Flour, sugar, baking powder, milk, unsalted butter, sugar and more ingredients go into the breakfast delights that are pancakes. In Punakaiki, New Zealand, making pancakes takes a bit of patience — 30 million years of patience, to be exact — and soft mud, clay as well as gnarly remnants of dead marine creatures and plants abounding with lime.

These ingredients of nature rested on the ocean floor, forming hard and soft layers of limestone and sandstone. Then the destructive tremors of earthquake brought the ocean floor to the surface, and there pelting rain and powerful gust rived the sandstone, engendering a knot of cliffs and ravines today known as Pancake Rocks.

The rolling sea feeds the stacked, outlying formations with many splashes. During high tide, the torrential waters burrow their way through blowholes and are eventually ejected to lick the vertical shafts. Less powerful are the expulsions compared with a geyser’s, but its rhythmic swishes are still soothing to the ears.

I ventured deeper and deeper into the heart of a limestone cave in Waitomo, thankful for the lights illuminating the narrow passageway. Sticky fishing lines like diamond necklaces fell freely from stalactites, delicate they looked but deadly they were: a festooned trap for insect preys; the glowworms’ sustenance. My guide of Māori descent stopped Jolyn, my tour mate, and me in our tracks, before stealing away to switch off the lights. The sudden heft of the silence and blackness, which blotted from view my companions, weighed heavily on me. The zephyr kissing my cheeks was a cold touch.

And just when I was beginning to feel like the walls of suffocating darkness were hemming me in, soft mesmerising blue lights began to fill the face of the tunnel, like glittering stars revealed after the tearing of clouds. This dreamlike display of light feels like the work of an arcane spell, but in reality is a chemical reaction between luciferase, luciferin, adenosine triphosphate and oxygen.

Glowworms capable of bioluminescence are in their larva stage, which spans six to nine months. Their light ensnares not only the wistful gazes of human beings but also insects as big as cockroaches. “Go towards the light” takes on a new meaning, as preys like moths to a flame meet their ends as they become entangled on the sticky fishing lines.

But feed the glowworms must, for they do not do so when they metamorphose into pupae and adults. In fact, in their adult stage, they lose their mouths, living their few numbered days starving, bereft of food. They exist only to mate and reproduce, and pass on when their life’s work is done.

Photo credit: Felix Plakolb

I set the pastel-blue helmet on my head, a trifle conscious that I resembled a Pokémon trainer. But since I wished to set foot in Taroko National Park, this fashion accessory, incongruous with the rest of my slimming-black ensemble, was a requisite. And I soon discerned why: signs cautioning falling rocks were ubiquitous.

Blankets of lush greenery on jagged silver marble. Compassing mountain arms sloping to heights beyond my reckoning gleaming in the golden shafts of the sun. Hard boulders that barely stay the gush of Liwu River, whose soothing song was ever mingled with the grating vroom of speeding cars.

The shaping of this most beautiful landscape spanned two hundred million years, beginning with the accumulation and hardening of sediments into limestone. The past one hundred million years saw the transmutation of limestone into marble, caused by the underlying tectonic compression between the Philippine Sea Plate and Eurasian Plate. The destructive Liwu River cut into the marble, flowing hither and thither, forming numerous valleys and ravines: a fluidity against rigidity.

Some 10,000 years ago, the Khoisan, the world’s most ancient race, used the entrance of the Cango Caves as shelter. To stand in the same spot as our forebears was a transcendent experience. Just as I was lost in the caves’ vastness, a group of visitors began singing a hymn, their melodious harmony carried by the echoes rippling through the subterranean hall.

Widely regarded as one of the world’s greatest natural wonders, the Cango Caves stretch for over five kilometres, though ingress is only allowed for only a quarter of its length. They are nestled in a Precambrian limestone belt adjacent to the Swartberg mountains. Some twenty million years ago, rainwater began burrowing its way through crevices in the limestone, and this natural activity engendered an intricate network of caverns and tunnels.

Spikey dripstone formations, or stalactites as they are called, hang like icicles on the lip of a branch. Such formations are created when there is an accumulation of calcite, which abounds in limestone. Rainwater erodes and carries the mineral, and over time the deposits burgeon into stalactites. As incoming water drips from one end of a stalactite, it deposits more calcite into a heap. Thus stalagmites, which jut upwards from the ground, are formed.

The Cango Caves are segregated into a few halls. The grand Van Zyl’s Hall is named after Jacobus Van Zyl, who myth believes was a local farmer who rediscovered the caves in modern era. Here dwells the must-see Cleopatra’s Needle, speculated to be over 150,000 years old. The stalagmite rises almost ten metres to touch the ceiling.

When visiting the caves, there are two tours to choose from: Heritage; and Adventure. As its name suggests, the Adventure tour is more physically demanding, taking visitors to the 200-step Jacob’s Ladder, and fascinating formations resembling King Solomon, an ice cream cone and coffin. The trek leads to Devil’s Kitchen, in which the Devil’s Chimney, measuring only forty-five centimetres in width, awaits. Egress is only possible by executing a leopard crawl through the twenty-seven-centimetre-high crevice of the Devil’s Post Box.

At every turn, Shifen, Pingxi, throbs with a sprightliness. Vendors proudly plug beloved Taiwanese foods such as mini sausages and chicken wings to passersby. Tourists flit hither and thither along the gravel-laden railroad, hoping to find the perfect spot for a photo. Others are hunkered down, an intensity in their eyes as they lay brush strokes onto coloured papers clipped to a stand. Twice every hour, there comes a sudden ringing of bells, vendors hollering “the train is coming!” and dispersing the trail of ants. Finally, the chugging train gives two loud honks as more people flock to the sidelines to capture photos of the gargantuan vehicle.

“You don’t have to write your wishes in Mandarin,” said Ting and Charles, my tour guides from My Taiwan Tour. That revelation brought some relief to my tour mates and me, a posse of fellow Singaporeans as well as a Korean couple also residing in my home country. My knowledge of Chinese characters was severely impaired, and I was not about to embarrass myself with my language deficiency before a bunch of fluent speakers.

I had hitherto not been too keen on releasing a sky lantern, for I discerned not the significance of the act. Your hopes and dreams, worded in black ink on red, orange, blue and purple paper, and then released skywards. It is superstition at best, and however idealistic a person I may be, I believe meritocracy and hard labour are the secrets to realising my dreams. And then I was told I would have the opportunity to make my own sky lantern — which stirred my apprehension for I am entirely inept when it comes to arts and crafts.

We sat through a step-by-step demonstration, which assuaged my doubts for the process seemed foolproof.

The final step of course is releasing the lantern. We made a beeline for the railroad, and ah ma helped to light the candle. I felt the rush of hot air filling the inside of the lantern. The blaze of the fire, red hot and almost scalding, caressed my hand. Slowly the lantern seemed to come alive, and it resisted the gravitational force that was holding it down: me. I had to let go — and isn’t that what living life to the fullest requires: letting go of your fears and questions and doubts and judgements. And so I did. Up, up the lantern soared as onlookers cheered, all my ambitions and goals and favourite things written in words rising higher than buildings and becoming one with the clouds. It was then I felt a paroxysm of blissful euphoria wash over me.

Azny Juffri is ensconced in the seat of a nondescript bus. She looks out the window — the great unknown of Cambodia lies before her: a panorama of villages, farms as well as stalls selling fried tarantulas greets her. A stranger in this land, Azny is not privy to her culture, traditions and unwritten rules. A young lad in polo shirt strikes up a conversation with her, and as luck would have it, he too is a Singapore Polytechnic alumnus. He later points Azny to where the hostels are.

It is now 10pm, and the sky is naked and pitch black. Despite following her new friend’s directions, Azny comes to a roadblock. No hostels are in sight; only shabby shops about to retire for the night. “Hostel, hostel!” suddenly shouts a short cherubic man a few paces from her, a disarming quality in his voice. Already tired from the bumpy bus ride, Azny negotiates with him, and follows him down a dingy alleyway. She espies silhouettes of curious residents peering out of windows from above, and feels their eyes tracing their every movement. “What have I gotten myself into?” a woeful thought flits into her mind. A palpable trepidation awakes in and envelops her. She is like the willing prey that goes traipsing into the lion’s den.

And just then, upon reaching the end of the block, a row of hostels comes into view.

It was eleven years ago when Azny first embarked on her solo trip, right on the heels of wrapping up her first stint at an advertising agency. After exploring Thailand with her friends, the then teenager on the cusp of life made the spontaneous decision to make for Phnom Penh — alone. “I was on a very tight budget. I even had to haggle to save fifty cents when I found out the hostel owner had charged me more than he did the rest of my dorm mates!” Back then, smartphones and all their nifty travelling tools were non-existent. Street smarts were Azny’s only weapon.

Being Asian, female and Muslim, Azny should — if one were to pigeonhole her — subscribe to conventional views. Solo travel is out of the question. But coming from a long line of opinionated women has imbued her with the same sense of independence and courage to break the mould of how an Asian, a female, and a Muslim should live her life. “In her prime, my grandmother used to work, and that was a time when the idea of women working instead of being in a stay-at-home role was met with disbelief.”

Growing up, Azny did not come from a well-to-do family; up until they were in their fifties the farthest her parents had been was the neighbouring Indonesia. Disneyland was a far-fetched fantasy to her. Two of her younger aunts were avid travellers — one was a flight attendant — and a young Azny envied their “glamourous” lifestyles. “It was a ‘if they could do it, so could I’ mentality. If their being Muslim women didn’t stop them from exploring the world, it shouldn’t stop me too.” By keeping her nose to the grindstone, by carving out a career in the bustling advertising industry, Azny slowly but surely became an independent woman following in the footsteps of her elders. First on her agenda was seeing the world.

I like the idea of holding in my hands not Google but foldout maps. There is this romance of being completely lost in a country —  it’s what I felt during my first trip, and it’s an experience I’ve been trying to recreate.  

The road less travelled

Her travels have since taken her to beautiful places such as Croatia, Bali, Hanoi, London, Berlin, to name a few. One of her favourite cities is Perth, Australia. “Teeming with lots of young people, Perth has a unique vibe that departs from the East Coast cities’. It exudes a laidback, small-town charm.”

In 2011, Azny embarked on a Down Under road trip with her best friend Rab, whom she first met in Kuala Lumpur. The two instantly hit it off, despite their contrasting personalities. “We are worlds apart. She’s a girly girl who loves shopping; and I love going to music festivals. Where our common interest meets is food.” With a car crammed with their luggage, the two began cruising along Gold Coast, Brisbane, Canberra and Melbourne, and luxuriating in their new freedom. They counted down to the new year in Sydney, the iridescent shower of fireworks was a sight to behold. For sustenance, they raided the leftover shelves in hostels. Toilets nestled along the beaches were where they did their personal grooming. “We laughed, we cried, we got angry at each other. But the bonds of our friendship strengthened.”

The trip proved that one does not need a luxurious, well-planned-out itinerary to create lifelong memories. “If everything goes swimmingly, then you don’t get to have an adventure.” Azny recalls the first day of her Belgium trip when she was pickpocketed at a heavy metal festival. “I had my wallet and phone in my front pockets — how skilful were they to have fingered my belongings?” Thankfully, Azny had already befriended some of the fellow attendees via the festival’s Facebook group. “These were tough-looking metalheads with the sweetest hearts and a great sense of humour. They took care of me as a big brother would. Also, losing my phone in retrospect was a blessing. I had an excuse to disconnect from the world.”

For females looking to travel solo, being mentally prepared for the worst is key. “Death is not even the worst thing that can happen to you. I don’t know how I’d cope with surviving a traumatising ordeal, such as being kidnapped or raped. These are very real dangers facing female solo travellers.” Steeling the mind immediately heightens one’s awareness. “You won’t do silly things that put you in mortal danger, such as following a stranger to a dark alleyway for one,” she quips.

How to have a travel adventure? Draw up an itinerary, but don’t stick too closely to it.

Flying with birds of different flocks

Travelling changes a person, so the adage goes. An extrovert who readily cracks jokes and makes friends, Azny says travelling has made her embrace her inner introvert. “Also, when you’re in a foreign place, you get to reinvent yourself. At home, I tend to mince or sugar-coat my words lest I offend or hurt feelings. I hide my honest opinions lest the discussion gets contentious. But in a foreign place you don’t have to worry about the repercussions of offending someone — you probably won’t ever see that person again.” When one party in a conversation is being completely unabashed, the other follows suit, and what engenders is a healthy ping pong of opinion exchanging.

This is radical honesty, a movement first conceptualised by psychotherapist Brad Blanton. The benefits of radical honesty extend beyond the freedom of zero self-censorship or the gratification of daring to return an unpleasing meal order. It opens minds. “You’ve carefully chosen your clique of friends; and who you let into your life. But that is a very small sample of the world. When you make friends around the world, you have to deal with views that clash with yours. And that is how you grow as a person.”

Before Brexit, Azny, an advocate for a world without borders, was all for the United Kingdom (UK) staying in the European Union. “It wasn’t until I had meaningful discussions with my friends in the UK that I began to see the counterviews, why anyone would vote to leave, and how they would reap benefits from it.” Such open discussion has now become de rigeur in this era of a Donald-Trump presidency, she opines. “There is beauty in differences, but we must first be allowed the chance to be honest with ourselves, and with others.”

We are all discovering our true selves. Being able to convey my innermost thoughts out loud has made me less afraid of the person I could potentially be, not just this persona that I project.

“No thank you, we don’t want any more visitors, well-wishers or distant relations!”

“And what about very old friends?”

“…Gandalf?”

While en route to Buckland Road, Hinuera, Matamata, our jovial Hobbiton Movie Set tour operator played this video snippet of The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Rings — the meeting of Bilbo Baggins and Gandalf the Grey. Immediately nostalgia washed over me like waves breaking on rocks. It was only fifteen years ago when I was a small-eyed wide-eyed teenager catching one of my first movies in the cinema, sitting on the edge of my seat as the Nazgûl hunted the hobbits and feeling the bite of a thousand emotions when Gandalf fell into the abyss. So many years I had spent imitating the characters, especially Gandalf. So many years of seeking solace in the movies when everything else was not right. And of course, the movie franchise led me to discover my God: J R R Tolkien. The experience was so transcendent tears welled up in my eyes.

Long has been my desire to visit Hobbiton Movie Set since its opening. Before it was transformed into a movie set, the land was — still is — a sheep farm belonging to a certain Russell Alexander. Hence, sightings of sheep grazing are common.

“For all hobbits share a love for things that grow” — this theme percolates throughout Hobbiton Movie Set. Lush trees and grass abound in this bucolic landscape. Undulating hills and verdant medaows stretch as far as the eye can see. The dichotomy of natural and manmade blurs here, as crop props look so deceivingly lifelike they almost seem palatable and esculent.  A towering oak tree juts out of Bag End — fake though it is, it is still very majestic in stature.

And then there are the distinctive bright-coloured houses, stippling the land with their blue, red and yellow hues. Lamp posts and gates front the entrance; filled sacks are left on wheelbarrows; and seasonal flowers decorate the surroundings. Rustic fences are mottled with lichen. The movie set is almost habitable, if not for the fact that the interior is just a tight airy space of nothing.

After a most terrible uphill climb to reach Bag End — I had just days earlier conquered the Tongariro Alpine Crossing so my body was still in residual shock — we made our way to the famed Green Dragon. I had a mug of pale ale and then an apple cider, courtesy of the inn, which were enough to knock me out.  I couldn’t help recall Pippin’s proclamation at Isengard: “I feel like I’m back at the Green Dragon. A mug of ale in my hand, putting my feet up on a settle after a hard day’s work.”

Indeed, the familiarity of Hobbiton felt like home, and I was fifteen again.

An odour of ammonia hits your olfactory senses the second you arrive at Stony Point Nature Reserve, Betty’s Bay in the Overberg. So overwhelmingly pungent, it travels to and almost envelops your taste buds. It emanates from the thriving colonies of African penguins, or jackass penguins, who are like sweaty hormonal jocks sardined in a small gym.

Home to one of Africa’s most successful jackass-penguin breeding colonies, the reserve sits on the site of an erstwhile whaling station.  A long rustic boardwalk cuts through the reserve, squeaking with every step you take. Groups of Oreos emerge from their burrows, waddle beneath the boardwalk and make for the rocky outcrops. Some rest themselves on rocks roofed with vegetation and dried twigs, gazing into the vistas. The multitudes of penguins seem to have a proclivity for lounging about. They also share the land with the endangered White-breasted, Bank, Crowned and Cape Cormorants. Perched on higher elevations, kelp gulls time their flights, hoping to swoop down on an unguarded penguin egg.

As for the unflattering moniker, the penguins only have their donkey-like brays to blame. Other distinctive features include short tails, webbed feet and flipper-like wings that enable them to navigate the water with finesse. They have an average lifespan of ten to fifteen years, and like their cormorant counterparts are on the brink of extinction: their number has dwindled over the years.