pressure of "getting it right" started to mount.

As the oil began to sizzle, the stress took over. I became obsessed with the mechanics of the meal—searing the meat, tossing the vegetables, frantically moving everything around to ensure nothing burnt before the liquid went in. Chrisel told me to relax and leave it be, but I snapped back, convinced that one wrong move would ruin the entire day's investment. I was totally lost in the drama of the pot, my world shrinking down to a few square inches of bubbling iron.

Finally, after an hour of intense, fixated labor, the water and stock were added. The lid went on. The "crisis" was over; the stew just had to simmer for the next three hours.

I stood up, my body stiff from crouching, and finally looked up from the dirt.

The sight hit me like a physical wave. The spectacular peaks of the Drakensberg were looking down at me, ancient and unmoved. The trees in the hostel garden were swaying gently in a soft afternoon breeze. I could hear the rhythmic twittering of birds darting to and fro. It was a scene of absolute, unwavering peace.

I realized then, with a visceral jolt, that while I had been trapped in a self-made prison of stress and "culinary emergency," this peace had been present the entire time. It hadn't gone anywhere; I had simply tuned it out. I hadn't been mindful. I had been living in a mental simulation of a disaster while standing in the middle of paradise.

The Drakensberg didn't care about my burnt lamb, and the wind didn't care about my irritation. They were simply being. That realization remains the foundation of my daily practice. When the world feels loud or the "stew" of my life feels like it’s burning, I go outside. I look at the greenery, feel the air, and listen to the birds. By choosing my senses over my thoughts, I find the peace that was there all along. It’s the ultimate way to wake up.

Memorable moments: The epic spray

I have always struggled with seasickness. Over the years, two specific voyages have etched themselves into my memory—not for the scenery, but for the sheer, green-tinged misery of the experience.

The first was on my eighteenth birthday in Mauritius. To celebrate the milestone, our family chartered a yacht for a cruise. It was a choppy, restless day, and as the boat pitched, my stomach began its own rhythmic descent into darkness. I reached a point of such profound nausea that I actually had fantasies of diving overboard just to end the motion. I desperately wanted to be sick, hoping for that legendary moment of relief, but my body refused to cooperate.

I was sitting doubled over, staring at the deck in a state of absolute "suffer-fest," when a well-meaning hand thrust a large plate directly under my nose. It was piled high with pungent tuna sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs. That was the breaking point. The smell was the final sensory assault I couldn't survive. I scrambled for the back of the ship and delivered an epic, birthday-defining spray into the Indian Ocean.

Ten years later, I found myself on a ferry from Israel to Egypt. The Mediterranean was in a foul mood, and the ship was tossing violently. This time, I wasn't alone in my suffering; the entire deck was a gallery of green faces. I retreated to the stern to reenact my eighteenth birthday, joining a line of fellow passengers who were all projectile vomiting over the railing.

What sticks in my mind most vividly, however, isn't the sickness—it’s the gulls. An entire flock of them hovered in our wake, shrieking with delight. They weren't just following us; they were diving into the sea to feast on our collective misery. It was a sobering reminder of the natural order: while we were experiencing the lowest point of our human existence, the seagulls were having the best lunch of their lives.

Memorable moments: The middle way

When I was seventeen, my family flew to Mauritius for a holiday. We touched down at the airport in Port Louis and boarded a bus to be transported to our hotel. Almost immediately, the journey took on a life-threatening quality. The driver operated the vehicle like a bat out of hell, hurtling down the center of the road with terrifying speed.

My mum, who has never been a calm passenger at the best of times, was visibly shaken. We were all sitting right at the front of the bus, giving us a panoramic view of what appeared to be impending doom. As we gripped our seats, we noticed that we weren't alone; many of the other cars were also straddling the white lines, treating the two lanes as one giant suggestion.

My dad, trying to make sense of the chaos, finally spoke up. "Wow," he said to the driver, "everyone seems to drive right in the middle of the road here!"

The driver let out a hearty laugh, not even slowing his pace.

"Yes!" he shouted over the engine. "You see, when the French colonized our island, they forced us to drive on the right. Then the English came and they forced us to drive on the left. Now that we are independent, we drive in the middle!"

It was the perfect lesson in post-colonial logic. While the diplomats were busy drafting constitutions, the bus drivers of Mauritius had found their own way to express their freedom: by occupying every inch of the asphalt at ninety kilometers an hour.

Memorable moments: The pearly white buttocks

In 2005, Ally and I flew from the gray skies of London to Croatia for a short break, desperate for some Mediterranean sun and the famous crystal-blue water. We checked into our hotel, dropped our bags, and immediately headed for the balcony to soak in the "gorgeous" view.

The view, however, was not quite what the brochure had promised.

As we looked out, an enormous, very white man walked past directly below us, speaking loudly in German. He was entirely, unapologetically nude. A moment later, several more naked people strolled by. It turned out our hotel didn't just have a sea view; it looked directly onto a nudist beach. We soon discovered that nudity is a massive part of Croatian culture—in some areas, there are more nudist beaches than "textile" ones.

True to the "When in Rome" spirit, we decided to embrace the local customs. We spent our days lapping up the sun; Ally went topless, and I went entirely nude. Ally even took a few cheeky photos of me standing on the shore, proudly showing off my pearly white buttocks against the Adriatic blue.

When we got back to London, I was eager to share the trip with my family. This was in the era before social media, so I sat down late one night to email a selection of photos to my mum in Cape Town.

The next day, I received a reply: "Lovely photos, Graeme, but that last one is rather porno!"

In my late-night exhaustion, I had completely forgotten the golden rule of travel photography: always curate your "mother-friendly" folder before hitting send. I had inadvertently sent my mother a high-resolution portrait of her son’s Croatian "full moon."

Memorable moments: The lassies of Kathmandu

In 2023, I set off for Nepal with a group of friends, including Russell, to tackle the trek to Everest Base Camp. Before we hit the trail, we spent several days in Kathmandu, where I quickly discovered a local obsession. In the central square, they served the most incredible lassis—the traditional chilled yoghurt drinks, thick with flavor and topped with a generous dusting of nuts and currants.

They were delicious, refreshing, and—dangerously for me—incredibly cheap. I became a regular. In one particularly enthusiastic sitting, I managed to put away four of them in a row.

After the trek, we went our separate ways. I returned to the familiar "blue-dot" navigation of Sydney, while Russell flew back to Cape Town. Being a good friend, he met up with my family to give them a firsthand account of our Himalayan adventures.

My niece, Samantha, who was in her early twenties, was listening intently as Russell regaled them with stories of the mountains. But then, the conversation took a turn for the surreal.

"Wow," Russell said, shaking his head in fond remembrance. "Graeme sure did love the lassies in Kathmandu. On one morning alone, I saw him pay for four of them."

A heavy, awkward silence descended over the room. Samantha looked visibly shocked, shifting in her seat with a face full of genuine discomfort. My sister, sensing the sudden shift in atmospheric pressure, leaned in.

"What’s the matter, sweetie?" she asked.

Samantha didn't hold back. "Well," she stammered, "I just don't think Russell should be sitting here talking about Uncle Graeme’s predilection for Nepalese prostitutes or his sex life!"

It took a few moments of frantic back-pedaling for Russell to explain that the only thing I was "consorting" with in the central square was a blend of fermented dairy, sugar, and dried fruit. I realized then that while I was busy enjoying a harmless local delicacy, my reputation back in Cape Town was being accidentally dismantled by a missing 'i' and a very imaginative niece.

Memorable moments: The toothbrush technician

In 2023, I set off for Nepal to trek to Everest Base Camp. In preparation, I’d invested in a pair of incredibly expensive, top-of-the-line hiking boots, renowned for their "waterproof" nature. As it turned out, in the extreme, muddy conditions of the Himalayas, "waterproof" simply meant "doesn't let a single drop of sweat or rainwater out." My feet were a squelchy mess for most of the trek, but the boots were comfortable and sturdy—a solid investment for a man who spends his weekends dodging bull ants in Berowra.

I stayed in Kathmandu a few days longer than the rest of my group, giving my boots a cursory clean before flying back to Australia. It wasn't until I was filling out my arrival card on the plane that the gravity of the situation hit me.

Australian Border Force is legendary for its biosecurity rigor. The questions on the arrival card that they use for screening are pointed: Have you been hiking? Is there mud on your shoes? I suddenly had a vivid, terrifying memory of my friend Gavin telling me his boots had been confiscated and permanently destroyed because of a single stray clump of foreign soil.

Panic set in.

As soon as I cleared the initial gates and reclaimed my bag in the arrivals hall, I made a beeline for the nearest restroom. I hauled my luggage into a tiny toilet cubicle and locked the door. I retrieved my boots, my toothbrush, and prepared for battle.

I spent the next hour in a state of frantic, meticulous labor. Using the water from the toilet bowl and my own toothbrush as a scouring tool, I scrubbed every lug, every lace-hole, and every millimeter of the soles. Between the vigorous scrubbing sounds, the splashing, and my own rhythmic muttering and swearing, I can only imagine what the people in the adjacent stalls thought was happening in my cubicle. It must have sounded like I was performing a very aggressive, very watery exorcism.

By the time I was finished, the boots were in a state of cleanliness an army sergeant would have admired. They were glowing. I packed them away, straightened my clothes, and joined the biosecurity queue.

The officer looked at my card, then at me. He was clearly in a risk-averse mood. "It says here you've been hiking," he noted, "but you’ve marked that your boots are clean?"

"Yes," I replied, my chest swelling with pride. I was ready to whip them out and dazzle him with my handiwork. I wanted the "all-clear" to be a standing ovation for my efforts.

He didn't even ask to see them. He just nodded, stamped my card, and said, "Good. You can go through."

Memorable moments: The Ryanair descent

They say airline travel is hours of boredom interrupted by moments of stark terror. In 2004, while working for Volvo, I learned exactly how "stark" that terror could be. I was on a Ryanair flight from Stansted to Gothenburg—the kind of extreme low-cost experience where you half-expect to be charged for the air you breathe.

Suddenly, the air decided to leave us.

The plane didn't just dip; it plummeted. We fell a staggering 1,000 metres in a matter of seconds. There was a violent, bone-shaking thump that sent luggage cascading out of the overhead lockers like plastic hail. Then, the nightmare trifecta: smoke began to coil through the cabin, the oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling with a synchronized snap, and the screaming started.

Even the flight attendants, usually the stoic guardians of "tea or coffee," were white-faced with genuine panic. The man sitting next to me broke down completely. He whipped out a photograph of his wife and twin girls, staring at it with the haunted intensity of a man saying his final goodbye.

And me?

I have no idea why. Perhaps it’s some prehistoric, hard-wired glitch in the Myburgh DNA. Amidst the smoke, the screams, and the falling luggage, I got the giggles.

I tried to suppress it, knowing that a full-blown guffaw would be the height of social impropriety while my neighbor was mourning his own life, but I couldn't stop. I sat there, strapped into my seat, giggling uncontrollably into my yellow oxygen mask. It was as if my brain had decided that if we were going down, we might as well go down finding the whole thing ridiculous.

Eventually, the plane stabilized. The smoke cleared, the screaming subsided, and we landed without a word of explanation from the captain. That’s low-cost travel for you: you pay for the seat, but the life-altering trauma is complimentary.

For weeks afterward, I walked around in a state of pure, shimmering euphoria. I had stared into the abyss through a plastic mask while laughing like a maniac, and coming out the other side made the world seem impossibly bright. It turns out that a near-death experience is the ultimate "reset" button—even if your specific reaction to it is enough to make a grieving father think he's seated next to a psychopath.

Memorable moments: The Khumbu Siren

In 2023, a group of us—including Russell, Gavin, and Rajesh—set out for Everest Base Camp. It’s a brutal trek under the best conditions, but Russell started the journey with a stubborn throat infection. By the time we hit the higher altitudes, it had mutated into the dreaded "Khumbu cough," and it was, without exaggeration, the most extraordinary sound I have ever heard emerge from a human being.

It didn't just sound like a cough; it was a multi-stage acoustic event. It would start as a low, ominous rumble in his chest, then rapidly accelerate in pitch until it hit a high-velocity, uncontrollable wail. To the rest of us, it sounded like the melancholic mating call of a cross-eyed yeti searching for a lost love in a blizzard.

The hike was grueling. For days, we pushed through thin air and steep terrain—conditions that would break most healthy people, let alone someone whose lungs were performing a one-man opera. Yet, Russell was a legend. He remained cheerful and relentlessly adventurous, refusing to let the "Siren" in his chest dampen his spirits.

We, however, were not quite as legendary.

While we genuinely loved Russell, we were also as brutal as the mountain itself. We became so fascinated by the mechanics of the Khumbu Siren that we turned it into a competitive sport. Every time we reached a particularly steep precipice with a good echo acoustic, or a quiet moment of reflection, one of us would drop a perfectly timed one-liner.

Russell, unable to help himself, would start to giggle, which would immediately trigger the wail, echoing off the Himalayan peaks while we stood by, shamelessly scoring points for the "Best Trigger."

It was terrible, really. But as we climbed higher into the clouds, it became the soundtrack of our journey—a mix of thin air, gasping laughter, and the most ridiculous cough in the history of mountaineering. Russell eventually made it to Base Camp, proving that while the mountain is tough, it’s nothing compared to a man who can survive both a chest infection and the "kindness" of his best friends.

Memorable moments: The apology

In 1996, I flew to London to meet Ally—my girlfriend and future wife-to-be—who had been living and working there for a year while I remained back in Cape Town. The plan was simple: reunite, then head off travelling together.

This was, of course, a different world. A world before everyone carried a mobile phone in their pocket. Back then, communication relied heavily on those iconic red phone boxes scattered across London like little beacons of connection.

On one particular day, I decided to visit the Imperial War Museum while Ally finished work. We planned to meet later and begin our adventure.

At some point, I stepped into a phone box to give her a call.

I was mid-conversation—chatting away, probably discussing travel plans—when suddenly, without warning, I felt rough hands grab me and yank me out of the booth.

Before I knew it, I was pushed up against the glass exterior.

Two policemen.

Serious. Urgent.

“Who are you speaking to?!”

Now, it turns out that just a minute before I had stepped into that very phone box, someone had made a bomb threat from it.

And now here I was—freshly installed inside the crime scene—cheerfully calling my girlfriend.

Not ideal timing.

They questioned me, then spoke to Ally, who—thankfully—confirmed my entirely innocent, slightly bewildered story. Gradually, the tension eased. The grip loosened. The suspicion drained.

Eventually, they stepped back.

“You’re free to go,” one of them said.

Then, in a moment that could only happen in Britain, the same officer reached into his pocket, pressed a 20-pence piece into my palm, and offered a polite nod.

"Terribly sorry about that, sir," he said. "A small token of our apology so you can finish your call."

And just like that, I went from suspected terrorist to mildly inconvenienced customer—politely compensated and returned to the phone box.

Memorable moments: The transcontinental commute

After six years in the UK, my brain was still commuting on the Northern Line while my body was standing at a station in Sydney.

I walked up to the window, weary from work, and asked for a ticket to North London.

The ticket-master froze. He looked at me, then his screen, then back at me with genuine concern. Finally, the penny dropped.

"You mean North Sydney, don’t you?"

"Ah," I stammered, my face turning a vibrant shade of commuter-red. "Yes. That would help."

He didn't miss a beat. As he printed the ticket, he leaned in with a grin.

"And will that be a window or an aisle seat for the journey?"

Memorable moments: The descendant of Fluffy

While traveling in Ecuador, my group ran headfirst into a classic culinary crossroad: the local delicacy was cuy—or, as we know it, guinea pig.

My travel companions were eager to try it, which immediately triggered a severe clash of values inside my head. On one hand, I’m a firm believer in immersing yourself in local cultures and trying every regional dish put in front of you. On the other hand, how on earth could I knowingly eat an animal that had once been a beloved childhood pet? How could I look myself in the mirror after eating a direct descendant of Fluffy?

Eventually, curiosity and my travel ethos won out. Why not? I reasoned. It’ll probably arrive neatly chopped up, swimming in a thick stew or casserole where it’s blissfully easy to forget what you’re actually chewing on.

We placed the order. Twenty minutes later, the waiter returned and laid the dish on the table.

My heart sank. There was no stew. There was no clever disguise. It was literally a whole guinea pig lying flat on its back with its little legs splaid out in all directions. It had been dehaired and roasted, and while it was thankfully decapitated, there was absolutely zero mistaking the distinct, unmistakable geometry of the animal.

Oh dear.

I took a breath, picked up my fork, and tried it. To my utter confusion, it actually tasted great, perfectly tender and coated in a delicious, savory marinade. But the guilt weighed heavily on every single bite.

The real fallout, however, arrived weeks later when I posted my travel photos online. My mum—who had personally doted on our childhood guinea pigs and cherished every memory of them—took one look at the blog post and was utterly horrified. She was deeply affronted that her own son could do such a thing.

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Memorable moments: The monopoly lesson

In the early 2000s, Ally, Russell, and I touched down in Bolivia, eager to explore the high-altitude wonders of the Andes. We had been traveling for quite some time and our supplies of foreign currency were dangerously low. I was relieved and delighted to find an ATM in the airport that claimed to dispense US Dollars.

I withdrew $700 in crisp $100 notes, feeling a sudden surge of financial security.

A while later, we were at a travel agent's office, excitedly booking a tour of the Salar de Uyuni—the famous salt flats. We were even planning to stay in the legendary salt hotel, built entirely from blocks of salt. When it came time to pay, I confidently slid a $100 note across the desk.

The travel agent picked it up, glanced at it, and looked at me with a mix of confusion and pity.

"Sorry sir," she said, "we require US Dollars, Euros, or Pounds. We don't accept Monopoly money."

I was stunned. "What do you mean, Monopoly money?"

She handed the note back to me. Sure enough, as I fanned through the stack from the ATM, the truth revealed itself: the machine had dispensed $400 in genuine US currency, but the remaining $300 was literally play money—brightly colored, high-stakes Monopoly bills. I had been so relieved to see the cash that I hadn't even thought to verify the authenticity of the "hundreds."

We tried everything to resolve the issue with the bank and the airport authorities, but we never got a cent back. It was an expensive, hard-earned lesson. I kept those Monopoly notes for years as a physical reminder: in a world of illusions, always check the "currency" you’re being handed.

Memorable moments: The safety of testicles

In 2006, Ally, Russell, and I were in Rio de Janeiro, soaking up the vibrant energy of the city. One evening, we found ourselves at an authentic Brazilian restaurant. Russell and I, feeling particularly bold, decided on a strategic approach to the menu: we would share two meals—one "super adventurous" dish for the story, and one "normal" dish to actually fill our stomachs.

For the adventure, we ordered bull's testicles. For the "safe" backup, we chose a hearty pot of beef stew.

The food arrived, and we tackled the testicles first. To our surprise, they weren't too bad. They were fried in a light batter with a consistency remarkably similar to calamari. While they weren't exactly bursting with flavor, they were perfectly edible. We polished off a fair portion, thinking to ourselves, Adventure over. Now for the real meal.

I turned to the beef stew, expecting rich, tender comfort food. I took a large bite of the meat and was immediately hit by a taste so horrendous, so foul, that my survival instincts kicked in.

I pulled a chunk of "meat" out of the dark gravy to investigate the specimen. My heart sank. You could clearly see the intricate network of bronchioles; it was lung. I fished out the next piece: a distinct ventricle. It was heart. As I dug deeper, I found unmistakable sections of brain. The "hearty beef stew" was actually a literal anatomy lesson in a pot. It was like being back in my Zoology class doing a dissection.

It didn't just look terrifying; it tasted like a biological graveyard.

Russell and I shared a look of pure defeat. We slowly pushed the stew aside and turned our attention back to the remaining plate of bull's testicles. In the hierarchy of offal, the testicles had suddenly become the gourmet "safe" option—the only thing standing between us and a very hungry night.

Ally, who had wisely ordered a conventional, succulent steak with a side of chips, sat across from us, watched our struggle, and laughed until she cried.

Memorable moments: The Rajasthani quicksand

In 1997, I was on a grueling overnight bus journey through the desert of Rajasthan. In the middle of the night, the bus groaned to a halt for a toilet break. Being rural India, there were no facilities; the passengers simply vanished into the darkness to find their own "private" spots.

I decided to walk about fifty metres away from the road to ensure total solitude. I found a promising-looking patch of ground, stepped off the verge, and promptly sank thigh-deep into a thick, sucking sludge.

As I struggled to extricate my leg, an unimaginably foul stench hit me. I realized with a jolt of pure horror that this wasn't mud—this was the desert, after all. I had just stepped into a communal, open-air cesspit. I was thigh-deep in human excrement.

Desperate and gagging, I spotted a large open barrel of water nearby. I spent ten frantic minutes scrubbing the filth off my skin, only to be joined by a local gentleman who walked up and calmly began washing his backside in the same water. It was then I realized I was performing my emergency surgery in the local "bottom-washing" station.

With my pride in tatters and my trousers and shoes beyond saving, I threw them into the desert night. My own luggage was buried at the back of the bus, but Ally’s bag was within reach.

I spent the remainder of that long, dusty journey barefoot, smelling faintly of the "communal barrel," and wearing a pair of Ally’s very skimpy, very tight shorts. The bus driver didn't ask any questions about my new wardrobe, presumably because the smell was enough of an explanation.

Memorable moments: The Jaisalmer spit-shine

In 1997, Ally and I were backpacking through Rajasthan, India. We found ourselves in Jaisalmer, the "Golden City," and signed up for what we imagined would be a majestic three-day camel trek through the Thar Desert.

The reality was a bit more abrasive. Our camels were incredibly bad-tempered, and the seating was a masterclass in discomfort. However, the desert scenery was spectacular, and as the sun began to set on our first night, the vast, shifting dunes almost made the saddle-soreness worth it.

Our expedition leader, a local man of practical habits, began preparing dinner over the campfire. As he was plating up, he noticed one of the metal dishes wasn't quite up to his standards. With a loud, guttural clear of his throat, he delivered a hefty spray of spit directly onto the plate, then gave it a vigorous buffing with his filthy shirt sleeve.

We watched in paralyzed horror as he piled our food onto the "cleaned" surface. But, being young, exhausted, and absolutely starving, we ate every last bite.

The consequences arrived with the morning sun. As we set off the next day, Ally’s stomach decided to stage a full-scale revolt. She signaled that she had to get off, and the camel performed its awkward, jarring "press-up" maneuver to kneel in the sand. Ally dismounted, threw up, and climbed back on. A few hundred yards later, the process repeated. Press-up, dismount, vomit, remount.

Eventually, the sheer physical labor of the camel’s gymnastics became too much to bear. Ally simply said, "Fuck it," and began projectile vomiting directly from the height of the camel’s hump. I have never seen her so sick. We eventually limped back to the Jaisalmer Fort, where she spent the next several days in a darkened room, recovering from the most scenic—and hygienic—disaster of our lives.