
Stories from our crew of incurable wanderers — solo escapes, group misadventures and slow-travel epics from every corner of the map. Each one built around real tours you can go and book yourself.

I came to Panama looking for adventure. What I found was chaos, laughter, and one very angry peacock.

Five Global Hobo misfits. Nine days. Enough chaos, mint tea, and underwater encounters to rewrite what we thought we knew about Egypt.

Siem Reap nearly broke me. Then the temples, the water, and a woman named Sokha fixed everything.

I came to Jordan alone, unmoored, carrying only stubborn questions. The desert answered them slowly, in rust and salt and stone.

Muddy, lost, and grinning—a slow-travel ramble through Panama's beating heart, where infrastructure and jungle are locked in eternal argument.

I came to Tanzania for the wildlife. I stayed for the chaos, the kindness, and one very persistent mountain.

Five of us, zero shared language, infinite motorbikes, and the kind of meals you dream about for years.

We arrived in Cape Town with a loose itinerary and looser judgement. What followed was scrambling, penguins, wine, history, and one very honest conversation about our collective fitness levels.

Five Global Hobo crew members converge on Bolivia for adventure, terrible decision-making, and unexpected wisdom from a woman named Delphine's kitchen class.

We came to Peru for the sights. We stayed because the people, the food, and our collective ability to get hopelessly lost rewired something fundamental.

I came to Nicaragua for the volcanoes. I stayed for the screaming, the fish guts, and a meditation session that nearly drowned me.

Five solo travellers collide in Sri Lanka and decide to stay together. What could go wrong? Everything. What goes right? Also everything.

Chasing waterfalls and bad decisions through Ecuador's highlands, I discovered that the best travel stories involve equal parts adrenaline, humility, and finding your shoes at the bottom of a river.

We arrived in Taipei with vague intentions and left with dumpling-stained shirts, sore calves, and a collective obsession with bubble tea.

Five solo travellers, zero plans, and a week in Laos that rewired everything we thought we knew about group travel.

I came to Kenya looking for the hippy trail. Instead I found it was never really lost.

I went to Argentina looking for the hippy trail. I found it in a Buenos Aires kitchen, a Patagonian mountainside, and a ranch at 2000 metres where the only rule was not falling off the horse.

I arrived in São Paulo knackered and left it dazed. Brazil's after-dark scene isn't for the faint-hearted—or the sober.

Forget the whitewashed Instagram hell. I chased Greek nights through hidden coves, limestone vertigo, and a food tour that made me understand why Athenians never leave their neighbourhood.

I went to Guatemala for ruins and came back with singed eyebrows, a market nemesis, and the kind of story that demands a cold cerveza to tell properly.

I came to Tokyo seeking enlightenment. I found it in a noodle stall, a Mario kart, and the sweaty grip of a sumo wrestler's hand.

Budapest isn't a museum. It's a living, breathing, beautifully messy punk rock opera—and I nearly fell off a Segway trying to keep up.

I went to Bolivia for the views. I stayed for the chaos, the empanadas, and one truly terrible decision on a bike.

I went to Bali to write about adventure tourism. I came home questioning everything—especially my life choices.

Vietnam promised chaos. I didn't expect it to change how I travel entirely—or leave me genuinely terrified of going home.

I went to Kenya looking for answers in the dust. Found them in a giraffe's eyes, a dhow's sails, and a Land Cruiser that knew every pothole personally.

I arrived in Sydney alone and left as part of a crew. Here's what five days of group adventures taught me about this sprawling, beautiful country.

I came to Colombia for the beaches. I stayed for the people, the chaos, and the moment I nearly died laughing in a cable car.

I flew to India thinking I had it mapped. Then a cooking class, a market chaos, and a sunrise changed everything.

South Korea rewards the patient traveller: I discovered this crossing the DMZ, cooking with locals, and sailing between islands with no schedule to keep.

I went to Croatia thinking I'd tick boxes. Instead, I got lost, found strangers who became friends, and learned that the best travel stories smell like salt and regret.

Five strangers, one obsession with authentic Turkey, and a promise to skip every Instagram hotspot. Here's what happened.

I came to Luang Prabang for the temples. I stayed for the 2am noodle carts and the Mekong's secrets.

Five Global Hobo writers descended on Cape Town with a loose itinerary and no real plan. What followed was scrambling, penguins, wine, history, and one very honest mountain.

From Shanghai's dawn streets to limestone peaks that inspired Avatar, I discovered that the best China travel happens between the famous bits.

I came home to New Zealand to remember who I was. What I found instead was who I wanted to become.

Dubrovnik after sunset is feral. Here's what happened when I stopped playing tourist and started actually living.

I arrived in La Fortuna with zero plans and a dying phone battery. Three days later, I'd tubed a luminous river, survived a nocturnal jungle stalk, and learned to cook like a grandmother I'd never met.

I went to China expecting speed. Instead, I found myself learning calligraphy, eating my way through Shanghai's backstreets, and hiking Avatar mountains with a man named Dragon.

I came to Egypt chasing ancient ghosts. What I found instead was the living, breathing underworld that only reveals itself after sunset.

Three days chasing thermal waters, handmade pasta, and the ghosts of Pompeii. No filters. No bullshit.

I went to Uganda looking for enlightenment. I found tubes, rapids, mountain gorillas, and a cooking class that changed everything.

We came for the clichés. We stayed for the dingy bars, the Segways, the sunset yachts, and the kind of chaos that makes a story worth telling.

We arrived as strangers, scattered across three continents. We left as the kind of people who'd share a tent with each other again.

Lost in Antigua's markets, half-lost in Tikal's jungle, fully lost trying to bike Guatemala City. A proper adventure.

From Buenos Aires kitchens to Mendoza peaks, how one trip reminded me that the best adventures taste like butter and regret.

I came to New Zealand for the adrenaline. I stayed for the people, the wine, and one very steep waterfall.

We arrived as strangers. We left as the kind of people who'd share a long-drop toilet without awkwardness.

I went to Nepal for the peaks. I stayed for the people, the dal bhat, and one very awkward helicopter ride.

I came to Spain chasing Gaudí and left chasing sunsets. What happened in between was nothing like my spreadsheet.

I came to Bolivia looking for adrenaline. I left with a fractured rib, a newfound respect for Bolivian women, and plans to return immediately.

Cambodia teaches you that temples aren't just ruins—they're doorways. And sometimes the best part of the journey is the people sitting next to you on a night bus.

Seven days of overland meandering through Costa Rica's green heart taught me that the best travel happens when you're completely lost.

I came to Vietnam for the daytime clichés. I stayed for the night-time truths that no guidebook captures.

I went to Panama for engineering specs and left with mosquito bites, a sunburnt ego, and the kind of story that makes good people nervous.

I went to Malaysia for adrenaline. I stayed for the mangroves, the market vendors who adopted me, and one truly unforgettable night train.

A slow crawl through volcanic islands, limestone cliffs, and neighbourhood tavernas. No itinerary. No regrets.

Five dirtbags. One van. No itinerary. Welcome to Colombia where everything goes sideways in the best way possible.

I went to Portugal looking for normal. I found fado singers, river chaos, and a artist who paints like he's arguing with the city.

Between a summit attempt, wildlife carnage, and getting properly lost in Stone Town, Tanzania taught me that adrenaline and wonder aren't mutually exclusive.