When selling bootleg books didn’t work, the boy turned to begging for food. He looked 12 and was still perfecting his pity pitch.

After four days in Siem Reap (and another week in Sihanoukville), I got used to saying no to child sellers and beggars. I read enough articles to know giving them money does more harm than good:

Coming from the country of soccer is wonderful. From Zimbabwe to Vanuatu, you can be sure that your nationality will be instantly recognized – even loved – by the people you talk to. And that admiration will be instantly transferred to you.

Coming from the country of soccer is horrible. Especially if the wounds of defeat are still gushing blood. Or if, like me, you understand piddles about sport.

In one of the least-traveled islands of Papua New Guinea, you can find virginal beaches, expert-grade diving and surfing, back-flip into an emerald river, and feed a class of friendly eels.

A raw, challenging bush hike that (almost) anyone can do.

The Highlands of PNG is the farming heartland of the country, where produce is grown and flown to the coastal zones.

Here’s a quick look at how Highlanders grow and prepare their food.

And so life ordained that our stay in the inhospitable city of Port Moresby in Papua New Guinea would be associated (and spiced up) by a host without peer: Rob Sajko.

Two hours into the sailing trip, Dave, the divemaster, brought out the pedophile jokes.

He had already riled the Irish on board (“Your body is 80 percent water, except for the Irish, which are 30 percent alcohol”) but was still several hours from touching on race (“Why is Stevie Wonder always smiling? He doesn’t know he’s black”).

It was, to be sure, an alarming start to a three-day cruise around the Whitsunday Islands.

There were no naked people at Vancouver’s Wreck Beach, but there was a greying hippie feeding seagulls and a friendly bearded fella named Cloud.

This would have to suffice as a taste of this naturist mecca, where in the summer, thousands gather wearing nothing but a smile.

We happened on this notorious beach by chance: the Museum of Anthropology at the University of British Columbia was charging $14 a person, a few notches above the limits of reason for budget travelers.

After a day in Antigua Guatemala, you realize that your beautiful bride has been lying about her virginity.

You first lay your eyes on her, her unspoiled cobblestone curves, her plump plazas, the pastel blush of her houses, all seemingly unsullied by men. Then it hits you: is that a McDonald’s?