Explorers like to pretend that they are a select breed of people with iron nerve and an ability to endure terrible hardship.

One senses that, in these conditions, no amount of wet-wiping could bring true hygiene.

Once in a very long time you come across a book that is far, far more than the ink, the glue and the paper, a book that seeps into your blood.

The rain of Madre de Dios is similar to that of the Amazon, but there is a petrifying aspect to it, as if it seeks to wound rather than to nurture.

As a travel writer I've specialized in gritty, fearful destinations, the kind of places that make a reader's hair stick on end.

A journey, I reflected, is of no merit unless it has tested you.

Most journeys have a clear beginning, but on some the ending is less well-defined. The question is, at what point do you bite your lip and head for home?