THERE is nothing like Arlington in Britain, a national cemetery for all who have died in the service of their country. London has St Paul’s and Westminster Abbey, with their grand memorials, and the great graveyards of endless war dead in Flanders, Changi and Normandy. But Arlington is all those, and more.

Once a farm, it belonged to Robert E Lee, who was offered the command of the Union Army at the start of the American Civil War but whose loyalties lay with his home state of Virginia instead. He  became the leader of the Confederate Army, fighting against overwhelming odds time and again until a major defeat at Gettysburg turned the tide against him.

Lee left Arlington at the start of the war and it taken over by the Union Army as a training camp and fort to protect Washington DC. His wife’s beloved rose gardens were turned into a burial plot for Union soldiers, and it is hardly surprising that the family decided not to return after the war. It was later bought by the government to become a national cemetery.

Here you will find John F Kennedy and his brothers lying side by side, as well as military dead from every war of the past 150 years, through Korea and Vietnam to both world wars and now Iraq and Afghanistan.

The 24-hour Honor Guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier have worn a rust-stained path in the stone paving with their boots  as the dead keep coming.

If you have been in Afghanistan, you have some idea of the scale of military operations there, with massive camps and endless lines of equipment. For Britain, it is the biggest operation since World War II and even for America, it is stretching the budget to breaking point.

But, for most of us that war seems to be very far away. A visit to Arlington, to see the poignant sight of yet another coffin being lowered into the ground, brings it all too sadly home. Arlington has run out of space and is expanding. If the politicians who send men and women to war were asked to dig the plots here, perhaps we would have fewer wars.

AMERICAN Michael Boyer (pictured) has the glorious title of ‘Rattenfanger’ in the town of Hameln (better known to us as Hamelin). It means ‘Rat-Catcher’ but he is, of course, the brightly arrayed Pied Piper who famously led the town’s children away after not being paid for doing the same to the rats. At least that’s one version of the fable. Boyer can give you 30 more and obviously enjoys throwing himself into the slightly sinister role. ‘I started in one direction but am now a cross between Clint Eastwood and Jack Nicholson,’ he says, eyes smiling.

So what is the truth of the legend? ‘The 130 children did disappear,’ he says. ‘We don’t know what happened to them. They might have been killed, or led off into slavery. One researcher even claims they were abducted by aliens.’

With almost as little history behind it is the Hameln dish of ‘Rats Tails’, created 40 years ago in the town’s Rattenfangerhaus restaurant. The dish, cooked for me by owner Christina Hartlieb-Fricke, has a bewildering number of ingredients, involving a stir fry of peppers, mushroom, onions, olives, corn, tomato, mustard, ketchup, Worcester sauce, Tabasco, red and white wine, Port, gravy and cream.

Fortunately, the rats tails turn out to be strips of pork loin which are fried in butter and flambéed in Calvados before being poured into the sauce, the whole then served with even more cream, puff pastry rats, rice, salad and fried potato. Ach mein gott! More spectacle than culinary delight, it was surprisingly tasty.

The Rattenfangerhaus is one of several remarkable building making up a charming Altstadt that takes you back 400 years. Built in 1602, the Rat Catcher’s House stands near the Stiftsherrenhaus of 1558, with its ornate carvings of David, Cain and Abel, and Christ, and the Leisthaus of 1589, now the town museum.

Even prettier is Osnabrück, where my favoured guide was French-Canadian Jean-François Pelletier who leads wine tastings in Das Wein Cabinet. Aiming to wean locals off their beer (good luck with that), he introduced me to the wines of Markus Schneider whose straightforward labels proclaim his mission to fight back against the New World upstarts. ‘Black Print’ is a mixture of six grape varieties, including Merlot, Syrah and Cabernet Sauvignon that is very dark. Full-bodied and complex (2007 vintage), with a long finish, it was everything I didn’t expect a German wine to be, especially for Euro11.

Osnabrück also has a two-star Michelin restaurant, La Vie, run by Thomas Bühne and his Sri Lankan wife. Fans, who include former German Chancellor Gerhard Schroder, expect a third star soon. The clean, crisp modern decor of la Vie reflects the incredible attention to detail in the plating, with tiny flowers, swirls of jus and iced foam.

If that sounds over-fussy, I apologise: the result is perfection. ‘I believe in having the same focus for everything on the plate,’ says Bühne. ‘It’s not a matter of putting some beef in the centre and then adding some vegetables. The quality of the vegetables – I have some really good local suppliers – is just as important.’ Where does the name of his restaurant come from? ‘Cooking is not part of my life, it is my life,’ he says.

Tradition and innovation also meet at Axel Leysieffer’s cake shop where chilli chocolate bars are a best-seller and ‘Himmlische’ (heavenly) chocolates taste just as good as the name. Overwhelmed by rich tastes, I really enjoyed a traditional baumkuchen (treecake) which takes its name from its many layers of pastry.

And what can I say about Brazilian Tomas Carlos, who has just opened a tiny coffee shop selling coffee beans infused with grappa in a top-secret process he perfected himself? Certified non-alcoholic by the local police breathalyser team, they are the perfect way for drivers to enjoy a post-meal coffee and grappa in one drink.

That’s an innovation we can all rejoice in.

FROM the 300-metre Eureka Sky Tower, I can see all of Melbourne spread out below me, shadowed by dark rain clouds sweeping in from the horizon. Neon-bright towers blazoned with the logos of insurance and accounting firms – Ernst & Young, Aon – dwarf those raised to the gods of earlier ages: a sturdy 1950s bank, St Paul’s Cathedral. Beyond sprawl suburbs and neat parks, the whole cut by freeways and the mud-lazy Yarra River.

I am looking down on the iconic Melbourne Cricket Ground, funky Federation Square and, beside it, the copper-domed Victorian train station, a layer-cake of red brick and cream-yellow stone. Past the station come the trams, spilling tiny people onto crowded platforms to dot the neat rectangular of broad streets and disappear into narrow alleyways.

From on high, the streets of Melbourne, built wide enough for bullock carts to turn in and now busy with cars and trams, look like its lifeblood. Down on the street, you soon realise it’s actually those more human-sized alleys, once abandoned to decay, litter and worse. Now alive with cafés, bars and arty boutiques, a Lanes and Arcades tour opens up this maze of speciality shops, restaurants, vintage fashion and art galleries with a real European feel.

‘Melbourne is famous for its lanes and arcades but visitors are unsure if they can go down some of the passages,’ says Fiona Sweetman of Hidden Secrets who runs this daily walking tour. ‘The laneways are a bit unusual but they aren’t scary.’

That depends how you define scary, of course. My Hot Chocolate Shot at Chokolait in the Hub Arcade (see box) is thick enough for a spoon to stand up in and would frighten a heart surgeon or a dentist silly.

The Hub is one of several beautiful arcades in the city centre of which the most dazzling is the Royal Arcade. Black and white tiles line the floor and bay windows, overseen by Gog and Magog, two seven-foot English-made giants that chime the hour.

Not quite that tall, but equally fearsome-looking, is my next guide, Harley Davidson rider John Karmouche. An ex-army major, he spent 22 years in the Royal Australian Armoured Corps but left in 1998 to run a Harley tour company. Like many a big biker, he is really a gentle soul who shows his artistic side through photography. A pillion seat on his big Harley is the perfect way to see the city and its suburbs.

A mere 15mins after leaving the centre, we are parking up by the beach in the lovely seaside resort of St Kilda on a promenade lined with cafés and upmarket boutiques. Like Melbourne’s laneways, St Kilda slumped for a while with a reputation for drugs and brothels but it is now firmly back in fashion.

John says that his customers are all ages and all types but the one thing they have in common is that most of them have never been on a motorbike in their lives. Bikers like myself are usually even more unsettled by riding pillion so, after handing my leather jacket back to John, it’s time to re-assert my masculinity by setting off for a pub crawl.

Come the night, I plunge back into the alleys with a guide from Deck of Secrets. Originally designed as a set of playing card style guides to Melbourne’s bars, restaurants, shopping etc the guides are now inevitable available as iPhone apps and take in Sydney, New York and other cities worldwide.

Melbourne has some 1,500 bars and clubs, many lurking behind anonymous doors, and Deck of Secrets’ Marinella Padula is the expert on them (most frequent question: ‘Can I have your job?’). We do a tour of several drinking spots, from trendy 30 Meyers Place (‘the first true lane bar in Melbourne’) and The Wine House (‘good wines by the case’) to the tiny, retro Von Haus (‘wall lined with old shaving mirrors’). We went on to some others but my notes become indecipherable at this point. Must have been the dim lighting, or perhaps I was still dizzy from that Sky Tower view.

The dark (and milk chocolate) side of Melbourne.

Chocolate is in danger of taking over from coffee as the addiction of choice for locals. Here are three places for some serious choc action:

Haigh’s Chocolates, Block Arcade: Australia’s oldest family-owned chocolate manufacturer has been making chocolates since 1915, so they are really starting to get the hang of it. They still start the process from raw cocoa beans, and make the final product mostly by hand. (Tel: 03 9654 7673, www.haighschocolates.com.au)

Koko Black, Royal Arcade: Famous for its Belgian dark chocolate in chilli and cinnamon flavours, Koko Black is an Australian institution. They have several shops around town but the one at Royal Arcade is the prettiest. A good place to sip champagne if you prefer to eat your chocolate after choosing from the dizzying range. (Tel: 03 9639 8911, www.kokoblack.com)

The Chokolait Hub, Hub Arcade: Although relatively new (it opened in June 2007), Chokolait won instant popularity with its Hot Chocolate Shot. Brave souls can also try a form of Russian Roulette with the Chilli Hot Chocolate. Served on a scale from one to ten, you can go off the scale if you think you’re hard enough and get your name on the chalkboard for posterity. (Tel: 03 9639 6188, www.chokolait.com.au)

After dark

One of the features of Melbourne’s alleys is the graffiti. As Banksy says: ‘TV has made going to the theatre seem pointless, photography has pretty much killed painting but graffiti has remained gloriously unspoilt by progress.’ Local photographer Matt Irwin has some great photos of the alleys at night, and their artwork. www.mattirwin.com

I flew to Melbourne with Qantas (Tel: 020 8600 4300; www.qantas.com) and stayed at the Sofitel Melbourne (Tel: 03 9653 0000, www.sofitelmelbourne.com.au).

www.australia.com

www.visitmelbourne.com

WAS it only last month I was saying the Caribbean has little to offer once you get past the rum bar and white sand beaches; that it’s hard to distinguish one island from the next?

The Dominican Republic has gone straight into my list of favourite places – and that’s without going anywhere near its famous beaches. Whitewater rafting in the mountains, horse-riding to a waterfall, dancing merengue until late at a carwash (!), visiting historic colonial buildings or a fascinating tour of the world’s largest cigar factory – it’s been an interesting week.

Even better, it’s the week of carnival and fun is in the air. The scanty costumes of Rio are in short supply but ornate devil masks hide identities and encourage good-spirited misbehaviour.

But back to that carwash. It’s literally a car wash and one or two massive SUVs are actually being washed. However, there is a bar attached, which sells food as well as drinks, and has a mega TV screen showing basketball and baseball – with which the island has had a long term love affair.

It also has a dance floor, to which couples gravitate as a song off the distorted sound system grabs them. A bit of salsa, a bit of bachata but mostly it’s merengue that gets the hips moving. It’s hard to imagine anything more remote from the Sunday morning ritual of car washing in the suburbs of Britain. I wonder if there are some franchise opportunities? Maybe not.

That evening, the things turn even seamier in a local club where a bachata/reggaeton amalgam takes over the dance floor.

Next day, energy is rebuilt with some local food and drink. ‘El sancocho’ is a hearty soup of meat, potato, plantain, veg and rice. ‘La Bandera Dominicana’ (the Dominican Flag) is a tricolour of white rice, kidney beans and meat. Roadsides stalls sell addictive chicharrones (pork rinds).

Also instantly addictive is Morir Soñando (Die Dreaming), a blend of orange juice, ice and condensed milk. And that’s before we get into the local coffee, rum and ‘Presidente’ beer.

To think some people may be wasting their time away lying on beaches.

www.godominicanrepublic.com

See the original of this post at www.natgeotraveller.co.uk/blog

I GOT into Tashkent at 4am in the morning. Had I woken up at that time, I would not have been at my best, so perhaps it was a blessing that I had not slept on a cramped economy flight via Turkey, after a 7am start in London.

One other flight from Moscow had just got in and it took nearly an hour for the bags to start arriving on the conveyor belt. Then it was 20min queue at customs while bags were checked, paperwork filled out for current currency, camera and computer. In duplicate, of course, with a solemn warning to make sure that I kept a (loose) copy in my passport to surrender on departure. One more thing to worry about in a strange land.

Then a rip-off taxi ride through deserted streets at 120kph to my hotel. No seat belts, of course. As the cliché goes: the most dangerous part of any flight is the car journey at either end. Tashkent lies on the ancient Silk Road connecting Europe and Asia and, while the scenery and difficulties remain the same, the dangers faced by travellers remain ever-present.

The worst thing about travelling can be the travelling. But, while an airport and the road to it can tell you many things about a country (I can assume Uzbekistan is bureaucratic but surprisingly modern) it doesn’t tell you everything. And maybe nothing of importance.

A few hours’ sleep and a good breakfast under my belt, I start walking around to get a better feel for the place.

I had forgotten just how Asian Uzbekistan is (my last trip was five years ago) but the mix of faces holds a strong seam of Mongolian features.

I am also reminded of the liking among young women in the former Soviet Bloc to dress in bling: they all look as if they are about to go to a party.

My hotel is in an area full of government buildings, museums and galleries, so there is a strong police presence: a policeman everywhere I turn (I’ve yet to see a policewoman). But they look bored, rather than threatening.

They certainly ignore me but everyone else is friendly and open, keen to show off what English they have (which is always better than my Uzbek or even Russian).

Walking back to my hotel, I see a team of workmen on a high-rise block under construction. Throwing bricks to each other, none are wearing the safety boots and hats you would see at home. No scaffolding, either.  A UK healthy & safety inspector would have a heart attack.

I think again about that taxi ride. It (and the construction workers) highlights how much responsibility for day to day life we have given over to government regulation. Whether that’s a good or bad thing is another matter.

But it is fascinating to come to a country in the former Soviet Union and be reminded of how much more freedom they have in such areas of life than we do in UK.

Such insights are the best thing about travelling.

MOST VISITORS to Roatan arrive in the cruise port of Coxen Hole, a rather unfortunate name for a fairly unprepossessing dock, dominated by chain-link fences and swarms of tour buses.

Things improve the further you get from the harbour, and that’s something (with no disrespect to the quirky Afro-antillean charms of Coxen Hole) that’s true of the whole island.

The waters are incredibly clear, with visibility up to 50m.

As part of Honduras, the original banana republic, Roatan is at the heart of the country’s belated attempt to jump on the Caribbean tourism bandwagon.

That laidback attitude might have handicapped its progress so far, but it remains its greatest attraction to those wanting to get off the beaten track.

Well, that’s not strictly true; its best attraction is undoubtedly Roatan’s position on the edge of the Honduran continental shelf, making it a paradise for fish and one of the best diving destinations in the world.

Almost every known species of Caribbean marine life, from microscopic organisms to the mighty whale shark, inhabit its waters. Temperatures never drop below 25C (77F) year-round, encouraging coral, sponges and every kind of reef life.

The waters are incredibly clear. Look one way and you see massive shoals of tiny, colourful fish flash by. Look the other way, towards the drop-off, and you see cruising sharks, manta rays and dolphins. And the reefs are a short distance offshore, accessible to snorkellers as well as divers.

If you don’t have a close encounter with dolphins on the reef, Roatan has a dolphinarium of its own. Anthony’s Key Resort is home to the Roatan Institute of Marine Sciences, which preserves 13km of reef.

After watching a show of dolphin acrobatics, you get the chance to swim in shallow waters with these intelligent mammals, under the close supervision of their handlers. Whatever stresses you arrive with, you’ll leave them behind here.

It’s perhaps no surprise to discover that a Caribbean island’s greatest attraction is its waters, and Roatan is ringed with hotels and guest houses providing all sorts of sporting activities.

Swimming, jet skiing, sailing and water skiing offer the sort of hectic backdrop that makes a quiet rum punch by the pool all the more enjoyable.

If the rum does bring out the Hemingway in you, you could try a bout of sports fishing. There are fighting bonefish just offshore, and blackfin tuna, wahoo and trophy-size marlin lurk in deeper waters.

The interior is a lush tropical forest of palms, ferns and orchids which, again, is being opened up to tourists and particularly ecotourism.

Carambola Botanical Reserve offers winding trails through the sheltering trees, and a sheer cliff that is a protected area for iguanas and parrots. A good guide is essential to get the best out of the island and to be able to read the book of nature around you.

For example, Roatan is a source of the noni fruit, hailed as a wonder cure for colon cancer. The vile smell it gives off when it ripens makes you think even better of the scientists working on the drug.

If walking is not really your thing in the tropical humidity, try a horse ride, either along a forest trail or along a glorious white sand beach. It takes quite an effort to get to this former pirates’ retreat, so indulging in Caribbean clichés such as galloping along a beach at sunset seems well deserved.

THE JET-LAG wakes me at 5am and I rise to explore Macau, the quiet, rain-soaked streets already warm from the searing tropical day to come. Coming back to my hotel at 8am still befuddled by lack of sleep, I go in the wrong door and find myself in its casino. Windowless, it is buzzing as if it were still the evening before – no doubt for many inside it is. Blackjack tables with a HK$300 (£30) minimum are crowded with punters, the chilly air thick with concentration and cigarette smoke.

Some 97 per cent of this island city’s economy is founded on gambling, with casino taxes making up three-quarters of government income. Macau took in US$15 billion in gambling revenue during 2009, $5bn more than all of Nevada’s casinos, including Las Vegas.

Vegas, claiming to be unfazed by losing the gambling crown in 2007, has reinvented itself as the ‘adult entertainment capital of the world’. That was partly in response to the worry that gaming tables offer the perfect cash-rich environment to launder the proceeds of crime and attract drugs, prostitution and other evils. But the mainland Chinese government (Macau, like Hong Kong, is a ‘Special Administrative Region’ of the People’s Republic) is well aware of that, too, and Macau is also starting to diversify.

The world recession slowed but did not halt Macau’s casino and hotel building boom and, as China leads the way out of the economic downturn and also eases outbound travel restrictions on its famously gambling-mad population of 1.3billion, so Macau prospers. A 30km bridge linking Macau and the mainland with Hong Kong, costing USD $11billion and one of the world’s longest, started construction in 2009 and shows the ambition of the vision.

Every bit as ambitious but on a smaller scale, albeit at US$250million, is the House of Dancing Water show by Cirque du Soleil founder Franco Dragone. The jaw-dropping courage of its acrobats you might expect; the water tank holding enough water for five Olympic-size swimming pools you might not, nor the death-defying motorbike stunts. A shipwrecked mariner discovers an exotic Eastern land might sum up the rather turgid plot but hardly does justice to the spectacle on, er, whatever you call something that moves magically between diving pool and stage.

The House of Dancing Water is the centrepiece of the $US2billion mall-like City of Dreams, which has another Cirque du Soleil production, Zaia, as well as a regular free digital show called Dragon’s Treasure and a Hard Rock Hotel, among several others. The Ponte 16 casino of the Sofitel Hotel also houses a Michael Jackson display, including the cream leather rhinestone glove from his first Moonwalk on TV which cost the casino US$350,000. Although Macau may have a way to go before it meets the high standards set by the likes of Tom Jones or Penn & Teller in Vegas, cash is not in short supply

Nor is bling. The Wynn’s boutique Encore suites have their own massage rooms and mini cinema, while priceless art hangs on the public walls and a lovingly restored 19th century chandelier dominates its Bar Crystal, lined with Venetian glass mirrors. Sofitel Macau’s mansion has massive suites, such as the all-white Blanc Romance or, for those feeling even naughtier, the Black Galaxy with its black and sapphire blue décor.

Mandarin Oriental Macau, the only five-star hotel in Macau without a casino attached, offers a luxury shopping mall instead, where familiar names such as Louis Vuitton and Ralph Lauren occupy cavernous stores, ice-cold refuges from the heat outside.

Macau is also rich in culture, apparent in the Chinese Temples, colonial Portuguese churches and maze of crumbling apartments that make up its real heart. It is also apparent in its food, a strong traditional foundation recognised at the top end with nine Michelin-recognised restaurants. The historic Grand Lisboa (www.grandlisboa.com) is the only hotel in the world with three Michelin-starred restaurants under one roof.

Gambling usually means excess – as Las Vegas has proved so well – and the Michelin-rated Eight Chinese restaurant has a wine list so big I need two hands to lift it. Voted one of the best in the world, it is more easily browsed on an iPad – for that, indeed, is what you usually get.

The Hotel Lisboa’s three-star Robuchon a Galera (from celebrity chef Joel Robuchon) is also one of the most expensive restaurants in Asia, although a lunch menu of around £35 looks quite affordable in comparison to evening prices.

Fortunately, my tastes are simple enough and I’m happy to gorge myself instead on Lord Stow’s egg tarts, custard-filled pastry delight that are famous throughout Asia.

One of those Englishmen unknown at home (the ‘Lord’ was a nickname) but famous in his adopted land, Andrew Stow first started selling these variations on the traditional Portugese tarts in 1980. He died in 2006 but his sister Eileen and daughter Audrey carry on the family business. (www.lordstow.com)

Stow was probably a very wise man to decide to make his fortune in Macau from food.  The casinos run 24 hours a day, full of those who think they can make it from gambling. I always remember the casino manager who told me there was one guaranteed way to walk out of a casino with a small fortune: walk in with a large one.

LOCAL TIP

Alorino Noruega, Macau Government Tourist Office: ‘Try our Macanese food – a blend of Portuguese and Chinese cuisine. You will find dishes such as grilled African chicken (best with a peri-peri sauce), or fish cakes made from bacalhau (salted cod). Good Portuguese wine is cheaper than in Portugal, too, because of the low taxes here. Restaurants well worth a visit include O Porto Interior (2896 7770), Litoral (www.restaurante-litoral.com), O Manel (2882 7571), Fernando (www.fernando-restaurant.com) and Espaco Lisboa (2888 2226).’

TOP THREE THINGS TO DO IN MACAU

JUMP: The Macau Tower, at 233metres, is the world’s highest bungee jump. ‘Nuff said? You can also SkyWalk the edge if you are feeling very brave, or do a feet-first SkyJump on a wire just like a stunt man (or woman) in the movies. http://macau.ajhackett.com/

VISIT: The Macau Grand Prix Museum gives you a taste of the thrills at this infamous street circuit where the November Grand Prix uniquely features both car and bike races. F3 cars belonging to Ayrton Senna (the inaugural 1983 winner) and a very young Michael Schumacher (1990) take pride of place. The Motorcycle GP has been won by a British rider every year since 1998 (and all but three since 1981). www.macau.grandprix.gov.mo

SNACK: Lord Stow’s egg carts are a local, slightly sweeter variant on the Portuguese pasteis de nata. Famous throughout Asia, the recipe was developed by Englishman, the late Andrew Stow. The bakery on Coloane Island has a near-permanent queue but you will find an outlet in Macau’s Venetian Hotel too. www.lordstow.com

Cathay Pacific flies to Hong Kong four times a day from London Heathrow. www.cathaypacific.com

The Turbojet ferry to Macau from HK International Airport costs from HK$450 return. www.turbojetseaexpress.com.hk

I stayed at the Sofitel (www.sofitel.com) and Mandarin Oriental (www.mandarinoriental.com)

www.macautourism.gov.mo

I WAKE in the night, clammy with sweat, itchy with insect repellent. A branch cracks suddenly, falling to the forest floor near my tent. Monkeys howl. I gulp warm water, wonder if my bladder will hold until daylight, and pull my damp sarong about me as I toss and turn. This is the side of paradise they don’t tell you about.

But paradise it is and the soothing sounds of the tropical jungle – crickets, rain dripping from leaves – eventually lull me back to sleep. I am on Tiwai Wildlife Reserve in Sierra Leone and it is no surprise to be told the next day that part of the jungle soundtrack for Avatar, James Cameron’s 3D paean to ecology, was recorded here.

This forest-covered island, some 12 sq km in size, holds 11 primate species, some 135 bird species, rare butterflies and more than 700 plant species. To get to it, you drive to the back of beyond, then go on a bit. Five hours on the brand-new smooth highway from Sierra Leon’s capital of Freetown, through the bustling second city of Bo, then another hour on dirt roads past mud and thatch villages to the languid Moa River.

A short boat ride takes me to the island where malaria tablets, insect repellent and long sleeves and trousers are a prerequisite for comfort. In some corners of the world, happily, nature still rules.

However, a sunset river trip reveals little wildlife other than even more insects and birds flitting past in the gloom: a ‘woolly-necked stork’, a ‘woodpecker cormorant’. I do wonder if my guide is just making these names up. I also hear the island is one of the few places in the wild where you can find the pygmy hippopotamus, unique to Sierra Leone and Liberia. This solitary nocturnal animal, related to the whale, is rarely seen. Hmm.

Back at the campsite, another guest is a producer for BBC Wildlife, scouting West Africa for a potential new series. As he talks about filming that mythical pygmy hippopotamus, a faraway look comes into his eyes. Maybe it does exist.

The next day, guide Mohamed Koroma takes me into the jungle. We walk as silently as I can for an hour on paths through thick forest and see a solitary Diana monkey flitting high overhead, then a very noisy group of Red Colobus screaming abuse at us. All the discomforts of clammy heat and insect bites are forgotten for these magical glimpses of the real world, so far from our unreal world of the city.

Back in Freetown a few days later, I visit some even closer relatives at Tacugama Chimpanzee Sanctuary. Founder Bala Amarasekaran is another man with a passion for wildlife. The former accountant gave up his life in finance after adopting various orphan chimps, many of them abandoned pets, and his refuge now cares for close to 100. They are being rehabilitated into family groups, a difficult task given the abuse many have suffered. With an adult chimp being stronger than five men, they soon outgrow the cute phase.

Watching them being fed, the social interaction and gestures remind one inevitably that we humans share 95 per cent of our DNA sequence with these great apes. One family group is now living wild in the reserve, behind an electric fence but ready to be released elsewhere in Sierra Leone when the right area is found.

When that might be is difficult to say. Like elsewhere in the world, people want all the land for themselves. In a place with such corners of paradise as Sierra Leone, and with such great development needs, you can understand why.

Tourism is one way to make paradise pay – and hence remain unspoiled – and Dan Cockburn, senior manager for Exodus Travel’s Africa product, is upbeat about the potential. ‘One of our product managers went out for a holiday and was so blown away that he went back to set up a trip for us,’ he says. ‘Few countries hold such promise and yet have so little tourism and infrastructure.’

Well, OK, but let’s try to keep it our little secret a little longer. Yes, the war is long over and the country is safe and prospering. And, yes, the people are incredibly welcoming. But maybe we can still put visitors off if we just tell them about the insects, heat and animal noises at night?

Three other places to see in Sierra Leone:

Freetown Peninsula: A series of beaches line the peninsula, with Number 2 being most famous as the setting for a Bounty ‘taste of paradise’ advert. The sea is warm and tropical forest provides a picture perfect backdrop. There are some small fishing communities, while a few beach bars and some basic accommodation attract a few hawkers in places, but mostly you will have the place entirely to yourself. Why not research the different shades of sand on each beach, which varies from golden yellow to pure white?

Banana Islands: Stay in a hut on a deserted beach and enjoy a lobster supper before swimming under the stars in the warm waters of the Atlantic. Go fishing or snorkelling, or tour some of the historic remnants dating back to the slave trade.

Bunce Island: Tens of thousands of slaves passed through this British slave castle from 1670 until the end of the slave trade in 1807. Now a national historic site, you can see the ruins of the slave prison, watchtowers, dormitories, storerooms, and fortifications and take a guided tour that tells its moving history.

I travelled with Exodus (www.exodus.co.uk) who offer an eight-day Sierra Leone itinerary including flights with bmi (www.flybmi.com). The trip includes three nights in Freetown, one in Bo, two nights on Banana Island and a night in a wildlife sanctuary.

More at www.visitsierraleone.org

DID YOU KNOW? Sierra Leone was set up as a utopian community for freed slaves, giving women the vote in the 1790s, 100 years before New Zealand became the first other country to do so.

Guido craft shop

ARRIVING in Buenos Aires, you could be forgiven for thinking you were still in Europe. Graceful parks, apartment blocks and boulevards, the bustling citizens chasing style – you might be in Paris or Milan.

Look deeper and you’ll see a country with a great pride in its own culture; the steak houses, the wine bars and, of course, the tango salons. And the central Avenida 9 de Julio, claimed to be the widest avenue in the world and holding Teatro Colon, the world’s largest opera house, displays a taste for excess that is truly South American.

Tourist tours start in La Boca, the old dock area, where brightly painted corrugated iron buildings gave birth to Argentina’s iconic tango.

There you’ll find shops selling gaucho gear – leather saddles, rich woollen blankets, artistic silver and paintings.

There’s Argentinian leather jackets, wines from Mendoza, beef from the pampas – the vibrant markets recall the source of Buenos Aires’s wealth as a link between the country’s rich interior and the markets of Europe.

Overseas visitors explore shopfronts boasting the world’s luxury brands on the mile-long Calle Florida and Lavalle, enjoying the bargains to be had since the peso’s collapse from the heady days of its parity with the US dollar, while locals window-shop and remember happier times.

But everyone can afford a good steak and a fine Malbec wine, so the restaurants remain packed into the small hours – when it’s time to move on somewhere else and party.

Tango dominates the city. Buskers dance it in the shopping malls and the Sunday morning antiques market at San Pedro Telmo, while tourists leave city-centre hotels to watch themed cabaret shows.

What saves its integrity is that the dance is a real part of city life. Behind the tourist shows and the posters, deep in the heart of the neighbourhoods, real people dance tango for the sake of it, and nothing else.

The god of tango is Carlos Gardel and, while tourists make their pilgrimage to the romantic cemetery of La Recoleta to visit the grave of Evita Perón, locals – known as porteños – go to La Chacarita Cemetery to make sure the outstretched hand of his statue at its entrance always holds a smouldering cigarette.

Gardel is claimed by Uruguay – a one-hour hydrofoil ride across the River Plate (yes, that’s a big river) – but he was actually born in Toulouse.

Incidentally, they take their tango even more seriously on that side of the river; I was once refused lessons in Montevideo on the grounds I was only in Uruguay for three weeks.

Opposite Recoleta is the achingly wonderful café La Biella but, if you are on the tango pilgrimage, you’ll want to visit the Cafe Tortino, a famed tango haunt and ‘the oldest café in South America’.

This has become something of a self-conscious pastiche of itself, with waxworks of Gardel and writer Jorge Luis Borges.

Half a block away is the more relaxed Cafe Ideal. All are wonderful throwbacks to the city’s heyday, filled with glowing wood panelling, acres of mirrors and starched-linen staff of uncertain ages and unselfconscious elegance.

They are great places to enjoy a breakfast of cafe con leche y churros and will leave you with great memories, while making you wish you had seen BA in its days of glory.

Thinking you have just missed the party is arguably the best sign that you are in one of the world’s great cities.

Petra at the Bonorong Wildlife Sanctuary

I’M face to face with a bunch of Tasmanian Devils but I am keeping my nerve. Partly because I’m just a tough hombre, of course. And partly because they look very cute frolicking over a guide in Bonorong Wildlife Centre and nuzzling gently at her fingers.

Still, they are not the prettiest animals and their fearsome teeth win them few friends. ‘People will swerve their cars to hit one,’ says reserve manager Greg Irons whose passion for them (and all Tasmania’s other animals) is totally infectious. When I meet him he is entertaining a group of school-children, an important part of his hope to bring the Tasmanian Devil back from the brink of extinction.

Regular free talks in schools helping to adults, too, with the kids telling mum and dad what to do if they see a dead animal on the roadside. ‘With marsupials, when mum is run over, a baby will often survive in the pouch,’ says Irons. ‘So it’s important to stop and check and those first few hours will save it or kill.

‘They die very fast from stress. Keep them warm, dark and quiet – don’t look at them every five minutes. Don’t feed them cow’s milk – they’re lactose intolerant. Then give us a call. We get calls throughout the night, almost every night.’

The size of a small dog, the Devil is the world’s largest carnivorous marsupial. A shy animal that relies on bluff for defence, it is named for the spine-chilling call it makes at night when it scavenges for food. Its fearsome teeth are needed to crunch the bones of the carcasses it finds and it has an important role in cleaning up the environment.

However,  it now faces an even greater danger than speeding motorists. A highly infectious mouth cancer has been killing the animals, wiping out 95 per cent of the population in some areas. The cause is unknown and, although researchers made a breakthrough late last year in identifying the gene responsible, it is in danger of becoming totally reliant on refuges such as Bonorong in its fight against extinction.

‘Australia has the highest rate of mammal extinction in the world,’ says Irons. ‘Twenty-three mammals in 200 years. Four species that were on the mainland only a short time ago are now found only in Tasmania but most locals have never heard of any of them except the Tasmanian Devil – yet even they are still persecuted and misunderstood.’

Another refuge is the Tasmanian Devil Conservation Park, near the former infamous penal colony of Port Arthur. Owner John Hamilton says the population recovered from hunting by early settlers in the past but the effects are still to be seen: ‘The wild Devil population is suffering from genetic breakdown, a bottle neck indicating it rebuilt itself from a very small genetic base.’

No one likes to see such wild animals confined to a reserve but, with no cure or vaccine likely in the near future, buying time by isolating populations is vital. ‘The Devil is the wild is at risk and the Devil in captivity is safe. Our role is to breed healthy animals for release. Our funding comes from tourism, so tourism is vital for conservation.’

His goal is to learn from the best practise worldwide and turn the park, which he admits was lacking in the past, into a model for the future. The transformation in his thinking came from meeting zoo designer Joe Coe, who sketched out a plan on the proverbial paper napkin. ‘He had never dealt with anything so small but we have been working hand-in-hand with him on how to present wildlife,’ says Hamilton.  ‘He believes we have to learn to live side-by-side with nature rather than treat it as something exclusive: excluding people from national parks or nature from cities. I call it the post-green era of conservation where we don’t just save them in their natural environment.’

Returning a healthy population of Devils to the wild remains the goal.  ‘Not having such a high level predator allows weaker animals to survive, making for a much weaker species,’ says Irons. We need the weak and the sick taken out, which is part of what the Devil now does for us. Devils also kept the fox at bay by killing pups in their dens but, when they are the same size as Devils, the fox will win the fight. Now there are whole areas that are Devil-free. The fox is the most efficient predator on the planet after humans. If they get a foothold in Tasmania we’ll see mass extinction of species. I’d almost give up right then.’

Irons might say the words but you know his heart is not in them; his love for the Devil is too strong: ‘Devils can’t fight, can’t hunt, have the same top speed as a chicken and use bluff as a defence. They’re quite pathetic at looking after themselves. But their biggest problem is that they suffer from a lack of cuteness.’

Having seen them up close, that is one point I’d have to disagree with him on.

www.bonorong.com.au

www.tasmaniandevilpark.com

www.tassiedevil.com.au

This article first appeared in The Daily Telegraph’s Tasmania Guide.