Dan and Sarah

Entry into Malaysia from Singapore couldn't really have been any easier. Zero security checks other than a cursory passport glance, and no baggage search of any kind, something we've begun to accept as part of the world's more security concious stance. Clearly, this isn't something the Malaysian's deem to be an issue, and so within the hour of leaving the bus station in central Singapore, we were through immigration and wandering aimlessly around the streets of the southern town of Johor Bahru. We'd thought long and hard about making a stop in Malaka, some two hundred kilometres further up the west coast, but instead decided to skip straight through to Kuala Lumpur and spend the obligatory few days there.

As a country that has ninety percent of it's land mass immersed in tropical jungle, it's no surprise that Kuala Lumpur (or KL as it is known by the locals) boasts as many trees and open green spaces as it does skyscrapers. Previously a tin-mining frontier, it has now matured into an affluent capital where the resident Chinese, Indians and Malays mix in the workplace but maintain their separate beliefs and cultures.

With limited time, our aim was to take in some of the main sights, and so we headed out on our first night into the bustling markets of Chinatown and it's huge array of streetside cafe's where we sat to eat and take in the sights and sounds of this swarming area. The following morning, we were up early to head to the opposite side of town and the looming presence of the Petronas Towers, which up until 2004 was the tallest skyscraper in the world. These are the elegant headquarters of the national petroleum company, but the lower levels have been transformed into a huge six-level shopping centre to further entice the visitors. Instead of taking the lift up to the limited views from the bridge which spans the two towers, we headed across town to check out the city from the telecommunications tower.

With one day left to kill, we took a taxi fifteen kilometres out of the city to Batu Caves. After climbing the arduous two-hundred-and-seventy-two steps behind a giant golden statue to reach the jaws of the caves, we were a little disappointed to find a large and unimpressive rocky hole, complete with scaffolding, industrial lighting and a selection of the usual tacky stalls. Of the three caves which were meant to be on offer, two were out of action and the trip turned into a little bit of a waste of time. The saving grace came in the most unlikely form of the taxi driver who took us back to the city. This chap seemed a little unhappy with the country's policy of citizenship, and was only too pleased to tell us all forcefully about it. As a sixth generation Indian born and raised in Malaysia but still without the right to hold a Malay passport, this grieved him no end, and he ranted and raved about the way that many of the Chinese and Indians are given no respect in a country they've contributed to their whole lives. In fairness, we could see his point, but the way in which it was ranted to us only served to give us more reason to play along and not antagonise him further.

Leaving the city behind, we jumped a bus inland to the oldest official protected area in the country, Taman Negara National Park, covering an impressive 4,343 square kilometres. We began our journey with what seemed like a slightly excessive three hour boat ride down the Tembeling River to reach the base for our park exploration at the village of Kuala Tahan. Many exploratory trips run out of this small but steadily developing riverside village, and after our long days travel the only option left open to us on our first night was the evening Safari tour. Clambering aboard the back of our jeep, we were driven out into the darkness of the palm-oil plantations in the search of some nocturnal wildlife. We had the feeling that the sound of an approaching vehicle would only serve to scare away any resident animals, and our theories were duly backed up when we returned with nothing more than the memories of a large, motionless tree snake, a very fleeting look at a Tapir (small wild cat) and the humour of seeing a sleeping bird looking distinclty puzzled at having a bright torchlight shone in it's face while it tried to get some shut-eye.

The next morning we were up early to take a walk into the heart of the 130 million year old rainforest. Again, a short riverboat ride dropped us at our start point and the three of us, accompanied by a bunch of six other mildly strange tourists, made the ascent to the awaiting canopy walk. It's strange the things you tend to do without a moments thought when you're travelling, and walking along a few makeshift ladders, held together with rope and suspended one-hundred-feet above the ground is no exception. Althought the views weren't entirely unpleasant, you couldn't help but wonder whether the engineering was quite as sound as it should have been. Safely back on the ground, there was more trekking to be done into the hills, and the stifling ninety percent humidity was by now starting to take it's toll. A steady hour-long climb took us to the summit of Bukit Teresek and a couple of mediocre photo opportunities before it was time to turn around and complete the whole thing in reverse.

After a restful lunch on one of the floating barge restaurants which line the river, we headed off to an Aboriginal village to meet the Orangi people who reside there. The makeshift looking shacks built from raw materials such as straw, vines and collected timber create a startling realisation of how some people in this part of the world choose to live. The government have left these people to their own devices for a long time now, knowing that to remove them when they wish to stay would simply not serve any purpose, and the kids who run around with grins on their faces are testament to the fact that they are happy where they are. Admittedly, one young lad inparticular didn't take enough care to hide the mobile phone which proudly hung around his neck and managed to ruin the illusion slightly. We met a small family briefly, and were then told all about the history of the settlements in the area, their traditions and lifestyles. The tribes have finally begun to accept aid from the government in the form of healthcare and the small amounts that tourism brings, but other than this, generally live day-to-day by their own means. While here, we also tried our hand at using their primitive form of hunting weapon: the Blowpipe. Usually, the darts are laced with a poison and they aim the five-foot-long shooter at live animals, but we had to be content with normal darts and a small green stuffed duck. Myself and Jan came close, but it was Sarah who actually managed to spear the little fella and we haven't heard the last of it since.

After our couple of days in the wilderness, it was time for another almost full days travel to reach the highly recommended Perhentian Islands which lie twenty kilometres off the north-east coast. Composed of Pulau Besar (Big Island) and Kecil (Small), these are supposedly Malaysia's showpiece islands, and we were keen to check them out for ourselves and grab a slice of paradise. In truth, the rumours weren't far wrong, the sand at Long Beach on Kecil glistened white and the beautifully clear turquoise water lapped calmly at the shore. Without really planning to, we spent a relaxing six days here, grabbing some very standard beach-hut accommodation (dark, smelly bathroom, grotty bedsheets and an unlimited supply of Mosquito's thrown in for free!) and met a few equally chilled out travellers. Although it was mostly a case of bumming around and drinking the local amber nectar over sunset, we did abandon our laziness for a full days snorkelling around the bays, an experience which was slightly marred by the presence of several hundred small jellyfish which, according to our guide, had come to the area much sooner than was usual for the time of year. It was difficult to take much of what he said in earnest however, as after just ten minutes of leaving the first beach he'd managed to get himself and the boats 'captain' completely stoned and mostly incomprehensible.

Sooner or later though, we thought it was time to get going and the imminent arrival of our friend from home meant that we needed to get ourselves over into Thailand for what would hopefully be a merry reunion of island hopping...

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As the shuttle bus whisked us from the airport into the city of Singapore, I sat at the window expectantly searching for some recogniseable landmarks from my visit five years previously. Despite being proud of my general sense of direction and memory for places, this turned out to be futile, and as we arrived at our hostel in Little India I was left wondering whether I'd actually been here before at all.

Just forty minutes beforehand at the airport, we'd met Jan in a semi-emotional reunion (on Sarah's part obviously). As a long-time friend from home, we were pleased to have a friendly face joining us for our last three months of travel through Asia, and not for once have the usual "Where have you been? How long you away for? Where you from?" conversation.

Little India seemed to be the place for a decent hostel, and we found ourselves in a fairly pleasant establishment, once again amongst other like-minded travellers. The holiday was over, and we had to re-engage ourselves into full tourist mode. For our first day in town we thought we would just take a stroll around and endeavour to get our bearings. This proved to be fairly uneventful in all honesty, our efforts only really taking us as far as the a few of the more colourful markets, mosques and temples in Chinatown, and the various assortment of shopping arcades (a national obsession!) in Orchard Road.

That evening, we went with a large group from the hostel to the Night Safari, an extension of the zoo which is now rated as one of the best in the world for it's conservation work. This forty hectare site contains nine-hundred nocturnal animals of one-hundred-and-thirty species and made for a nice 'alternative' zoo experience. We took the three kilometre tram ride around the park, viewing (amongst others) deer, rhino's, giraffe's, sloth bears, and elephants, and then took to the walking trails to see the Tigers, Leopards and smaller rodents. Finally, there was the 'Creatures of the Night Show', which despite a couple of amusing moments, still needs a little work.

Singapore broke onto the world stage in 1819 when Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles arrived to make the island a bastion of the British Empire. This of course all came to an abrupt end in 1942 when the Japanese invaded during World War Two and continued to harshly rule the land. It was all over three years later of course, when the devastation of Nagasaki and Hiroshima at the hands of the Americans and their atomic bombs forced them to surrender, but in that time they managed to inflict considerable pain and suffering on the residents, with thousands of Chinese were simply killed rather than imprisoned. This part of Singapore's history is something that we were quite interested in, and so the next morning, we headed to the Changi Prison Musuem in the hope we could become informed.

Changi was the prisoner-of-war camp in Singapore where more than 100,000 Allied soldiers were incarcerated by the Japanese Imperial Army. The museum, which sits just outside the gates to the prison of today (still in use), depicts the struggles and treatment of these men using quotes, soundbites, and imagery from the time, showing how the constant struggle against humilitation, loss of freedom, hunger and disease became part of everyday life. We spent a good hour or so here reading the stories of inspiration and heroicism during a time of unthinkable adversity, and digesting the horrors that these men and women had to endure for three-and-a-half years. When anyone mentions WWII, first thoughts turn almost automatically towards the Nazi's, while the side of the war being fought on the other side of the world is largely forgotten about. This was a good insight into how events unfolded here.

While on this side of the island visiting the musuem, we thought we would take the opportunity to see something outside of the city and visit one of the surrounding islands. We took a 'bumboat' over the Pulau Ubin, a small island to the north-east of Singapore. Silly girls in skirts do not make for a nice afternoon pedalling your way around a small jungle island, and so we were condemned to trudging around on foot in ninety-eight percent humidity, something I think Jan (and her love for a trek of any kind) had secretly engineered to her advantage. The walk itself wasn't hugely entertaining, but it made a change from the high-rise towers we'd already grown a little tired of, and gave a little insight into the way the traditional people of Singapore lived. A large downpour about half-way through our stroll meant we had to take refuge under a rather handily placed shelter. It was here that we were approached by a dog sniffing around for scraps. No-one took any notice to begin with, but suddenly I noticed something a little disturbing. Namely, a large chunk of half-inch-deep flesh (about the size of a human hand) missing from just above his right leg, which left us with a confusing mixture of sympathy and revulsion. It was actually gaping open to reveal some of the little fella's inner workings, but he seemed to be wandering around as if there was nothing there. More importantly, we were all left wondering exactly what may be responsible for such a vicious attack, and made a qiuck retreat back to the jetty.

Today's Singapore is a thriving commercial centre, on par with many of the other major cities in the world. The modern office-blocks combined with old-style colonial architecture exudes wealth, while the amazing cleanliness simply adds to it's appeal. Ultra-modern train and tube systems carry its inhabitants on their journey, clad in designer-label garments and boasting the latest in mp3/mobile phone technology. The Chinese majority (76%) are Buddists or Taoists, with Chinese cutoms and superstitions dominating much of their social life. For Malays (14%), Islam is the guiding light, while 'Adat' (customary law) takes precedent at important ceremonies and event such as birth and marriage. Singaporean Indians (8%) generally come from the south of India, and bring many of their important customs and festivals with them. Expats (other foreigners from the UK or Australia) make up the other two percent, but are generally only a visible group if you visit the more expensive bars.

Back in the city for the evening, we went out for dinner with our room-mate, a rather deep and meaningful Canadian chap called Fuz. With us all feeling a little tired, we thought we would stick with Little India and search out a decent curry. This wasn't likely to be hard when every other doorway opens up to reveal an eaterie of some kind, and the one we chose actually turned out to be a particularly good choice, and for once stopped us harping on to foreigners about the niceties of Brick Lane.

For our final day in Singapore, we headed over to the tourist magnet of Sentosa Island. Stupidly leaving the camera battery on charge in the room meant we didn't actually get any photo's of this, but in fairness, this wasn't a huge problem. With attractions such as Underwater World, Sentosa 4D Magix and the Skytower to grab our attention, this is a haven for kids and families, but not really for people looking for anything overly interesting. We ambled around for a few hours, checking out the beaches (with their stunning ocean views of, er, tankers - this is one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world!) until the usual afternoon storm reduced visibility (and any mild enjoyability) to almost zero.

For our last evening, there was only one real objective. Getting ripped off, tourist-style, for a Singapore Sling cocktail in Raffles Hotel. Expecting something grand and alluring, we entered the hotel's 'Long Bar' to discover a saloon with monkey-nut shells all over the floor. The old-skool ceiling fans and dark wood interior give the place a distinctly Imperial feel, although we felt nowhere near as underdressed as we'd anticipated. Every table in the place was full of like-minded visitor's, sipping at their (eight quid!) bright-red Sling's and, probably like us, marvelling at how they'd fallen for it all. Knowing when it's onto a good thing, the staff can't even be bothered to make the drinks from scratch any more, and simply fill glasses from an industrial sized pitcher which has been pre-prepared 'somewhere out back'.

With our mission fulfilled, we headed on to Clark Quay and the more affluent part of Singaporean nightlife. Filled with restaurants, trendy bars and the odd club (Ministry of Sound to name but one), we headed for the riverside for dinner. Finally with some seafood-appreciating company in tow, myself and Jan indulged in an amazing platter of fresh Lobster, King Prawn, Shark, Seabass, Mussels and Clams. It may have been a little over budget (alright, probably alot), but it was worth every penny. The night continued with a few drinks in one of the many bars in the area, and a local band playing English and American covers with surprising success.

The vague memories I'd had of Singapore had been slightly reinforced, but I remember feeling much more awed last time than than I did on this occassion and perhaps that's down to the amount of similar places we've encountered in our seven months away from home. City-life had yet again taken it's toll on both our wallets and our patience, and so we took a bus out towards Malaysia the following morning in the hope we could find something a little less metropolitan.

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First impressions of Bali do not necessarily match up to the preconcepted ideas of a tropical paradise that one might expect. Luckily, we were spared these first impressions by the fact that we flew into Denpasar International airport late in the evening and were whisked briskly to our accommodation in southern Kuta. As we strolled past the large pool, flanked by it's array of stone-carved elephant statues and flowering Frangipanni trees, and entered our relatively lavish room, we were oblivious as to what lay just outside the hotel gates.

The inclusive early morning breakfast only served to lull us into a false sense of security even more, and after a couple of hours of relaxing around the pool, we decided to venture out into town, unaware of the mayhem that awaited. Usually, taking a flyer from a roadside promotional representative isn't a problem, and within moments we had been approached by just such a fellow and each taken one of his proferred leaflets. Big mistake. In the pleasant Balinese manner, our names were asked and given politely, chit-chat of where we came from was exchanged, and it was only then that he hit us with the 'big sell'. The cards we had unwittingly accepted were actually 'gamecards' which of course made us the lucky winners of any number of prizes. Beaming smiles, handshakes and congratulations took up another five minutes while I urged Sarah to walk away with sly eye gestures. Of course, to cash in on our prizes, we were obliged to go with the enthusiastic rep to his newly renovated property for a zero-obligation tour. Truly suckered but not out-done, we eventually managed to drag ourselves free as tales of families-to-feed and bills-to-pay were heart-wrenchingly delivered in dramatic style.

Wandering further up the main drag, it took only seconds to be harrassed yet again, this time to come and look at the goods on some of the street-sellers stalls. This was something that would for the next thirteen days become part of everyday life. Unfortunately for the people here, ninety percent of local livelihoods rely soley on tourism, and since the terrorist bombings of 2002 which killed 202 people (with 300 injured) the Balinese tourism industry was almost ruined overnight. Just as they thought they may again be getting back on their feet, a second spate of suicide bombs killed 26, and the people were yet again despairing as visitor numbers dwindled. With Australian holiday-makers accounting for the majority of this tourism, and their government still warning not to visit Bali, the island's economic recovery is likely to remain in jeopardy for some time to come. An abundance of stalls still line the street however, far too many for any sole business to really flourish, and all selling the same items of rip-off Billabong, slogan t-shirts and local wares. This is a similar problem throughout the island. If one stall sells stone carvings or paintings, every stall in that street will follow suit, flooding the market. If one bar has a sunday night singer, the rest get a similar kind of entertainment for the same night.

Unfortunately, the whole industry suffers and not just the streetside businessmen. Drivers, who make their living from giving tours or "Tranport?" from the visiting tourists stand around offering their services with mock steering-wheel gestures throughout the day and night in case just one group should require it. Local restaurants and food-stalls sit mostly empty while the plusher eaterie's clean up, and a truly amazing number of taxi's meander up and down the streets, tooting you as they drive past to inform you that they are free. Most are free, and that makes for alot of tooting, none of which actually persuaded us that we needed a ride.

It took us a good couple of days to adjust to the persistant hawking and become accustomed to the varying selling techniques being displayed. Kuta itself is a reasonable size town with a couple of surf-beaches, markets, and a large water park. The road we inhabited however was dominated by the huge 'Centro' shopping mall, an Americanised air-conditioned building containing the usual suspects of KFC, Krispy Kreme, and strangely, Top Shop and Marks & Spencer. We had intended to spend a couple of days here and spend the rest of our time travelling around the island, but after discovering that buses have become a rather difficult way of getting about since the lull in tourism, we decided to use Kuta as our base, the lure of plotting up in a cheap but smart hotel proving too great. Throw in a complimentary two-hour reflexology and massage session for good measure and we were completely won over. Oil us up ladies...

After talking to an Australian family we'd ever met at the hotel, we were introduced to a local guy called Sam, who would then take us out on our first day tour. We'd asked him to get us as far north as possible whilst taking in some of the highlights along the way, and he duly obliged with a full day itinerary. First we dropped into a traditional Balinese show called "The Barong and Kris Dance", a representation of the eternal fight between good and evil spirits. Next up we were taken to both a silver factory and a place where they weave traditional Indonesian garments such as sarongs, shirts and bed linen. Next up, we requested to go to the Monkey Temple, but after being surrounded at the gate and clambered upon by some rather boistrous little primates, decided to give it a miss. Next up was Ubud, and the largest market on the island. Hawking once again became the order of the day, but after an hour or so of wandering the identical stalls we gave up and returned to the car.

The afternoon consisted of a lengthy drive up into the hills to the small village of Kintamani, and a restaurant with stunning views of Mount Batur volcano which stands guard over Lake Batur, our first glimpse of real scenery on the island. After a quick buffet lunch, we were back in the car and heading back down through some of the tiny villages which line the road leading back into the lowlands. Today was a particularly special day for the Hindu Balinese inhabitants, highlighted by the hordes of people in costume and religious attire who were walking enthusiastically to their places of worship. The 1st of April marks the celebration of Nyepi, a twenty-four hour session of almost complete inactivity at the end of the lunar cycle (Balinese New Year), so that when the evil spirits descend upon the island they see that it is deserted and leave well alone for another year.

Our final stop was in the northern part of Kuta, where Sam emotionally explained how the bombings have affected the people here and took us to see the striking memorial which sits at the site of the 2002 explosion. One of his close friends was killed during this particular attack, and it was clear that the painful memories are still very prominent.

Back at the hotel, we lounged around for a couple more days before taking our next journey, this time a sunset tour to the temple of Tanah Lot, with a bunch of kids from the hotel who didn't belong to us. Again a place of worship, this temple sits out on the sea-bed, at times surrounded by the incoming tide. Tonight the tide was out, and so we could get up close to the eroding structure which makes for one of the most photographed in Bali. We had the chance to be blessed with holy water and rice, and explore the caves and inlets around the base of the temple, one containing the 'Holy Snake' which could be touched for good luck. Of course, this whole spectacle would not be complete without the scores of market stalls lining the streets and alleyways.

Lounging around the pool, eating cheaply in local restaurants which looked like they needed the business, and hanging around the hotel bar with the cheery waiters was about all we managed to accomplish in the following few days. Our next trip came when we went with the Aussie family and a couple of their new friends to Jimbaran Bay, an idyllic sandy inlet stretching for two kilometres and adorned with a huge variety of fishing fleets. Unsurprisingly, seafood is the catch of the day here, and a selection of twenty or so restaurants line the shoreline in the hope of enticing hungry tourists onto their tables which sit out on the sand. The spiced Snapper, King Prawns and Mussels which were served were more than worth the slightly inflated cost, and the Bintang's were flowing nicely which all made for a pleasant evening in a beautiful setting.

With our last few days, we explored the area of Seminyak to the north of Kuta, and other parts of the town which we'd lazily omitted from previous strolls. Lastly, we found the energy to venture into the markets of Poppies Gang 1 and 2 to hard-bargain (but not too hard, we figured they need it more than us) for some souvenirs. Admittedly, we'd been a little lazy in our approach to Bali, but we hoped that we could reap the benefits of feeling relaxed and refreshed for our stint through the rest of South-East Asia.

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In 1770, Captain Cook landed on a remote coastal region of Eastern Australia, a land that for decades would come to be populated, and hence unimaginatively named, by it's new inhabitants from the other side of the world. Whether us Brits are to be inherantly blamed for such a lack of creativity is anyone's guess, with places like 'The Great Sandy Desert' and 'Eighty Mile Beach' as prime examples, but the good old Captain was really thinking out of the box when he plumped for 'Town of 1770' as his latest claim to fame.

The small town, and it's twin sister of Agnes Water just a few kilometres south, were to be our next port of call on our trip northwards. Slightly off the beaten track, we'd heard a few good reports from a number of other people we'd met on our travels, but many more looks of confusion from bewildered tourists and locals alike who'd never even heard of it. Reason enough to check it out for ourselves we thought.

This is probably the first place we'd encountered on the East Coast which had yet to be invaded by hordes of backpackers, probably beacuse they thought it wouldn't hold the same kind of thrill-seeking fun as some of the more popular destinations. We were in a hostel with only twenty-eight beds to boast of, and the service from the friendly people who ran it was enough to warrant going there at all. Couple this with the fact that everything you want to do there is abundantly cheaper than anywhere else on the coast and it was fast becoming a wise choice.

With a three-hour surf lession clocking in at just over eight quid (at least twenty almost everywhere else), I felt it only right to get involved again. As this is the northern-most surf town in Australia, with the Great Barrier Reef beginning to protect the shores from the power of the ocean, the waves here were much more manageable and I had an infinitely more successful experience this time around.

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For our other activity, we took advantage of a novel tour called Scooterroo. Donning helmets, a twenty-strong group clambered aboard Chopper-style motorbikes and took a tour of the surrounding area. Of course, it wasn't long before the riders all became a little more confident, racing past each other and generally picking the pace up.

A Geordie lad managed to come off of his bike quite spectacularly, admittedly, through no fault of his own, and another poor girl was almost pushed out into a ditch by the enthusiastic group. We came through safely however, and were glad to have taken part in some alternative entertainment.

We had then planned to leave and move onto our next stop, but our attention was drawn to a farmstay experience advertised in the hostel. Sarah had been on about getting involved in something like this for some time, but tight schedules and lack of opportunities had meant we'd never really got around to it. The drive inland to the Glassford Creek Farm took around an hour, the change in scenery becoming quickly apparent as we skirted around wide fields and dense forests to reach our destination.

As an actual working cattle property, the farm itself covers four-thousand acres, and holds around three-hundred potentially maternal Cows, nine randy Bulls, thirty lazy Horses, four cranky Dogs, an understandably nervous Cat, and one very cute baby Kangaroo. The whole place is kept running by it's two hard-working owners, Paul and Kate, the former an experienced Australian farmhand for most of his life, the latter a rather scatty English girl from Brighton who's still coming to terms with life in the Australian farm trade.

Either way, their hospitality were second-to-none, and we were made to feel at home almost as soon as we arrived, kitting ourselves out in some of their more suitable attire to fit into our role for the next twenty-four hours. With only one day to achieve everything, we started with a quick tour of the property and the surrounding land in their jeep, and then introduced ourselves to some of their extended animal family. Then it was over to help feed a newborn calf called Hawaii, who'd sadly lost his mother just after birth.

After lunch, we got ourselves saddled up and into the paddock for a quick introductory horse-riding lesson. Pairing us up with a couple of sterdy-looking beasts, these nags weren't massively keen on going for a walk, and made our first ten minutes hell by not moving a muscle.

Despite being told to kick them hard in order to get them to shift it was something we had real problems with, mainly because we feared hurting them. Soon however we got the hang of it, and were walking around the small enclosure, getting used to the steering controls and stopping and starting procedures. Finally, we got out into the fields and took a good three-hour ride around their land in search of a stray bull which had managed to infiltrate from the farm next door. We even managed to get our little fellas to trot on command and felt we'd really achieved something worthwhile by the time we'd returned to the stables.

Evening consisted of a great steak barbecue and some general chit-chat, but as expected we were all tired and headed off to bed fairly early so we'd be refreshed enough for the early morning ahead of us. Before we left there was only one thing left on the agenda: milking the cow! Not something I'd ever really been that worried about partaking in, this was apparently one of Sarah's life-long ambitions, and we were soon getting involved with relieving the old girl of her juice. The experience was over, but we'll take away some good memories and proud achievements from the short time we spent there.

Our work wasn't quite over however, as driving back into 1770 we witnessed a pretty bad car crash, the driver in front swerving at high speed to avoid a typically road-stupid Kangaroo, and ending up in a ditch with what looked like a broken collar-bone, a head-full of clarat and a large helping of shock.

One last stint of lounging around in 1770, taking in the first day of a large surfing competition, and we were off northwards on our overnight bus to Airlie Beach. As the main gateway to the Whitsunday Islands, a half-drowned mountain range and part of the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park which now plays host to millions of visitors every year, Airlie itself is a bustling town with a party going on every night of the week.

Sarah had seen the Whitsundays for herself on the previous visit, aboard one of the hundreds of sailing yachts available for group tours, only to discover that she is prone to sea-sickness and spent most of her three day cruise polluting the pristine waters with her insides. Although we'd had some moderate success with water so far (boats:five, chunder:nil), the thought of hair-holding and back-rubbing for seventy-two hours was doing little to convince me that a cruise was the right way to go. We therefore booked up for a speedboat-based day tour which would get us out to see the same things as everyone else, but in a third of the time.

Hammering out towards the reef and around the edge of Whitsunday Island, we soon came to our first stop at Hill Inlet, and a guided walk up to the lookout over the gorgeous sands of Whitehaven Beach. Back aboard, we then skirted the island a litte more and chose a spot for lunch on the beach itself.

Tides were again a big factor, and unfortunately meant we didn't get to go to the main part of Whitehaven beach which is used for the poster advetising all around the town we'd left behind. After lunch it was off to another small inlet, where we could get our first taste of the Great Barrier Reef itself, snorkelling amongst some of the delicate corals and brightly coloured marine life. After an hour or so of drifting around, we began to make our way back to the mainland, stopping here and there to see dolphins and turtles which happened to be in the area.

Although the tour itself was a little rushed, we felt we'd got enough from the experience to at least say we'd been there and seen it. One big night out in Airlie with Alex and Mike from our Fraser Island trip was all that remained to accomplish, and we revelled in a whole evening of bar crawling amongst the returning cruise parties.

Hangovers fully engaged, we had the joy of yet another nine hour bus journey up to our next destination at Mission Beach. Back into the Tropics and one of the wettest places in Australia, the rainforest which stands guard over this sleepy town means that the rains were back with us for almost the entirety of our three day stay. We'd found a cool hostel however, built in treehouse-style amongst the tropical vegetation, and spent some time relaxing in the cool television-less lounge, reading and listening to whatever music happened to be selected at the time by the array of worldly guests.

Our main reason for choosing this small haven as a stopping point however was to go White Water Rafting in the nearby rivers. Probably the most famous in Australia for a spot of adrenalin water sports, the mighty Tully River is the place everyone talks about.

Arriving early morning at Raging Thunder's office/cafe/bar, we all met our fellow rafters and were teamed up, kitted out, and soon heading for the top of the river. Our guide, Jeremy, seemed like a bit of a regimental type, barking orders and being generally straight-laced while other groups seemed to be having a ball, but we played along with him, assuming this was down to the nature of the perilous sport we were attempting to partake in. The first two hours were fantastic, our group getting themselves together within a couple of medium sized rapids and coming out safely on the other side.

After lunch, we were back into the water, Jeremy informing us that we would be starting just before the three large rapids we'd just completed. Not a problem we thought, we've just battled through those. Of course, this was when proceedings went a little bit Pete Tong. We began powering into the rapid as the manual, but suddenly saw ourselves steering head-long into a boistrous looking rock. "Jump right, jump right" we all heard from our expert guide, which of course we did, before the boat basically flipped from under us and threw us all into the foaming waters beneath. Firstly, and most obviously, there was wetness, followed by darkness as the dingy landed on top of us all pushing us under the water. I can't talk for anyone else, but on a personal level panic soon ensued. I tried to calmly get myself out from under the boat, but the raging waters around us were basically preventing me from doing this and the more I struggled to get some air the longer the whole experience seemed to be prolonging itself. At this point, I honestly thought it was game over.

Suddenly, there was light, and I grabbed the ropes at the side of the raft for dear life, only to come crashing into another rapid, lose grip, and find myself swirling under the water again, not really knowing which way was up. A few spluttering attempts to right this seemed futile against the power of the water, and next I felt myself being lifted from the water before being dumped on my back against another large boulder. This didn't help matters much, and the pain in my kidney was creating a few issues with what was left of my hapless swimming technique. Out of nowhere I heard some shouting and looked up to see the raft behind come flying past with a paddle outstretched, which I somehow managed to grab before finally being dragged aboard in a state of relief and shock.

It took a few minutes, but eventually I was reunited with my boat. Everyone else was already aboard, even Sarah who seemed to have faired just as badly through the whole ordeal but had somehow managed to get herself out with only a minor cut on the ankle. I was little worried about my back, but realised that I had taken the brunt of the impact in my kidney area rather than the spine, and so despite some sharp pains carried on with the raft for another two hours before getting some ice onto it. The whole tour was still good in our eyes, but definitely makes you realise how dangerous these things can be. We certainly hadn't taken the safety aspect lightly, but at the same time didn't expect to have this kind of experience.

After a night of lying flat out on my front (the only comfortable position), we took the bus to our last east coast destination. Cairns is Australia's tenth largest city, and usually means the beginning or the end of many travellers down under trip. Finding a decent hostel with a nice pool, we spent much of our last few days recouperating from the rafting ordeal, out on the town with the two Geordie couples we'd met in 1770, and meeting up with another pair of newly acquainted friends from Stoke, Andrea and Will, who we'd met a couple of weeks back.

It was with these two that we took our final trip to the northern shores of the East Coast. Basically a full-day tour, we knew we'd be stuck on the bus for the most of it, jumping on and off at various intervals, but we felt it only right we get out and see the area.

Mossman Gorge, an area where the river runs through the rainforest, and yet another animal sanctuary were all on the agenda before we reached the pinnacle of the tour. Our friend the Captain was having a bad day when he reached this part of Australia. Running his ship aground on part of the reef, he sat around with little else to do, naming the various parts of land he could see. Cape Tribulation, Mount Sorrow, Weary Creek... miserable naming from a man who clearly had nothing to be happy about. The Cape itself, despite being what this tour is all about, is pretty unremarkable, the walk through the surrounding rainforest being the main highlight of a what turned unfortunately into a fairly sub-standard day.

And that was Australia over and done with. Looking back to mid-December and the large undetaking we'd assigned ourselves, we couldn't really grumble at what we'd achieved. Ulura (or Ayers Rock) aside, we'd managed to cover most of the highlights we'd put on the agenda, and a few unexpected one's to boot, and witnessing some truly extraordinary sights along the way, we'd dragged ourselves across vast amounts of all six of the mainland states. As the Aussie's might dismissively say: "Too easy mate"...

East Coast Australia held a mixture of anticipation and dread for us as we made our way to the famous resort of Byron Bay. For starters, we weren't sure how 'old-uns' like ourselves were likely to fare amongst the hordes of teenage gap-year students who are renowned for coming to this area of the country to drink themselves into oblivion, get jiggy with other like-minded travellers and generally party all the way up to Cairns.

The small surf town of Byron Bay had dramatically grown since Sarah had visited five years ago. What once had been a hundred metre square block of restaurants and hostels with a decidely hippy vibe, had been turned into largely developed and over-crowded town, with mass tourism now as it's main focus. The hospitality and charisma shown by the locals however didn't seem to be too affected by this, the necessary evil of tourism obviously being largely responsible for many of the inhabitants thriving businesses.

To settle us into the East Coast vibe we'd decided to steer clear of the typical 'Party Hostel', and booked a sensible looking place on the outskirts of the town called Middle Reef. The place itself wasn't exactly sparkling, but the fact that it felt like a real house (four bedrooms, kitchen, bathroom, lounge and veranda) made for a particularly homely feel. The age range varied greatly too, from the dutch couple in their fifties in the next room, to the comical nineteen-year-old Melbournian girls who, if faced with the choice, would have happily killed each other rather than give up the large mirror which seemed to hold their attention for much of the day.

Although a nice place, we didn't really intend on hanging around for too long and so we had a couple of things to achieve in a short space of time. The first being a highly recommended trip to the hippy heaven of Nimbin with Jim's Tours. Collected early by our very 'chilled' guide called Dougie, he drove our bus up to the lookout over Byron, explaining how he'd not only been run out of his home town in Victoria at an early age for organising a rally against the opening of a smelting factory, but also plays a large role in opposing the likes of McDonalds and other such corporations who annually attempt to bring their business to Byron.

With his "Smile on your dial" rule for life, it was quite refreshing to listen to the stories of how his fellow hippies gather in Canberra outside parliament every year with a twenty metre spliff in an attempt at getting them to legalise the "herb superb".

Nimbin itself, according to the missus, is a symbol of what Byron used to be all those years ago. The specimens strolling down the one-street town are prime examples of what continued drug use can do to the body, but they're all friendly folk with time to chat if you so wish. We'd only been off the bus for what must have been about thirty seconds before a rather spaced-out looking lad offered us the opportunity to purchase. Hippy shops selling special cookies and an interesting museum bring good business to the town, which is surprisingly left to it's own devices by the local authorities.

After an hour or so in Nimbin we were whisked off to the house of another local hippy called Paul. This guy left New York some twenty ago in search of something more, but ended up buying a house by a large lake in the middle of the rain-forest, to generally stroll around in a big flowery shirt eating watermelon and macadamia's, and indulging in his favourite pastime of doing nothing, or building strange things from junk in his driveway.

I should think the visiting tourists pay enough for him to get by, but after forty-five minutes in his house we still weren't sure what he was actually meant to offer the tour, his main contribution being when he changed the music from one artist to another.

Back in Byron after the enlightening tour, I took off the next morning for my first Aussie surf lesson. The tides on this particular morning were quite rough, and after two hours of fighting my way back out into the surf against some hefty currents, I'd pretty much had enough. I did manage to stand up a few times and actually surf however, rip-curling and billabonging all the way into shore. A far more respectable effort than last years dismal (and profoundly hungover) attempt in Newquay.

Our last night in town meant there was only one thing left to do: a visit to Cheeky Monkey's nightclub. Rallying together most of the house for this event didn't seem to be too difficult a challenge, and after a few warm-up beers at the house we all made our way into town. Once inside the venue in question, we were confronted with gangs of people all completely smashed and dancing on the tables, something we'd heard about but was still quite surprising to see. We managed to battle through it for a couple of hours, but in the end our sobriety got the better of us and we left everyone to it.

Skipping Surfers Paradise, a slightly glitzier version of the Kidbrooke estate, and the city atmosphere of Brisbane, next on the agenda was Noosa. Steeped in a stunning landscape of tropical vegetation, this is one of Queenslands most scenic resorts. The wealthy inhabitants who have settled from all over the continent have spent years making it their stomping ground, whilst constantly defending the area from high-rise development. Yet again, we'd caught up with Tom and Lisa and so met them at our accommodation on the north shore in the midst of the Great Sandy National Park.

Whilst in the general area, and taking advantage of our friends own mode of transport, we all headed to the late Steve Irwin's Australia Zoo for the day. Unlike any other zoo we've previously visited, the whole philosophy here concentrates on conservation.

As mentioned in the Darwin blog, Crocodiles were hunted almost to extinction a few decades ago, and Irwin made it one of his prime missions as the 'Crocodile Hunter' to save what was left of these deadly animals.

We all took part in some Elephant feeding, and wandered amongst the Kangaroo's which are left to roam freely amongst visitors. The highlight for us however had to be the Tiger Temple. Here, three Bengali tigers were bought out for their afternoon play. Handlers have been in the enclosures with these majestic big-cats since they were just weeks old, and consequently can interact with them as if they are common house pets. We stood outside with real envy, as they made our office based jobs seem trivial compared to what they get to do every day with these beautiful creatures.

Back in Noosa, we had one last day here to check out the beach, and meet with Alex and Mike, another younger couple we'd met in our 'house' in Byron Bay. The lads all went out to be big and clever in the ten-foot crashing waves, whilst the girls sat around in the surf club sniggering at us.

Onwards then to Rainbow Beach, and the jumping off point for the world famous Fraser Island four-wheel-self-drive jeep tour. We were all delighted to find that we could hire a vehicle between the six of us, the thought of sharing a reasonably tiny Toyota Landcruiser with eleven other people (as is commonplace with the regular tours) not being particularly favourable. Once the jeep and the shopping for our three days had been collected, we made our way to the ferry which would take us over to the island.

It is said that all of the sand from the east coast of Australia eventually ends up here. Fraser is the worlds largest sand island, measuring in at one-hundred-and-twenty kilometres long by a mere fifteen kilometres wide, all created by thousands of years of longshore drift. Rainforests and some two hundred freshwater lakes dot the landscape, whilst dunes tower up to two-hundred-and-twenty-four metres above sea-level, reminding many a traveller that this place alledgedly contains more sand than the Sahara desert.

With a rough itenerary in mind, I was first behind the wheel, with the job of getting us as far north as we could manage in our opening day. Leaving the ferry I was confronted with a fairly tricky section of deep sand to navigate, the thought of getting bogged in at such an early stage not being anyone's idea of fun. The driving here all relies on the tide-time, low-tide generally meaning you can boot along the beach on the hard sand, and so after quite a hairy forty-five minute drive up the beach we reached our first port of call at Eli Creek.

The sea here is lethal, powerful undertow's and man-eating sharks making swimming in the ocean a no-go, and so tourists have to rely on the many creeks and lakes for refreshment from the hot sun. Eli Creek was just such a place to cool off for a little while, and so we all paddled inland as far as we could go and then let the sea-ward current float us back down through the banks of lush vegetation to where the jeep was parked on the beach. Next up, came the famous 'Maheno' shipwreck, the rusting remains of a Tasmanian liner which was caught in an unexpected cyclone in the 1930's.

We'd pretty much reached the northernmost camping spot by about four o'clock, and so we decided to use the time to set up our camp. Tents went up quickly, and we all settled down for a beer before starting the dinner. This is when all hell broke loose. Firstly, the March Flies came out, hugely mutated monster flies that land on you for a few seconds and then bite you, pleasantly leaving behind some of their best vomit. These things are truly scary, the only plus being that they are stupidly slow, giving you a few seconds to kill them before they actually bite. Next, the wind whipped up out of nowhere, catching us all unawares, and making our camp look like a bomb had hit it. The rainstorm which followed was to last for the whole night, making cooking more difficult than it ever should have been and drenching our now relocated tents throughout. Resigned to the fact that we weren't likely to get outside again, we all ate our chicken curry in the jeep with the rain pelting the roof outside, before retiring to our now damp accommodation for the evening.

The night dragged as we might have expected, but morning eventually came, and the March Flies were back for a second helping. Not wishing to hang around and get eaten alive, we all packed quickly and took ourselves off to one of the inland campsites to have breakfast. First destination for the morning was Indian Head, the furthest north our jeeps are allowed to travel. From here it's another forty minute walk around to the next headland, and the aptly named Champagne Pools. These are two large rocky enclosures, where the surf pounds the edges and then bubbles over into the swimming holes. Although pleasant, it was alot of effort for little reward, and the walk back in the scalding midday sunshine meant most of us were back to feeling pretty sticky by the time we got back to the jeep.

Driving south with the tide now receding, we motored down the beach until we reached the inland track which would take us over to Lake Garawongera, and what we hoped would be a less populated area of the island. We arrived to find a large coach sitting in the car-park, sign that around fifty or so day-trippers were currently at the spot, but were pleased to see them all trudging back in our direction when we began to make our way down the track to the lake. Consequently, we were greeted by a truly stunning scene: a totally deserted lake, with our very own golden beach. Knowing we had a couple of hours until it would be time to set up camp, we basked in the clean, soft waters for a while and then dried off before making our way back to the main eastern beach.

This time we were a little more organised, myself and Sarah cooking the dinner while the rest assembled the tents, just in case another storm threatened. Luckily, the weather held up this time, and we spent a nice evening around the camp, chatting and drinking under the stars which could be seen clearly in the night sky.

The only thing we hadn't accounted for during our well-planned construction was the fact that setting up a tent on top of bare sand can be responsible for a miserable nights sleep. I think we were all grateful when morning finally came, and despite being tired, the thought of a hot shower and a comfy bed at the end of the day kept us inspired. Heading off early in the hope of beating the morning rush, first we drove inland via a rugged sand track to the most popular spot of the island: Lake McKenzie. This is the picture postcard destination for Fraser Island, it's pristine blue waters contrasting against the bright white sand surrounding it, and making for a truly idyllic location. That's of course, until you arrive and find it swarming with hundred's of other people. Bloody tourists!

Heading off again, we made our way down to our final stop at Lake Boomanjin, the largest perched lake in the world at two-hundred hectares. The waters here are stained a strange browny-red by tannins leached from the surrounding vegetation, which if you open your eyes whilst submerged makes it appear as if you are swimming through a lake of blood. Nice.

And that was pretty much the end of the adventure. I was back behind the wheel for the drive back, confidently thrashing down the beach and back to the awaiting ferry. We all had a meal that evening in Rainbow Beach, before going our seperate ways the following morning. The east coast so far had been better than our expectations had really warranted, and we were glad that we'd not only got to spend some our trip with old acquaintances, but had also made a couple of new one's along the way. The fears of being out of our depth in a horde of youngsters was a worry of the past, and we headed further north with renewed enthusiasm.

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