Arriving at Cape Agulhas, the first thing that hits you is the ferocious wind. The barrelling gust lends power to the rogue waves crashing against the rock formations.

Cape Agulhas is the southernmost tip of Africa; the meeting point of the tumultuous Indian and Atlantic oceans. I immediately recalled standing at the very joining of North American and Eurasian tectonic plates in Þingvellir, Iceland. The immutable law of Physics — that no one can be in two places at the same time — seemed proven wrong.

The name “Cape of the Needles” also belongs to the landmark, gifted by early Portuguese explorers circa the 15^th century as they found that compass needles’ magnetic north did not deviate from the true north.

Cape Agulhas also bears a more sinister name: “The Ship’s Graveyard”. Remnants of shipwrecks — over 150 of them — still dot the shoreline, imbuing the landmark with a sense of ominous intrigue. Of most renown is the story of HM Steamer Birkenhead, and carrying 643 passengers she faced her doom on 26 February 1852. The men on board were mostly soldiers, who sacrificed their lives by first helping the women and children to safety. So birthed the “women and children first” protocol.

It is almost impossible to fully imbibe Nærøyfjord’s dramatic grandeur. At every turn, you feel hemmed in by its infinite allure. Lofty cliffs rise over a thousand four hundred metres from the Norwegian sea, and seemingly kiss the overhead clouds. The sun bathes the snow-capped mountains with its golden rays. The water is completely still, and the mountains’ reflections glint off it. A spectacle of symmetry ensues.

Nærøyfjord spans seventeen kilometres and is the narrowest branch of Sognefjord, the world’s second longest fjord. With such inexplicable splendour, it is hard to fathom fjords are the product of a destructive force: glacial erosion. Steep inlets they are, formed when glaciers carve deep and U-shaped valleys into the bedrock. They run deep below sea level — Nærøyfjord extends 500 metres and Sognefjord a staggering 1,300 metres.

During winter, the waterfalls along the mountains rest, contributing further to the landscape’s tranquillity. All around the silence weighs heavy. The vast expanse indeed seems frozen in time.

Addo’s sky ere dawn was a curtain of black, vast and starless.  On this particular Friday, I had woken up early to prepare for a day at Addo Elephant National Park. At the suggestion of Cindy, my guide from Earthstompers, I cranked “Circle of Life” up to a loud volume and psyched myself up for the day.

A sign “Dung Beetles Have Right of Way” at the gate amused this city boy, until I realised heeding the advice is not volitional. The 28,000-hectare Addo National Elephant Park is home to a thriving ecosystem of Cape buffalos, zebras, antelopes, warthogs, and of course elephants. Quarries they are to lions, hyenas and leopards: natural predators introduced to the park to keep the grand design in check.

Much fewer in count these animals are than their preys, so lady luck must be smiling upon us as my group and I spotted a lion five minutes into our game drive. “A male lion sleeps up to twenty hours a day,” hollered our guide over the four-wheel-drive vehicle’s whirring engine. “Sounds like I found my spirit animal,” I thought.

Long winding stretches the vehicle now traversed. Looming before us were tall verdant trees, which stood with wizened ones heralding the coming of winter. Like domesticated sheep, my fellow spectators would at our safari guide’s every beckon stand up, crane their necks and point to a faraway disembodied being. Cameras flew aloft and were steadied.

“There, right there, behind that tree, do you see it? Oh, it’s so beautiful!”

“I don’t see… oh I see it!” I said, masking the truth and begrudging my failing eyesight.

A scene of tranquility 

We were now whisked away to a viewing area. Like voyeurs we were, gaining a glimpse of the elephants’ lives through enlarged peepholes. Quiet as a mouse we had to be: An elephant in musth could come charging towards us and tear down the fence in one fell swoop — there would be no barrier between us and the creature. The silence was interrupted only by the sporadic sound of camera shutter.

But our experience was peaceful. Herds of elephants, young and mammoth, came to the watering hole and drank. Some playfully sprayed water over their bodies. Some would intertwine their trunks with others’: the human’s equivalent of a handshake. The elephants shared the space harmoniously with a few grazing antelopes, not minding their presence one bit.

An out-of-this-world experience

My second game drive began shortly after lunch, and this time I was ensconced in a private SUV with Cindy taking the wheel. It was a fruitful endeavour: we chanced upon tortoises, dung beetles which we gave right of way to, and even a Cape buffalo.

The buffalo was relishing the blades of grass, looking every bit docile and unimposing despite its size. Yet, a cautionary tone crept into Cindy’s usually-dulcet voice, and I became very mindful I was only a guest in the beast’s home. Persona non grata perhaps, but for now it gave me leave to stay.

Shortly after, we left the buffalo to its sustenance and arrived at a vast expanse of open land. Yonder, a family of elephants treated themselves to a pool of water. Cindy manoeuvred the car so that we stayed on the left side of the pebbled road.

And then, the elephants came lumbering towards us, the thudding of their footsteps pounding louder with every heartbeat. I felt my fate hang in limbo: gaining in speed they were with every stride, and speed augmented their already-massive strength. This herd of ten elephants was headed in my direction, and whether their intention was malicious or not I could not guess. I was now at the mercy of these wild creatures.

Suddenly, a smaller elephant — but still dwarfing our vehicle — broke rank, went right and passed the front of our SUV. Its floppy ears, short tail and wrinkles against a grey hide were in full sight. It paid no attention to us, driven only by its motivation to head forward. Mere seconds later, the rogue elephant reunited with its family. Their heavy limbs whipped up sand as they moved, like wind stirring up dust.

I had survived the charge of the Mûmakil. Very fleetingly I was one with the gargantuan creatures, and the visceral experience was something I had hitherto never felt before. It is a feeling I will continue to chase for the rest of my life.

Zimbabwe was hot, and ambling even short distances in the sun was unbearable. I was at first reluctant to travel to the sovereign state, as it meant taking my fourth flight in 12 days. But I eventually succumbed to the lure of Victoria Falls, the world’s largest waterfall. It spans a width of over 1,700 metres; at its peak the water plummets to a depth of 108 metres. What sheer magnificence.

The waterfall’s nascent popularity in the west is attributed to Scottish explorer David Livingstone. Circa the 18^th century, he ventured out to witness for himself what the natives called Mosi-oa-Tunya — The Smoke that Thunders. What he saw he later described as “… scenes so lovely must have been gazed upon by angels in their flight”. The explorer also likened the ferocious gush of water falling over the basalt cliff to snow.

Victoria Falls fringes the confluence of Zimbabwe and Zambia. Today, its entrance has all the trappings of a tourist destination: a cashier counter to pay the admission fees; turnstile that permits your ingress; and a souvenir shop. The footpath is divided into 17 sections while the waterfall itself five main segments: Devil’s Cataract; Main Falls; Horseshoe Falls; Rainbow Falls; and Eastern Cataract. The Eastern Cataract is located in Zambia.

Traversing the footpath is a very wet experience. As we reached the Main Falls, spray and mist pelted us like rain. Here, the torrent of water hits a peak flow rate of seven hundred thousand cubic metres per minute. Wind, generated from the sheer velocity of the water hitting the rocks embedded at the gorge’s base, causes mist to billow like smoke up to a height of over 400 metres. Drenched though we were, we welcomed the respite from the balmy Zimbabwean weather.

After a 13-hour flight to London and five-hour layover in Heathrow Airport, I was in the air again, bound for Reykjavik, Iceland. I sat in my seat, nary a space to move. I craned my neck to peer out of the window, hoping with luck I could catch the splendour of the aurora borealis many miles above ground.

Na dah. Zilch. Not even a pitiful flicker to appease me.

Iceland: Eluded

It was now 8pm. After being greeted by my tour guide, I clambered up the gargantuan 4×4 jeep. We drove away from Reykjavik; being the city centre light pollution was strong there. Silhouettes outlining vast mountains we soon saw, but the night cloaked their magnificence.

Sitting in the front seat, I was de facto navigator, tasked with spotting a glimmer of the moon or stars. The overcast shrouded all lights, and none could pierce through. We arrived at a secluded spot, and unwillingly we ejected ourselves from the vehicle and its familiar warmth. Our armour of fleece jackets, layered clothes, gloves and scarves could not shield us from the cold. For hours we stood and looked up to nothingness. Not passing clouds, not a glint of the moon, not the northern lights. The sky was pitch black. For two nights, my hopeful posses and I left disillusioned.

One week after my departure, photos of the northern lights illuminating Iceland’s entire skies appeared on my news feed.

Tromso: Third Time’s the Charm

A swirl of muted green adorned the velvet sky, hanging above the stack of houses like a monochrome rainbow that came out after rain – that was my first northern-light encounter. My Panasonic Lumix GH4 did an ace job of dramatising the colours, so that the green saturated to a picturesque glow. But how entirely purposeless it is to live life through a viewfinder. We left the spot and beelined for the mountaintop.

Every passing hour whittled our hope and resolve, and the minus-four-degree temperature did little to lift our spirits. By now everyone was quaking, burrowing hands into tight pockets and jacket sleeves. Some retreated to the comfort of the heated car for a respite. Against the might of the biting cold and relentless chilly wind, the leaping fire Andrei our guide built was impotent. He plied us with hot cocoa as well as traditional Norwegian snacks like reindeer sausages, and temporarily we were whisked to a happier place.

And then, without warning, not one any app could augur, the swirl of light intensified in colour. All things on ground came to a still, and the numbing winter cold was forgotten. Entrancing verdant flames came alive, so that the entire sky became a lush garden of sorts.  Oh, how the lights danced with grace like carefree nymphs, in rhythm but to no music! This was no camera trick. Then again without warning, as they are wont to do, shelves of white and violet hues zigzagged across the sky, overlapping the green, stealing our breath. All eyes were fixated on this inexplicable beauty.

Human beings may have invented many gadgets, but none can match the brilliance of this natural visual experience. The best things in life are indeed free. That night, I went back to my Airbnb apartment, knackered but filled with unbridled joy.

“I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll do it? Great!”

Cindy, my Earthstompers tour guide with an electrifying charm, and I were at Salina’s Beach Restaurant, Wilderness. Over the cacophony of our neighbours’ chatter, clink of champagne glasses and cutlery, she misheard my decision to go shark cage diving. Without missing a beat, she picked up her phone and reserved a suddenly-vacated slot. The one who bailed probably wised up, I thought.

I dithered, half wanting to correct Cindy, half held back by bravado.  The restaurant became very quiet. My acquiescence was by silence.

Our perky Salina’s waitress served the seafood platter of calamari, prawns and hake, and my mind flitted to the thought that I too shall become the Great White Shark’s chow.

It was a one-hour drive from Wilderness to Mossel Bay. The Garden Route’s verdant scenery was beautiful — I’m sure.  My thoughts were now racing at breakneck speed and I could pay no heed to my environment. A vast endless road loomed before me, yet I felt hemmed in. Something intangible was closing in on me. Self-empowerment songs so cheesy they could make au gratin blared from the car’s sound system, imbuing me with last-minute courage.

I knew not the reason for my anxiety. The concept was simple and foolproof enough: participants, six at a time, would willingly entrap themselves in a steely cage. The crew operator hurls the sacrifice of fish head, appeasing the Great White Shark. We record our precious videos on our GoPro cameras and no human being gets eaten.

But the Great White Shark is no Nemo.   An adult female grows up to six metres in length, and tips the scale at over 1,900kg. Her senses — smell, hearing, sight — are keenly developed. She can smell the chum, a hodgepodge of blood, pilchard and sardines, from miles away. And probably my fear too. If she bends all her thoughts on me, a very fleshy and nutritious lunch, not even industrial-grade steel can stop her.

It did not help that I had, just a week prior, watched “Jaws” for the very first time.

***

I was one of the first to arrive at White Shark Africa for the 8:30am adventure. Cindy took leave of me, and I was left alone to my unsettling thoughts. In traipsed a family, and then a couple. I began sizing up my fellow company of prey, and unfortunately I remained the most delicious standout.

Richard, looking every part a handsome surfer and that he does this for a living (and hence has got this under control), addressed us.  He began sharing facts about the sharks, before coming to a pregnant pause. There was a sombre tone in his voice. “73 million sharks are being killed each year, and do you know for what?”

“Fins!” the lady behind me hollered, like a straight-A student eager to offer all the answers. Being the only Chinese in a room teeming with Caucasians, I bowed my head in shame, stealing furtive glances to make sure no one was aiming his pitch fork at me. My resolve to boycott shark’s fin hardened then.

Finally, it was time to head out to the sea. Just a few kilometres off of False Bay was our destination. Before we reached our vessel, down a steep decline we had to walk, and the thought of my triumphant return unnerved me: I had to hike up this impossible incline while lugging my heavy tripod and camera and belongings.

***

The salty sea overwhelmed my olfactory senses. The waters were choppy. We passed Seal Island: a rank-smelling land home to a multitude of Cape fur seals. There, great white sharks would forage for food.

The boat was anchored just a stone’s throw away from the island. After giving a brief introduction, the crew went to work. Our steely bastion was released. The first batch of prey suited up, went into the water, and lamented the biting cold of it.

Just minutes later, the fins of the Great White Shark protruded above water, giving away her position. Up went the cameras, and the children on board craned their necks to see her. Very calmly she swam, every twist of her gargantuan body a graceful glide. She headed for the bait, but stopped short of taking it.

Before long, it was my turn to be imprisoned. “Hands off the outer cage at all times” came the instructions. “What outer cage? There’s only one cage here! Help!!!” my inner voice screamed. But I kept my bravado and chose instead to ready my GoPro. Into the cage I went, and for the first time in my life, I treaded seawater.

“Right!” the crew operator yelled. Like puppets on strings, all of us instantly took a huge gulp of air, and pulled ourselves down. My eyes, now bleared, and I could only see a dark turquoise colour and not very far. Wiggly chunks of meat torn off the bait swam about me. I frantically scanned my surrounding for the mammoth creature. Nothing in sight. My lungs tightened, and I immediately came up for air.

A huge gasp I let out, as if I had just sprinted a kilometre. “Left!” shouted the disembodied voice again.

And then I came face-to-face with her. Encircling my side of the cage, advancing very slowly, but advancing she was. She regarded me, and her row of razor-sharp teeth was in full glory. The bait plopped once again, and she went for it. Something stirred in her. She champed the bait. She fought against her opponent’s wishes, refusing to relent her gnash. In a rage and probably sick of this tug of war, she careened towards us, body-slamming us with sheer might. The entire cage quaked and all of us fell back.

Momentarily all was quiet. The Great White Shark then retreated to calmer waters.

It’s hubris to think we have outsmarted her. No, I think she’s simply tired of us.

Nature’s pool of true-blue cyan. To see it in person is a privilege. Þjófafoss, or Thjofafoss in English, is the epitome of ethereal beauty. Only via a 4×4 jeep is ingress to this site possible. Once on foot, I totter along the gravel-laden road to get to the vantage point. Þjófafoss is an extension of the 230-km Þjórsá, Iceland’s longest river. The river itself runs from the glacier Hofsjökull, winding through gorges along its way. It now powers a hydroelectric station — as such the gush at Þjófafoss will never again be as mighty as it once was.

And if the abyss is blue, then the silence is golden. Nary a person from another tour group is in sight, as if this place is sequestered from the world.  Only the echoes of water crashing are heard. Up northwards Búrfell the mountain overlooks the waterfall like a sentinel.

However transcendent the view is, its history is sinister. Thieves were drowned in the waterfall as punishment.

Plumes of mist billow like smoke from fire, the rugged terrain swathed in brown resembling a village pillaged and raped. Silver streaks of water weave through the expanse hither and thither. This is Haukadalur, a geothermal field home to over 40 hot springs, mud pots and geysers. It is also where the famous Strokkur and Geysir lie.

Strokkur is perpetually ringed by hordes of visitors conspicuous in their colourful outfits. Their smartphones and cameras poised in mid-air, the visitors try to outsmart nature by timing the next eruption.  While Geysir is dormant and hence left abandoned, Strokkur is reliable. Eight to ten minutes, that is the clockwork interval.

The scalding water bubbles, like potion brewing in a witch’s cauldron. The ripples gain in intensity. A rumbling. This is it. The visitors ready their fingers and steady their devices. From the boiling mud pot a short spout of water never rising to its potential is ejected — a false alarm. The water ebbs and disappears into the mud pot. Sighs from dismayed visitors echo through the air.

And then, without warning, another eruption. Forceful and soaring up to 40 metres in height, the jet of scalding water gushes in an upward trajectory, its foamy white fleetingly blending with the clouds above. Cheers and peals of applause ring out. The geyser has given the spectators what they came for. A sulphuric tinge perfumes the air.

The visitors amble away as new ones replace them and stake their territories.