Most people who go to Australia bring back a boomerang. I brought back something else that keeps on coming back. A dislocated knee-cap! My boat cruise round the Whitsunday’s left me hobbling after an unfortunate incident with some stairs but I didn’t let that deter me from making it on to Cairns. It was only on my return to Brisbane, after one too many alcoholic beverages and the intro to Dancing Queen, that I found myself atop of a table shaking my stuff for all it was worth. I’ll do anything in the name of a free beer.

The next morning my knee was the size of a watermelon but we had a flight to catch so I was patched up and sent on my way. Painkillers, alcohol and flying do not mix and trying to get to the bathroom with a dislocated kneecap - almost impossible! On my return to Malaysia I was hospitalized and underwent knee surgery. The moral of this sorry tale: Never travel uninsured and never dance to ABBA!

Emma Harper

In the last few years I have explored two or three areas of Africa and South America, the latter including a day-long journey to the fringes of the Orinoco Delta in Venezuela. Here, I met and stayed for one week with Warao Indians whose stilt-villages line the river banks and have thousands of square miles of swamp and jungle as a communal back garden. In such a novel and exciting environment it is all too easy to forget that, unlike Cricklewood, there are things here that can eat you!

One particular afternoon, I walked down to the end of the village and took a 20-minute dip in the murky Orinoco; on my return I resumed fishing and pulled out a 2lb piranha!

That night I was awoken by a tremendous splashing and thrashing from immediately under my hammock...'Crikey,' I thought, ' I wonder what kind of fish that could be'. Next morning, I was informed that the culprit was a crocodile.

OK, perhaps piranha do only get vicious when confined to small pools. And perhaps (I don't know) Venezuelan crocodiles are not notorious for attacking man. But is it wise to tempt them? The croc I disturbed the following night whilst canoeing through the backwaters rocked my craft and was estimated by my guide to be nine to 11 feet in length! On this occasion, we 'knew' what we were doing, but believe me, it's a simple matter to underestimate your surroundings...

The following year in the Serengeti I withdrew from the midnight camp-fire in order to take a leak behind our truck - well, you do, don't you! No, you don't! Not on the lip of the Ongorogoro Crater where, I was told later, there's a fair chance a lion will drag you off.

Really taking on board and believing that in that long grass or behind that bush there might well be something preparing for dinner is not as easy or as obvious as you might think. Don't be complacent! Remember where you are! Don't get eaten!

Cliff Hatton

I knew I was breaking the law and I have repented for my sins now, but the law was not going to stop me drinking alcohol whilst only 19 one summer in America. Most of my friends were over 21 so I had done the usual forging of the papers and had been safe for 2 months. Until one night when I was in a club and suddenly all the lights came and the place was flooded with police officers. I was taken outside and pushed up against a wall down an alley and tried to act convincing about my ID. Needless to say they were not taken in and as I was the first evictee from the club, told me not to do it again and let me go, shaken to the core. One friend was not so lucky and ended up in court with a $300 fine to pay.

Moral of the story: if you HAVE to drink while under 21 in the US, best to stick to parties where there is less of a chance of you being refused entry back into the country!

Vicki Crabb

Picture Italy in November. Heading north from Florence a young girl-traveller makes her way by train to Venice. A stranger to the heady canal-scapes, the girl (ever one step ahead) has arranged her accommodation in advance to cover this most fleeting of visits. In Florence, where the heat was gentle and warming and did illuminate the rusticated exteriors of Palazzi, the girl had one more entrusted Lonely Planet with preparations for her next stay outside the city. Carefully selecting the most popular of budget accommodation - for this girl was determined if not rich - she made arrangements cross-country by telephone for the following night.

And so, on that fateful Thursday dusk she set out to make her journey along two bus routes, across much water, and via Marco Polo international airport to a hostel on the outskirts of town (Mestre). Marvelling at her sheer insight (for she had spent the summer travelling Europe) and congratulating herself on her thrifty ways she generously considered her ability to manufacture fine experiences out of little means. It did not begin to cross her mind that a hostel shack (for that is what she had naively plumped for) might not offer sufficient heating to counteract the icy Venetian air.

At 8pm, night drawing in, the bus pulled up at the deserted... camp site. Refusing to let panic set in, the girl disembarked thanking her driver, and headed for a vaguely-lit reception building. Trees swayed furtively, the stiff night air loomed large and unrelenting, and the wind howled until she felt it had no voice left, but still it did howl. Confirming her reservation (mmm, the site was deserted by all intents?) she headed briskly, with key in hand to the 'chalet', for once grateful of her proximity to recognised forms of life (tourist hoards had wreaked their damage in Florence). Once inside, she could dimly make out four walls, two single beds (result!) and....a squashed spider? She was essentially alone in a shoebox in the woods. With no heating! And no toilet! Only now did the girl begin to feel stupid!

Refusing to let panic overcome her, and merciless in blocking even the merest of unfavourable scenarios from her mind, she determinedly set about returning to reception. Pride swallowed, and bargaining skills polished and ready (always keep these to hand!) a new deal was negotiated, in which our now travel-weary subject came to reside in a refurbished, top-range (trailer) complete with en-suite mega-force shower (clean, to boot!) and a very efficient heating system! Trailer-trash she might be, but it was the darned-cosiest accommodation she had ever experienced for $10 a night (Venice prices eat your heart out)!

The moral of this story: weird accommodation can be fun...

Luisa Hill