This piece won the 2013 Guardian Travel writing competition!

You can tell a lot about a country from its telephone directory (Sorry Bruce). The Cook Islands’ attempt is equal parts life companion, exercise in democratic accountability and historical record. The opening pages deal not with Aardvark, Mr & Mrs A and their mammalian namesakes, but with what to do in case of a cyclone or tsunami. As if the first thing that crosses the hapless visitor’s mind on hearing of an impending watery death is “now where did I put the phone book again?”

Journeying on a few pages, the casual reader discovers the number for directory enquiries, though essentially this connects only to a Telecom employee sat in a room with nothing more than a phone and a copy of the very same tome. So, not much help if you can’t find the number you’re looking for, but significantly more useful if you’re stuck in a cyclone and happen to mislay your phone book.

D is not for Driving Instructor

You won’t find any driving instructors in the classifieds section. Their services are not required: the Cook Islands’ driving test lasts but a few minutes, during which time the successful applicant need only negotiate a handful of left turns at a speed not exceeding 40kmh. Those who pass are handsomely rewarded with a licence that is temporarily valid in New Zealand, a nation where an inability to turn right may prove to be significantly more problematic.

But what the phone directory lacks in driving instructors, it makes up for in democratic transparency, by listing the personal phone numbers for every member of parliament. Thus, disgruntled Cook Islanders can dial prime minister Henry Puna with their tales of woe. I struggle to imagine the UK adopting a similar approach: “Dial 0800 DAVE and tell the PM exactly what you think of him”.

Mastering Marsters

Leaving Rarotonga behind at last, on our journey through the phone book, we arrive at sections for each of the 12 other inhabited islands. Several are so small, so isolated, that their entries warrant just a page or two. Tiny Rakahanga has just 39 phones, while even tinier Nassau manages only 24.

Ring any of the numbers listed for Palmerston island and you’re likely to be answered by someone called Marsters, speaking to you in English with a distinctive West Country lilt. Marsters is the only name in town on Palmerston. All of the island’s 52 inhabitants are descended from one man: English adventurer and procreator extraordinaire William Marsters. He arrived in Palmerston in 1863 with a couple of wives in tow. He added a third soon after and went on to father 17 offspring over the next 30 years, teaching them to speak English with what sounds like a Gloucestershire accent. More than a century later, hundreds of Marsters live in the Cooks, and elsewhere in the Pacific. Even the Queen’s Representative, the de facto head of state, bears the name. Naturally, he’s in the phone book, too.

My Rarotongan beach house isn’t quite the epitome of tropical bliss I had hoped for. I can see no coconut palms swaying gently on the warm breeze from the veranda, nor feel cool sand between my toes as a fiery Pacific sun drops below the horizon. The infinity pool hewn out of volcanic rock and fed by a gurgling waterfall is noticeably absent too. The estate agent made much of the “sea views”, though “sea glimpses” would be a far more accurate description. You see, my beach house fronts not a strip of pristine white sand, but a strip of pristine black tarmac: the runway for Rarotonga International Airport.

Stunning runway views

So close is my abode, that when we dine in the evenings, we do so not by the light of an overhead lamp, but by the pulse of the wingtip strobes of the planes taking off outside. Because Raro lies distant from the places where most of its visitors live – Australia and New Zealand – international flights tend to arrive at anti-social times, wrenching Lucy all too frequently from contented slumber and compelling her to scream “Oh-my-God-it’s-going-to-crash-into-the-house-and-we’re-all-going-to-die”, as the roar of reverse thrust engulfs our plucky home, bending the windows and shaking the walls. Even with earplugs, shuttered windows and the bizarrely comforting drone of a ceiling fan, the primordial fear stirred by the scream of a giant mechanical monster dropping out of the sky inches from one’s bedroom is sadly undiminished.

Not exactly Heathrow

Perhaps “airport” is too-strong-a-word: it’s little more than a large two-roomed shack with a duty-free shop attached. There is a raised area where a sprightly septuagenarian by the name of Papa Jake deftly plucks a ukulele, welcoming new arrivals and wishing safe passage to those departing for other shores. The tower, which at four storeys high is easily the tallest building on Rarotonga, moonlights as a lighthouse on stormy nights when a cargo ship is due in port. And between planes, children can often be seen playing rugby on the grassy lawn alongside the runway.

The jetblast

At the eastern edge of the airport, a small lane winds its way through a flower-speckled meadow, separated from windsock and landing light only by the most meagre of fences. Here, on a couple of evenings a week, a small crowd gathers in the hope of experiencing Rarotonga’s most elusive and unusual tourist activity: the Jetblast. If the wind is favourable and the pilots amenable, the departing plane eschews its usual taxi and heads instead for the small gathering on that small track. At the last minute it turns sharply, scything a wing over the edge of perimeter fence and readying for take off. Brakes are released and engines unleashed, catapulting the plan down the runway and into the sky

The result, for the gaggle of expectant faces a few short metres from the plane, is akin to a dust storm in a wind tunnel. With hairdryers. Lots of hairdryers. A tsunami of wind washes over them, toppling scooters, bicycles and any humans too arrogant or foolhardy to grab hold of something. At times, it sounds – and looks – pretty terrifying, but it’s actually a lot of fun. Perhaps having an international airport for a neighbour isn’t so abysmal after all.

Top tips for a jetblast

1. Go to the airport and grab a copy of Air New Zealand’s flight schedule. This way, you’ll know what times the flights are going.
2. Check the weather forecast. If you want to jetblast, you’ll need a westerly wind.
3. Not all jetblasts are created equal. The bigger the plane and the heavier the load, the stronger the jetblast. The king of jetblasts is the flight to LA, which leaves on Saturdays, just before midnight.
4. If the plane is anything smaller than a 777, don’t bother. Less jetblast, more jetpuff
5. Wear eye protection. Sunnies, a motorbike helmet or even a snorkelling mask will suffice. Alternatively, turn your head away or close your eyes. Do not look at the engines.
6. Don’t take an expensive camera with you
7. Hold on to something
8. Don’t park your scooter too close unless you want to lose your deposit. Too close is further away than you might think.
9. Don’t go if it’s raining. Unless you enjoy the sensation of several thousands needles simultaneously stabbing you, that is

The view through the windshield of my campervan is a disheartening one. The glossy videos fed to us poms by the tourism authorities say much about the wild natural beauty of Australia, but little about the built environment. The Bruce highway from Brisbane in Southern Queensland to Cairns in the North threads its way not through an outdoor paradise, but a seemingly endless parade of charmless towns, mining projects, oil refineries and sugar mills.

Urban sprawl

It grows worse as we leave the Bruce at Maryborough and head for the coastal enclave of Hervey Bay. The city limits are announced not by signs welcoming us to Australia’s whale watching capital, but by billboards touting directions to the nearest McDonald’s, Hungry Jack’s and Red Rooster. Neon-lit supermarkets, plastic strip malls and grubby warehouses jostle for position with an impressive array of fast food outlets serving your favourite slab of deep-fried woodland creature. It all feels not unlike that other former colony across the Pacific.

Bulging waistlines

The similarities don’t end there. Forget any notion you have of a nation of super-healthy sun-worshippers. Like the US, Australia is fat. Really fat. Down under, 63% of adults are overweight and almost 30% are obese, with the prevalence of obesity increasing faster in Australia than in any other industrialised nation. So great is the problem that is costing the country tens of billions of dollars a year in lost productivity, disability, premature death and health complications.

It isn’t hard to see why: the portion sizes are huge. Arriving in the town centre late at night, we ordered a small portion of “gourmet calamari” from the only place that was open, but were served a sizeable hunk of battered something atop the largest, sweatiest, most unappetising mountain of chips I have ever seen. Fuelled by hunger and sensing a challenge, Lucy and I set to work. Half an hour later, and despite having roped in two bemused passers-by to help us, the mountain stood resolute, unbowed and uneaten.

Watching whales

The following day, we rose early and headed to the port for a day of whale watching. In contrast to the ugly urban sprawl of the town, the bay itself is replete with natural beauty. This shallow, warm and predator-free haven is one of the best places in the world to spot humpbacks. Returning to their summer feeding grounds near Antarctica after a (Southern hemisphere) winter spent breeding in warmer, tropical waters, hundreds of humpbacks stop over for a few days in Hervey Bay, calves in tow. These giants of the sea are the fifth largest animal on the planet, growing up to 15 metres in length and weighing as much as 45 tonnes – equivalent to about 11 elephants (or 3 Australians).

We are told that we won’t be disappointed with the spectacle on offer. We aren’t. As the morning mist clears, we begin to see several puffs of what looks like steam on the horizon; within minutes, fins and flukes surround us. Humpbacks, despite their colossal bulk, are the most acrobatic of all whales. And so our pod proves to be. For what seems like hours, they slap their flippers and lob their tails, they fluke, spyhop and breach just metres away.

Eventually, the cetacean playtime is over and we head for shore, elated at what we have witnessed. As we approach the port, one of the staff mentions that an adult humpback can eat its way through over a tonne of krill a day. About the same as a large portion of Aussie chips, I expect.

Welcome to Australia?

The 737 thundered to a halt as we touched down on Antipodean tarmac and braced ourselves for the shark infested waters that lay ahead: the shark infested waters of Australian border control. Within moments of disembarking in an unseasonably sunny Sydney, we were confronted by the country’s notorious biosecurity barracks. If you dare to bring so much as a piece of fruit into the country (or – as we discovered – fill in the form in red ink), prepare to face their wrath.

Already pining for the white sands of Rarotonga, we hired a campervan and journeyed northwards along the vast coastal expanse from Brisbane to Port Douglas in Queensland. Despite being a path well-trodden, we managed to dodge the hoards of lobster-pink, Foster’s-fragranced British backpackers as we surfed, swam, sailed, snorkelled and kayaked our way through the national parks en route. After the obligatory koala hug at Lone Pine Sanctuary in Brisbane, we began our trip with a ramble through the Glass House Mountains (gnawing on some outstanding Wasabi Cheddar at Maleny cheese factory) before surfing ‘til we dropped in middle class Noosa and kayaking through the idyllic water-lily-sprinkled Noosa Everglades in the south of the state. We joined the crew aboard the Iceberg for a sailing adventure around the Whitsundays and dipped in cavernous plunge pools carved out by spectacular waterfalls in Queensland’s UNESCO listed Wet Tropics to the north.

Things that can kill you…

It’s no mean feat to find an Australia guidebook that doesn’t begin by boasting about the number of ‘deadly and dangerous’ creatures inhabiting the world’s largest island. The country is home to some of the world’s most notorious natural killers. By land there’s the inland taipan: the world’s most venomous snake, notoriously deadly funnel-web spiders and the prehistoric cassowary which can disembowel you with one swift kick (though we were disappointed not to spot any of these magnificent birds on a walk in Etty Bay). Meanwhile, silent assassins in the form of Irukandji jellyfish, saltwater crocodiles and great white sharks lurk in the water, the former of which treats you to ‘feelings of impending doom’ while momentarily paralysing you with excruciating pain.

Devastating though the rare human attacks have been, great while sharks are responsible for an average of 1 fatality per year, snakes have killed 41 people since 1980 and the last reported funnel web spider fatality was in 1981. But the number of fatalities involving these critters is miniscule compared to the vast swathes of entire species that us Homo sapiens have – either directly or indirectly – wiped out.

Predictably – as is the global phenomenon – early settlers were the first culprits, hunting out some truly magnificent megafauna in the imposing shape of the Diprotodon (giant wombat) and short-faced kangaroo (excellent display about these beasts at the National Museum of Australia). Later came the demise of the Tasmanian tiger. But it’s more recent ill-advised conservation decisions which have put Australian wildlife on the map for all the wrong reasons.

Amphibian Assassins

As a pint-sized figure hopped through our campsite in Port Douglas (and we’re not talking about Kylie Minogue here), we were reminded of Australia’s most famous bio-control fail: the rotund, warty-skinned South American cane toad. Originally introduced from Hawaii to Georgetown, Northern Queensland, in the 1930s, cane toads were released to keep tabs on the insect pests attacking the region’s precious sugar cane resources, but thanks to the deadly toxin that they emit to deter any creature that dares to have a pop at them, their populations boomed and spread across at least three states costing millions of dollars and wiping out numerous native species in parts of Australia. Their tale is so notorious there’s a cane toad museum dedicated to them and the local pub invites punters to bet on cane toad races (mind you, Aussie’s will bet on anything), not to mention the fact that they’ve inspired a Hollywood blockbuster (the trailer alone is well worth a watch)!

Meanwhile, when it comes to human death, the biggest killer in Australia is that fearful creature called… heart disease. And with gargantuan portion sizes and bargain priced fast food outlets on every corner in an otherwise prohibitively expensive country, it’s easy to understand why.

We’d be lying if we didn’t admit to feeling nervous about the prospect of an early-season Irukandji jellyfish whilst snorkelling in the Whitsundays or anxiously checking whether that spider in the campsite bathroom was of the benign variety… but it’s really us humans who should top the Australian deadly and dangerous hit list.

“Steve: get the bags. Hail a cab. We’re going to make a run for it”. It’s not the sort of thing you hear every day when you check out of a hotel, but I can tell from the look of alarm on my colleague’s face that it’s a serious request. I decide it’s best to do as I’m told. I grab the bags, stride out of the air-conditioned lobby into the sticky humidity of a South Korean morning, and jump in to waiting cab. Twenty seconds later, my colleague follows suit, hotly pursued by a crimson-faced reception manager yelling something unintelligible in Korean. The taxi door slams, the tires squeal and we leap off up the road towards the airport, enveloping the angry Korean man in a cloud of exhaust smoke. Not for the first time this week, I feel like an extra in a Bond film.

The name’s Bond, Stickman Bond

As we speed towards the airport, I reflect on the events of the past few minutes, as well as the events of the past few days. I’m in no way surprised that our relationship with the hotel ended as dramatically and suddenly as it did. Over the last week, the front desk staff members have excelled themselves at crafting an experience entirely divorced from any Western notions of hospitality. On check in, for example, I was presented with both a room key and large circular retractable tape measure. On enquiring what the tape measure was for, I was directed to a sign depicting the Amazing Adventures of James Bond: Stickman Edition.

In this thrilling tale, Stickman Bond discovers a fire in his room and, instead of heading for the nearest fire escape, hooks one end of the tape measure to a nail on the wall, ties the other end around his waist and hurls himself out of the window. Staying on the 14th floor, I wasn’t particularly inclined to replicate Bond’s endeavours should the alarm be raised, instead resolving to stay and fight any blaze with the luxury accessories the hotel had thoughtfully provided: a tub of hair pomade, a bath towel for somebody one eighth my size, and a pair of children’s slippers embroidered with the phrase “we wish you a suitable stay”.

The World Conservation Congress

Five minutes since leaving the hotel, and we’re so obsessed with furtively glancing at the taxi’s rear-view mirror, expecting our red-faced adversary to roar into view, that we almost miss the colossal bulk of the International Convention Centre, our home for the past few days. Along with 8,000 other conservationists, we’ve been on the island of Jeju in South Korea for the World Conservation Congress, the largest event of its kind in the world, and the self-styled “Nature Olympics”.

We’ve been running a workshop for which we bought together leaders of community-based marine conversation projects from around the world. Some of them had never got on a plane before and seemed to regard the endless escalators and security scans of the convention centre as something of an urban playground. I wasn’t able to establish what they thought of the remote control toilets, with knobs to set the temperature, angle and pressure of all manner of nozzles secreted within the bowl. Though they did seem pretty impressed with a day-trip we took on an actual submarine!

A natural wonder of the world

One of the reasons Jeju, South Korea’s largest island, was chosen to host the WCC is the island’s strong association with nature. Over the past decade, this volcanic outcrop, 64km off the southern tip of the Korean peninsula and less than two hours by plane from Seoul, has had an array of prestigious honours bestowed upon it by environmental organisations. In 2002, the Jeju was designated a Biosphere Reserve by UNESCO, before being listed as a UNESCO World Natural Heritage Site in 2007.

A couple of years later, UNESCO awarded Global Geopark status to nine geological sites, making the island the only place in the world to receive UNESCO’s triple crown. And most recently of all, Jeju was named as one of the 7 natural wonders of the world, joining illustrious company like the Brazilian Amazon and Cape Town’s Table Mountain.

Evil lairs and erotic theme parks

As our taxi speeds on to the airport, the imposing bulk of Mount Hallasan, one of the Geopark sites, rears up ahead of us, whilst a second, the Manjang-gul Lava tubes, spreads out beneath us. A hollowed-out, extinct volcano and the world’s largest subterranean lava tunnels: both hauntingly, dazzlingly beautiful; both prime real estate for your common or garden Bond villain. But spectacular though the island’s natural beauty undoubtedly is, it’s somewhat diminished by the built environment, and especially by the island’s prized collection of some of the world’s most bizarre and outlandish museums.

There is the Africa museum, housed in a life-sized replica of Mali’s Djenne Mosque, a chocolate museum, a trick art museum and two (yes, two) Teddy Bear museums. Here, you can see Neil Armstrong land on the moon, Michelangelo sculpt Adam and Charles and Di tie the knot, all in teddy-bear form. Weirdest of all is Loveland, an erotic theme park and sculpture guardian. Stop by for sex-education films and to fumble with hands-on exhibits like the Masturbation Cycle. I jest not.

Never say never

After what seems like an age, our taxi finally draws up at the airport and we breathe a collective sigh of relief. Then, just as we move to pay the driver, a car screeches to a halt behind and several soldiers jump out. Fearing the worst, we frantically hatch a plan to escape across the heavily fortified demilitarised zone between South and North Korea in a hovercraft. Thankfully, the soldiers run off in the other direction, evidently late for their plane. The hovercraft will have to wait. Never say never, though.

Rarotonga, Cook Islands. Saturday morning, 2am. We’re heading back to our hostel after another night out when, out of the darkness, an individual brandishing an illuminated red wand unexpectedly leaps out in front of our taxi, forcing us to stop. Momentary panic that we’ve accidentally strayed on to the runway of the nearby airport is replaced with a deep unease at the realisation that the vaguely menacing figure is, in fact, a policeman. Our driver lowers her window and the policeman leans in. “Are you sober?” he asks. “Of course”, she replies, more than a hint of a slur in her voice. “Great. Carry on then”

That’s a breathalyser check, Raro-style. They usually don’t go that far, in fact. But this week, the island is hosting the Pacific Islands Forum, so security has been strengthened. Sort of. The Forum, a meeting of the leaders of 16 Pacific countries including Australia and New Zealand, has had the island buzzing for weeks. But it’s not but meeting itself, so much as its mystery guest, widely rumoured to be US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, that’s really piqued the islanders’ interest.

So far I’ve seen three signs gifting Mrs Clinton free ice cream, two offering her food and even one proposing a “Free QF”, which I’m reliably informed stands for “Quick Fruit Juice”. See what they did there?

The size of Swindon, only much, much nicer

Mrs Clinton’s visit is a big deal for this small island nation. The 15 islands of the Cooks cover a total land area of just 240 square kilometres. This is the same size as Swindon, but there the comparison thankfully ends. The main island of Rarotonga only has three roundabouts and none of them are magic. There are no traffic lights or international chains. The nearest MacDonalds is around 3000km away. And the tallest thing in the capital of Avarua is a coconut palm.

But though the islands themselves may be tiny, they are speckled across a vast swathe of majestic South Pacific ocean. The land part of the Cooks may only be the size of Swindon, but its sea is more than eight times the size of the UK. This huge splash of seemingly endless blue has a wealth of threatened creatures in need of protection. That’s what I’m doing here: scoping out my PhD research, arranging research permits and completing my Divemaster (with, shameless plug, the amazing Dive Rarotonga) ahead of my main fieldwork season in 2013.

It’s also, in part, what Hillary is doing here. Earlier this week, at the opening of the Forum, The Cook Islands announced the creation of the world’s largest marine park. At 1.1 million square kilometres, the park will cover an area larger than France and Germany combined. That’s a lot of Swindons.

Pacific Islands Forum Opening Ceremony

Now, as someone who specialises in marine parks, I could hardly miss out on that opening ceremony, could I? And so it was that Lucy and I found ourselves sneaking in as part of a delegation of school children draped in the royal blue of the Marshall Islands (a country, I’m ashamed to say, that I’d not previously heard of).

Things started off innocuously enough. Each of the leaders came into the arena atop a wooden chair borne by eight Cook Islanders. All that changed when, towards the end of the procession, a flash of red and a nasally “G’day how are ya?” heralded the arrival of Aussie PM Julia Gillard. As she entered the arena, someone in the audience decided to gave a passionate, impromptu rendition of Waltzing Mathilda, and within seconds, everybody had joined in. (Incidentally, who knew there were actual verses? Four of the little blighters!)

For a while, things returned to normality: a succession of soporific speeches sparked off a Mexican wave of nodding heads around the arena. And then Henry Puna arrived. Henry Puna is the Cook Islands Prime Minister, and I think I love him. On a previous encounter at a night market a couple of weeks earlier, he’d given me a scone with jam and cream (it was a cheese scone, but this isn’t the Great British Bake Off, so I forgave the faux pas). This time around, he went one better. Instead of a dry speech, he whipped out a mike, grabbed a young women from the crowd and duetted with her on a song welcoming everybody to the Cook Islands. Something else you wouldn’t find in Swindon.

It should be the perfect evening stroll. The powder-white beach blazes in the moonlight. The warm waters of the Indian Ocean tug softly at my feet. A gentle breezes whispers among the palm fronds overhead. But the 400m tranche of Kenyan coastline that stretches before me is liberally sprinkled with all manner of shady characters.

I stride purposively out onto the beach, sending a smattering of startled ghost crabs scurrying for cover. Almost immediately, a local dealer sidles up and enquires if I would like to purchase some of his finest marijuana. I politely decline and stride on.

Seconds later, I am ambushed by a trio of young girls, as stealthy as they are scantily clad. “Hey handsome” they screech in unison “you want massage plus?” Not enthralled at the prospect of a “massage” with added gonorrhoea or syphilis, I twist free of their claws and make a successful break for the protected confines of my hotel.

After six days of academic conference, I am to spend tomorrow on the hunt for a different kind of man-eater altogether: the fabled lions of Tsavo.

The man-eaters of Tsavo

During the building of the Kenya-Uganda railway through Tsavo in 1898, 135 workers were dragged from their tents at night and devoured by two hungry lions. The beasts were eventually killed and turned into floor rugs but their legacy lives on today: the lions of Tsavo are far more ferocious and cunning than their cousins in Kenya’s other national parks, not to mention much harder to find.

The big five

The following day, I rise at 4.30am and amble back along a now deserted beach to meet the safari minivan. With characteristic Kenyan efficiency, the van goes nowhere for 90 minutes. But we eventually depart, bouncing our weary way along the dusty, rutted highway, before arriving at the park entrance around 8.30am.

At 14,000 square kilometres, Tsavo is the largest national park in Africa and roughly the same size as the entire country of Montenegro. It is a haven for an astonishing array of wildlife, including the so-called big five: elephant, lion, rhino, buffalo and leopard. During a pre-safari briefing, our guide suggests we might see two of the five if we are lucky, but we have almost no chance of finding the famous man-eaters. Undeterred, we remove the van’s roof, assume the wildlife spotting pose and roar off into the vast wilderness.

Scanning the arid savannah a few minutes later, I spot what I think is a zebra with sunburn. Cue a slew of terrifyingly predictable “what’s black and white and red all over” japes from the rest of our party. The zebra, it transpires, has merely covered himself in the deep red earth of the park to provide respite from the heat and the ticks.

After this encounter the sightings come thick and fast: elephants and zebras, giraffes and buffalos, gibbons and ostriches, warthogs and antelopes. But no lions. We continue to spot amazing wildlife into the late afternoon, but the man-eaters remain stubbornly elusive.

Mud hole!

As we are about to head for home, the van’s radio crackles into life; lions have been spotted. Our driver whips the van around and sets off at breakneck pace. We speed down a dusty track with clouds of red dust billowing behind us, obscuring the landscape from view.

Then disaster strikes: in his haste to find the man-eaters, our driver attempts some ill-advised off-road manoeuvre and lands us in a mud hole.By the time we are extracted by the park’s tractor, the pride has moved on, leaving the bloody remains of a hartebeest carcass to maniacally cackling spotted hyenas and gargantuan lappet-faced vultures. Just when we think all is lost, one of our group spots something under a tree. It is two female lions. We have found our man-eaters at last, though it’s something of an anticlimax. They hardly move and studiously ignore us for the most part.

We bounce back along the rutted highway to the hotel and I ready myself for the beach once more, hoping that the man-eaters lying in wait will have learnt something from their feline counterparts today.

Mount Kinabalu, Borneo | Day 22

Eau de Tiger balm fills the air having been used in extreme quantities in a desperate bid to soothe our legs which are protesting against even the smallest of inclines today.

Yesterday we proved that, despite much advice to the contrary, it is possible to scale Mount Kinabalu in a single day (8 hours 40 minutes to be precise) and to avoid having to spend the night in a cold, damp and hideously overpriced (£150!) dorm room at Laban Rata, 3/4 of the way up the peak.

Having booked our day passes on the phone in KK the day before (no, you don’t have to turn up at Kinabalu National Park to do this, simply call the Kinabalu Parks Office on 6088-889098), we rose bright and early from the very homely Kinabalu Mountain Lodge (just outside the national park – much cheaper), bundled large volumes of glucose-laden snacks into our packs,  paid the fees and were introduced to our 4 foot 8″ guide for the day (complete with golf umbrella) who proceeded to follow us up and down the mountain like a loyal hound.

The first 1.5km of the walk was kind. Gentle inclines were punctuated with sets of 10-20 steps, lulling us into a false sense of security. As we got higher (and the 0.5km markers became dishearteningly further apart) the  gradient became progressively steeper and our limbs progressively achier! After only 4km, the relentless slope made my muscles burn and I cursed Steve’s ridiculously long legs, propelling him up the mountain in front of me. I began to wonder whether I’d be able to reach Laban Rata, let along the summit as the paths became rocky, slippery and irregular, preventing any momentum from being gained.

Laban Rata checkpoint

After what felt like 2.5 hours on a travelator, we reached Laban Rata, the check point 3/4 up the mountain where most hikers stay overnight (in the aforementioned extortionately priced dorms), before ‘summiting’ at dawn. There we were treated to a fleeting glimpse of the spectacular summit through the clouds (along with high praise from the other guides, impressed by our pace!) motivating us to continue up the next stretch: a relentless 700m stretch of steep steps.

It soon became evident that the ten minute pause at Laban Rata was enough to make our legs cease up completely and for the first 200m, every step became a battle: mind over failing body.  Steve started to feel the effects of the increasing altitude and became dizzy and short of breath every time he tried to speed up. Our training hadn’t quite prepared us for this section; we had to slow to a snail’s pace to have any hope of continuing.

The rope phase

Above the vegetation line now, we had to haul our weary limbs the final 2km across sheets of shimmering granite, with a sheer drop below. It was a huge relief to give our legs a break as they’d pretty much given up at this point. 800m from the summit, the rain started and at 100m intervals, our guide threatened to take us back down but succumbed to our disappointed faces. A breathless Steve nearly gave up 300m from the summit, suffering badly from the altitude (at 6’4″, he was at much higher altitudes than me and the guide) but there was no way I was letting either of us stop now.

AT LAST!

After a final scramble up steep boulders, we made it! All our exhaustion vanished as we stood, elated, at the highest point in South East Asia! Not only had we scaled the peak in 4 hours 40minutes, we had the entire summit plateau to ourselves as nobody else had reached the checkpoint in time to summit that day( beats following a trail of 200 people queueing to reach the summit at dawn in my book). It was at this point that our guide (who’d clearly arrived at work that morning expecting to spend the entire day accompanying a typical rotund, velour-tracksuit-clad American tourist to Laban Rata) informed us he’d had no food or drink all day and urgently needed water. A celebratory picnic ensued before our rather rain soaked but very proud 4 hour descent.

Kinabalu in a day: the checklist

1. Make sure you’re prepared. Train beforehand (enough to comfortably walk for 8 hours on undulating terrain).
2. Call Kinabalu Parks Office park office (6088-889098) a few days before you want to climb to reserve a 1 day pass.
3. Get to the park early – there’s paperwork to complete and you’ll need to reach Laban Rata by 11am to be allowed to continue to the summit in a day.
4. Stay nearby (but it’s cheaper to stay just outside the National Park). We’d highly recommend Kinabalu Mountain Lodge which can be reached by public bus from KK.
5. Take plenty of water and high energy snacks.
6. Don’t overpack. We needed a t-shirt, a jumper and a light waterproof each.

Kuching, Borneo | Days 14-16

Of orangutans and idiots (part 1)

Our skiff skims effortlessly across the placid surface of the South China Sea, the wind it creates providing a welcome reprieve from the suffocating heat of the day. Off the starboard bow (that’s ahead and right to you landlubbers. Yarr!) the silhouette of Bako National Park, blurred by the intense heat, begins to solidify. Muted, indistinct shapes rearrange to form a jagged, emerald green junglescape of breathtaking beauty.

As we round an impossibly photogenic sandstone promontory, a dazzling sandy bay opens up before us. The boat slows to a crawl and we splutter our way down a narrow, mangrove-flanked channel, before disembarking at a rickety jetty incongruously emblazoned with the words “Bako National Park” in metre-high lettering.

Bako National Park

Gazetted by the British in the dying days of colonialism, Bako is the oldest national park in Sarawak. Its 27 sq. km  are home to 40 species of mammal, 24 species of reptile and 200 different birds across every type of major ecosystem in the region. There are deserted beaches, pastel-hued cliffs, brooding mangroves, vine-draped jungle, and kerangas, a metallic moonscape studded with insect-eating pitcher plants. Bako may not be as plant-rich or as brooding as its older sibling Taman Negara, but it has good looks, charm and wildlife by the bucketload.

Fiddler crabs wave oversized pincers at bashful females, hermit crabs hide in plain sight, long-tailed macaques munch mangos and cause mischief. Bearded pigs sniff out their sustenance in the undergrowth and huge monitor lizards sunbathe on fallen trees, whilst azure-blue Asian fairy bluebirds dart energetically overhead. But not all the wildlife in Bako is harmless.

The lesser-spotted Englishman

Deep inside the park’s rainforest, we happened across a resplendent silver lizard about the size of a forearm. As we crept nearer, the author, with characteristic clumsiness, planted his left foot squarely into a nest of fire ants. The understandably angry little fellas were roused into a stinging frenzy and “bugger, balls, arse”, the distinctive call of the lesser-spotted, inappropriately shod Englishman, reverberated around the reserve. The same call was heard again later that evening on a night safari chock full of spiders, scorpions, pit vipers and yes, more fire ants.

Macaques and proboscis monkeys

We awake early the next morning to what sounds like a party on the roof of our rustic jungle lodge. Bleary-eyed, we stumble out of bed and on to the veranda to find a troop of long-tailed macaques launching mango stones at the roof of our lodge and drinking cans of Tiger beer. We decide to take a sunrise hike along the edge of the sandstone cliffs. After about 10 minutes, we hear some crashing in the tree branches behind us and wheel around to discover a troop of proboscis monkeys. We stand rooted to the spot, spellbound by these curious creatures with their absurd noses and sex-addict tendencies until we hear a much louder crash in the undergrowth.

10 bob-a-nob

The cretinous Muscovite with the mail order bride lumbers into view, jabbing a colossal finger skyward and repeatedly grunting “minkey, minkey”. I resolve to resurrect the 10-bob-a-nob campaign as soon as I return to the mainland, prefixing the final word with a “K” to ensure that any would-be headhunters know exactly whom to target.

Kuching, Borneo | Days 14-16

Borneo has more than a few things to cause the hapless traveller discomfort. First, there are the leeches, bloodthirsty little vampire worms that scale your boots and sink their mouths into your skin. Once locked on, they gorge themselves on your blood, growing to many times their original size whilst pulsating in time to your heartbeat.

Second, there are the headhunters, and I don’t mean of the vacuous HR variety. Cranial detachment has been an important part of indigenous culture in Borneo for more than 500 years. During WW2, the British even encouraged tribesman to decapitate invading Japanese soldiers, paying the princely some of 10 bob (50p) for each noggin duly removed.

Then there is the Palang, an implement not for the faint-hearted. In certain indigenous peoples, this rod of bamboo, bone or hardwood is driven through the penis at 90 degrees, purportedly to increase the sexual pleasure of a female partner. Downsides include infection, death and a pebble of chalk-like calcine on each end of one’s Palang, deposited by the flow of urine.

And if leeches, headhunters and penile accoutrements weren’t sufficiently troubling, then there is coiffured 80s has-been Rick Astley too, in both classic Rickroll and lesser known Together Forever varieties.

In Borneo, as elsewhere in Malaysia, traveller discomfort tends to increase with both clumsiness and height, two qualities with which the author is particularly well endowed.

In cities, lighting cables at night markets are strung like garrotte wires at neck height, whilst low hanging tin roofs offer up unparalleled opportunities for a spot of DIY trepanning. In jungles, spine laden palm branches and snaking tangles of tree roots provide similar chances to lacerate one’s forehead or faceplant leeches.

Borneo

But enough about impressive feats of physical ineptitude. Back to matter in hand. Malaysian Borneo arcs across the northern part of the Island of Borneo. Indulge me in a tortured metaphor and imagine it were a Neapolitan ice cream. On the left is the chocolate state of Sarawak; on the right, the strawberry of Sabah. Between the two is Brunei, a thin, largely pointless sliver of bland vanilla (no alcohol; plenty of lashings for wrongdoers).

To get to Borneo, we’d travelled from Taman Negara through Melaka (mmm…satay) and Singapore (Asia-lite, with an equally bizarre fondness for Astley), before hopping across the South China Sea to Kuching, the capital of Sarawak.

Semenggoh Wildlife Rehabilitation Centre

If ASDA ever launched a range of nature superstores, they’d almost certainly site the first at Kuching: the area boasts an amazing array of wildlife adventures at absurdly low prices.

So it was that we caught, the morning after arriving, a local bus (1RM; 20p) to the Semenggoh Wildlife Rehabilitation Centre (3RM; 60p), one of only four orangutan sanctuaries in the world. At 635 hectares, this forest reserve is too small to fully support the 26 ginger apes that call it home, so rangers supplement their diets with daily food rations placed on specially constructed platforms in the forest.

In a safety briefing before the morning feeding session, the park manager warned the 50 or so assembled tourists against using flash photography. This, he cautioned, would cause the great apes to retreat from view, or more worryingly, to attack. He showed us some particularly graphic images of injuries to human heads, torsos and legs to underscore his point.

An hour later, and towards the end of the session, Ritchie, the dominant male,  made a rare appearance. As we were marvelling  at his luxurious coat and outstanding cheek pads, an obnoxious middle-aged Russian with a dangerously young Thai bride elbowed his way to the front and promptly set off his camera flash. For a split second, it seemed as if Ritchie might charge him (and so impertinent is the Russian, that I’m certain a large part of the crowdwas silently egging him on), but the great ape instead turned his back and ambled off into the forest.

Show over, we left the centre elated at the wildlife we had seen but frustrated with the tourists who lack the mental capacity to disable a camera flash.