I mention Penang’s geographical make-up as, for some unknown reason, I never actually look up the place before I get there – leading to a bemused look on Sheila’s face as we sit in the eager taxi-man’s vehicle and I ask if I’m on an island. Or not. You never can tell these days.

We’re staying in the Hutton Lodge in George Town which, quelle surprise, is a former colonial outpost for the British before they left Malaysia back in 1957. The town now serves as the capital of Penang province and, never ones to buck tradition, have decided to leave the British name in tact. As hostels go, it’s sufficient. We have free wifi, a large communal showering area (in which I manage to slip in, jamming my left foot between a pipe and a wall in the process) and access to old editions of magazines such as Men’s Health etc. I spend many an hour flicking through old fitness lore, calculating devious schemes to get myself back into shape when I get home.

Truth be told: I’m thoroughly conflicted about Penang. Looking over articles on the web and personal testimony from many visitors to the isle, there seems to be an abundance of positivity overflowing from eclectic and legitimate sources absolutely gushing about its wonderful culture, the exciting cuisine and how friendly the people are. I think it’s a total shit-hole.

The best analogy I can come up with regarding Penang is in relation to its colonialist beginnings. Now that the colonialists have all left, however, it’s akin to the practice of rich parents leaving a house in the questionably capable hands of their delinquent children only to come home and find that what was once a shining example of their opulence and refinery, is now reeling in the aftermath of a monster party.

There are remnants of colonial beauty in Penang; the architecture lush and intricate in places while some of the open-planned streets and wide, breezy areas, conjuring up images of Victorian women prancing around in with their sun-umbrellas, smack of the heyday of British imperialism. What’s infested Penang, however, now that the masters have departed, is a veneer of grime and neglect, with an ever-prevalent rubbish phenomenon that appears to be breeding out from its very walls. In a nutshell, the place has gone to the dogs. Or the cats more accurately, considering the burgeoning and starving feline population we come across at nearly every junction.

It’s not just the wild cats that are having a hard time of it. Bent and work-worn people in various states of disarray peer out from their dark, clammy hovels; working furiously away on whatever junk they’re hocking to the masses. One cavernous den has nothing but broken lawnmowers stacked on top of each other like the mechanical graveyard of a great grass-cutters’ war. It’s ironic as, to the best of my knowledge, there’s hardly any grass on Penang.

It reminds me in a way of my father back home who, growing up in harsher times than the era in which I did, is incredibly reluctant to throw anything away. The family shed is full of VHS tapes covered in mould; useless to anyone but those with an unhealthy penchant for mildew. My father would fall in love with Penang; its endless junk-traders and shit-hawkers obviously just waiting for him to join their fetid sect as a venerable leader and king.

It’s not just the crap oozing out of the shop-fronts that’s off-putting. There’s also trouble afoot when it comes to walking around the place in general. Hugging nearly every street in Penang are twin aqueducts that may or may not be the vestiges of an ancient sewer system. It sure smells that way. Though some of the troughs are covered by broken stone slabs, most go exposed to the public. Festering gullies of mulch, they’re a magnet for an unwary foot to get snagged in.

It’s also strikingly hot, a condition not helped by the forever grabbing trade-hawkers who hassle us incessantly from the side of the road. It gets so intense at one point that I have to go back to the hostel before risking incarceration for the (justified I might add) pummelling of a local shit-peddler.

The best thing about Penang is that there are no Burger Kings (that we could find, and we looked) so we’re totally reliant on the local cuisine. Rambling through the cat-infested streets, we come across an Indian establishment ballsy enough to declare itself as having the best tandoori in Penang. At this point, on yet another sweaty and harassment filled preamble, I really don’t give a shit where (or what) I eat so, making the pushy waiter’s year, I agree to sit there and put this crazy boastful to the test.

We only eat Indian food in one other place in Penang but, bloody hell, I think they’re on to something. We go back to “Kapitan” something like four times in three days, always overjoyed at the dishes we order. The food is cooked in the corner in a semi-open kitchen hovel consisting of two tandoors and a mountain of pots. The fresh naan bread seen to be slammed down into the counter at regular intervals. It’s hardly the pinnacle of hygienic conditions, but we care not a jot. In fact, when it comes to questionable hygiene, we’re the only people eating in the place with a knife and fork, the rest of the clientele seemingly content to scream up to the place on whiny mopeds, alight in a dangerous fashion, and then sit themselves down to a meal eaten with their bare hands. And we’re talking curries and rice dishes here. Doesn’t matter. They stick their hands in and scoop up the contents with naans and assorted breads. It’s so messy, in fact, that there are washing basins strategically placed around the open-to-the-road restaurant for the sole purpose of cleaning yourself up after your gastric adventure.

It really is good food. Later on in the trip we experience some Thai dishes that literally snap our taste-buds to attention, but it’s the chicken tikka masala and garlic naan combo (with Pepsi, no Coke, Coke is for infidels apparently) from Kapitan which we rate as the nicest dish we taste on our three month trip. And it cost something like a euro. At the most.

Amazingly, as we sit in Penang airport and are about to make our escape to Bangkok, I spy a Penang tourism video in the departure lounge. As we sit there subjected to a weird perpetually moaning child, I can’t help but think that the Penang depicted on the TV looks awesome. So much culture! So many friendly faces and beautiful sights to see. Why didn’t I see any of this during my short stay? Who knows. I’m just happy to escape Penang alive.

Toward the end of our tour, such a strategic locative factor starts to play a more and more prominent role in our destination selections. Do we really want to go to Krabi? Not really. Is it half way between Phuket and Bangkok? Krabi it is.

The other slightly more curious reason for taking in Kuala Lumpur is because Sheila’s boss spends half the year here. And when you hear so much about a certain location, even in passing, it does pique one’s interest to the extent that swinging by and taking in the sights becomes exceedingly attractive.

We arrive in Kuala Lumpur (herein referred to as KL – an abbreviation even the locals are comfortable with apparently) early in the morning and immediately hit the trains to take us into the centre of the city.

From the offset, KL looks cloudy, a tad more worn than Singapore and not as painfully humid. Low, dense clouds hang over the city like a cooling blanket as the train eventually deposits us deeper into the metropolis district. A sign hangs in the infrastructural hub of KL’s Central Station claiming Malaysian hospitality is akin to welcoming a friend into your own house. Maybe friends in Malaysia get a raw deal upon arriving at a friend’s home, destined to wander around the complex with no assistance as to where the bathroom is as, for the life of us, we can’t find the monorail station in the catacomb-esque building. Even after asking, we’re given directions about as helpful as someone telling you to follow the setting sun when informing them that your hotel is “west of here.”

After a half an hour of increasing frustration, we twig that the bloody monorail station isn’t even in Central Station; KL’s nexus for a myriad of travel options in Malaysia’s capital which, for some unknown reason, doesn’t extend to the monorail persuasion. This is despite KL being quite proud of their monorail network. You’d think they’d clearly sign where the fucking thing is.

In a flash of empathy, I finally realise what it must be like for a visitor to Dublin who, marvelling at the gray skies and dilapidated state of the airport they’ve just landed in, find out that there is no way of getting in to the city other than on a meandering, infrequent bus or by feeding themselves to pernicious taxi bandits queuing up outside. These same chiselers who persistently grumble that, in these dark days, they have to actually work for a living.

We exit Central and trek toward the direction of where we think we need to go. It’s a good introduction to KL street-life as we quickly ascertain the differences between this new city and the one we’ve just left. Compared to Singapore, KL is a battered yet tenacious entity. It’s not as clean as Singapore, nor as regimented. Many paths are broken, bridges and buildings are festooned with equal amounts of advertisements and detritus; as if the place has been so busy growing that someone forgot to clear up the empty boxes in the wake of such expansion. It’s not necessarily a dirty city by any stretch of the imagination (I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that it’s cleaner than Dublin for example), but, after the pristine, civic monstrosity of Singapore so fresh in our minds, it does appear slightly dishevelled if not simply “well used.”

Getting on to the monorail is like walking through a feeding frenzy, and it’s here I witness my first example of Malaysian rudeness. It might be a cultural thing but, it appears that here in KL it’s pretty much every bastard for himself. People will ignore queues and push right past to the top, nudge you out of the way in order to gain access to a train before you do, and generally jostle, squeeze and dismiss you if it means gaining any advantage.

On one particular occasion when boarding a train, laden with baggage and first to board, a man leans into me and then keeps pushing forward to access the train before me. I call after him in a loud voice, informing him and the entire train that he is, in fact, “a fucking ignorant prick.” Another man beside me, who, from the glint in his eye and ready-to-strike body-language I can tell was just about to do the same thing, smiles and waves me on. It’s a strange experience to be in such a discourteous place but I quickly learn that, if you’re going to survive in Malaysia, be prepared to confront people or risk getting trampled on.

The monorail is quaint and winds its way into the city like a short silent snake, leaning into the curves of the stone track like a subtle ice-skater. At one station, three Coca-Cola clad reps join the throng and request our attention. Turning my head away from the cityscape outside, they inform us that they’re going to teach us how to drink Coke. Pretty sure I’ve got the technique down after 31 years of constant cola consumption, I’m surprised that it actually entails sparking a can, taking a deep gulp, and then shaking like a lunatic. Startled, they offer me a free can of which I accept. They then get off, likely to catch the next train and do the same routine again.

We soon arrive in Raja Chulan without any further mentally questionable disruptions, and after the obligatory “Which way is north?” antics, we walk the short distance to our accommodation, the Rainforest B&B.

It’s at this point we get our first introduction to Malaysian traffic rules – or, more accurately, the complete lack of them. Cars careen through red lights. Motorbikes, speeding along at a rate that suggests Malaysia probably has a higher road traffic fatality rate than Ireland (a mean feat I should add), pretty much drive wherever they like; on to paths, across islands, up the wrong way of busy streets. It’s total bedlam, and I’m sure many a visitor to the city doesn’t make it out alive after meeting a grisly end at the hand of an erratic road user.

The B&B is pleasant and run by a small group of truly helpful and friendly staff. We do spend the first half of day one sweating like pigs in the room only to enquire about a possible malfunctioning air-con system and be handed the remote control device at the front desk. But it’s forgivable, if purely down to our own stupidity for not asking about it sooner. I’m also sure they had a good laugh at the painfully white foreigners sitting in their room, trying to connect to the free wifi and losing kilos of water in the oppressive heat.

It’s at this point we decide to pretty much wash every piece of clothing we have. We’re given a ridiculously low price (per kilo) and, the following day, a small Malaysian girl, encumbered by the sheer weight of the load, drags a basket back in from the laundry room. “So big!” she says. I don’t disagree, simply standing there marvelling at the sight of all my clothes; clean, pressed and stacked in a formation they haven’t experienced in nearly three months. We pack the clothes away and head back out into the heat.

Malaysia is officially a Muslim nation, my second of such to visit since Morocco some years ago. It’s not really a talking point to be honest, though it is always intriguing for a Westerner to witness the ethnical traits and nuances of a different culture; especially one as exotic and different as the Muslim way of life. About half the women wear the hajib, while a rare few go the whole hog and are dressed in the complete black burqa. After some rudimentary research in the area, I learn that whether or not a woman decides to wear the headdress is more to do with their (or most likely their family’s) interpretation of the Quran. Much like how some Christians actually go to church on Sunday and worship, while others still classify themselves as such because they were “born into the faith” and would rather now spend their Sundays in the pub. OK, so it’s not entirely synonymous. It is intriguing to note that the majority of servers in restaurants and the likes of Starbucks are women. And they all wear the hajib. And, for some reason I can’t really understand, they’re nearly all painfully gloomy.

I find it a tad ironic that, though the main reason behind the burqa (which, and I mean no disrespect, I can’t help but be reminded of a ninja whenever I see a woman wearing it) is to hide a woman’s virtues away from anyone but their husband, I find myself paying more attention to the women in question. Maybe it’s the novelty of the whole spectacle, but I can’t help but watch. Seeing just a pair of dark eyes staring back out from beneath the cloth is strangely alluring and exotic. Which I’m pretty sure is the direct opposite intention of wearing such a restrictive garb in the first place.

The biggest attraction KL has to offer is the Petronas Twin Towers. Once the largest building(s) in the world, the dual monuments to man’s ingenuity and quest to reach ever higher are now relegated to third place in the tall buildings stakes. Despite this loss of World’s Tallest title (to Taipei 101 if you’re interested, which has also since been surpassed) the Petronas Towers are the best thing about KL by far. And, lucky you, if you go to KL, you literally can’t miss them.

We walk toward them from the south-west, and due to some trick of the light (or more accurately the angle at which approach) for a short while it would appear that we’ve all been duped and there is is actually only one tower. Highest Twin Towers in the world my ass. The illusion is shattered, however, when we start to make our way around the base of Tower 1. It’s a testament to just how large the towers are that you can walk around one for so long and still not see the other until it finally appears, like an arrow of pure light thundering upwards toward a dizzying height.

Rising from the ground like a pair of huge tapered missiles, the Twin Towers look quite different depending on the time of day when viewed. By day, the towers are icy columns of green tinted glass. White and light gray metal, all rippling ever-upwards like two humungous waves of constantly folding recesses. When night falls, however, they light up like two sparkling crystals; twin emblems of prosperity and engineering mastery, huge and emanating light like a second sun in the night’s balmy sky. It’s spectacular to look at and a feat unrivalled by other tall buildings (like the Empire State Building for example, which is only fractionally smaller than each of the Petronas Towers) simply because the others are mostly constructed from brick and mortar. Having the towers encased in glass from top to bottom was an ingenious idea and, of all the man-made sights I’ve seen on my travels so far, I have to admit that nothing surpasses Petronas. Nothing by a long shot.

We spend a lot of time in the buildings, or at least in the shopping centre below, looking ever-upwards and always mindful of just what is above us, towering into the sky like a monstrous shining Babel.

When not in Petronas, we visit the KL Tower, another super-structure situated close-by to the Twin Towers and, not to be left out and overshadowed by the nearby Petronas spectacle, is the fourth largest tower in the world and taller than Petronas by a significant margin.

I should mention at this point that the classification of world’s highest building/structure/tower/whatever is a confusing tangle of red-tape, claims and counter-claims – a lot depending on interpretation, various definitions and where your building is in relation to the third moon of Saturn. Do you count spires? What about antenna? For example: there are storeys on the (Whatcha talkin’ about) Willis Tower (formerly the Sears’ Tower) in Chicago that are higher than the highest floor on Petronas, but the latter’s spire creeps over the top floor of Willis. Despite being nowhere near the top of the pinnacle of Willis’ double antenna (and we’re not counting antennas, remember?), Petronas is deemed higher. Which is actually higher? You decide.

When it comes to freestanding towers, however, the debate is a little less heated. With no-one but the crows living in these spires, the measuring tape simply stops at the top. OK, so there is some debate, mostly focusing on whether or not the tower starts on land or if you count the part of the structure that is underwater. But I’m not going there.

We take the elevator up to the top. It takes so long for the trip to finish (nearly a full minute) that an annoying Indian gentleman informs the elevator operator that he thinks it’s broken. She looks at him like he’s completely demented and asks him not to worry. I’m pretty sure she makes this journey hundreds of times per day. I’m guessing she’d know if the fucking thing was broken.

We leave the elevator and walk around the observation deck. Its circular layout is chockfull of trinkets and screaming children running about the place, gluing their noses to the windows and hogging the prodigious view of KL below.

We find it slightly amusing when we come across the “comparison” models: a series of frosted glass replicas of the world’s highest towers standing alert against the curved observation deck wall, the one we’re standing in right now proudly appearing fourth in the line-up. It’s amusing as we can literally walk past the models and say “Seen it, seen it, don’t want to see it, in it, seen it, haven’t seen it …”. It’s like the collection is a vague monument to our recent travels considering the towers of Toronto, Sydney, and Auckland all feature.

Ironically, like befriending the fat friend to get closer to the girl you want, we use the KL Tower for taking photos of the Petronas Towers which is literally less than half a kilometre away. It’s cloudy the day we go up, the towers shrouded in mist and mystery, but we get an unique perspective of their design, and the venture is worth doing if painfully touristy.

Connecting the two towers across from our view is the Sky Bridge – an interconnector between the buildings roughly half-way up between the super-structures. Getting up on to the Sky Bridge is free, the only price an early start to get down to the towers and queue for tickets. It’s first come, first served however, and despite valiant attempts to rise at seven and make the ten minute trek down to the ticket office (we even set an alarm), it just never happens.

It’s within the Petronas shopping centre that Sheila picks up a companion lens to the one she haggled over in Singapore, this time a wide-angle jobby we get to use on the final leg of our journey. Though I’m sure there was some back and forth over the price to be had, we pretty much pay the same as we did for the other lens without much scandal. I’m also pretty sure the guy knew we weren’t there for the taking after informing him straight up what we purchased the first lens for in Singapore. It’s almost like a pilfering defence mechanism. “We paid this amount for this product, we’re not paying much more for something so similar so don’t even think about it, Buddy.”

KL is a hive of activity and splendour. It’s chaotic splendour, however, and, as a vacationing city, it doesn’t really hold up to much scrutiny. We’re there for a couple of days, and by the end of it we’re happy to leave. The towers are magnificent, truly something worth checking out, but the rest of the city is simply a sprawling mass of dangerous traffic, peculiar diners and some of the most hardcore locals you’re ever likely to come across.

We make it back to the airport in pretty good shape and board for Penang.

Changi is a monster, with breathing parts and endless tunnels around every corridor populated with denizens scurrying around, the life-force of this indomitable machine. We eventually escape into its bowels and locate the metro system, praying we’re not too far from Mosque Street and where our hostel is located.

We emerge from the catacombs of sub-Sinagpore and into Chinatown, the hustle and bustle of a million restaurants and other forms of commerce a maelstrom around us. Sheila’s hastily scribbled directions prove fruitless as we simply can’t discern any of the street names. Not because we can’t speak Chinese, it’s literally because we can’t find any. After a brief walkabout, I gain my bearings and we stroll the few metres around the corner and locate Mosque Street.

I should note that, at this point in our trans-global adventure, we’ve probably stayed in a few dozen hostels of varying conditions ranging from luxurious to downright shambolic. Most are forgettable; austere cubicles to rest your head and hide your wares until the following morning. At which point you flee from the stifled starkness of your surroundings and soak up as much of the local curiosities as possible.

We’ve stayed in rooms with no paint. Rooms with no bathrooms and rooms with TVs that only show Malcolm in the Middle. In French. Putting this gamut of dodgy accommodation under scrutiny, however, I have to say that our Singaporean accommodation takes the fucking biscuit.

Tucked discretely into the wall of a long line of open-aired local restaurants, the (at least now, I may have involuntarily regressed it) nameless hostel is discovered by pressing some high-tech liquid-esque buttons on a control panel. It’s all very Bladerunner-ish, and I’m half expecting some sort of mechanised minion to open the door when it finally does show movement. Instead we get a slightly spaced hostel worker who seems to have trouble registering the fact that we have a reservation and, the bags on our backs a dead giveaway, would like to stay the night.

He takes us on a winding tour which includes going inside the adjoining karaoke bar. It’s a surreal environment, and one I’m unlikely to forget. Places that could be the location of my very own death-scene tend to have that affect. Smokey (despite numerous signs banning the practice) and replete with half-pissed Asians of every variation I can think of yelping and, in the case of two crooners, serenading each other across a bar to rumpus applause, the place is like something out of another world. Like the cantina scene from Star War: exotic, likely dangerous for an outsider, and undoubtedly a haven for more than one illegal alien.

The lackey finds the key and shows us to our room. When I see it, I almost wish we were down in the bar getting blasted by bad Asian pop classics or attacked with stick-knives. The windowless cell literally consists of just a bed and a wardrobe. As it measures merely six foot by about nine, there is literally no space around the bed itself, so in many ways we’re not renting a room for four nights. We’re renting a bed. That’s it. There is an air-con appliance, thankfully, which, some time later, I realise is a given if you want to live in Sizzlepore.

Being a mere 1.5 degrees (or about 100 kilometres) north of the equator, Singapore is quite literally in the firing line of the sun’s apathetic and perpetual wrath. And, considering we’re heading into the summer period, it can only mean one thing: we’re going to fry. Luckily, it appears Singaporeans of yore also twigged that, somehow – blame the cheap beer if you must – they’ve managed to build their city in one of the hottest locations on the planet. It’s therefore of little surprise to learn that, in reality, Singaporeans spend as little as time above ground as possible, and all abodes, no matter how dingy, come with an obligatory air-con device. It’s as if it has become one of their mandatory essentials. While Irish people viewing a potential new home might ask about schools, traffic and local crime rates, I’m willing to bet that Singaporeans ask but two questions: 1) How far am I from the nearest meat stand? and 2) Where is the air-con, and, if I turn it up, can I blast myself into the Antarctica?

This first question relates to the prevalence – to our eyes at least – of the city’s never ending fixation with meat and assorted meat products. On the corner of Mosque Street there is a successful shop (now a chain I believe) which only sells meat. We’re talking about meat by the truckload. Whenever we pass the establishment there is always someone endlessly cooking some sort of meat medallion over a stove by the window.

Everything in the above photo is made out of meat. Even the women. Near the shop-front and contained behind clear glass so as to cruelly tempt passing Singaporeans, there are literally kilo upon kilo of small, strangely shaped meat discs stacked high for the locals to glimpse and salivate over. The strangest thing is that, for the entire time we are there, I never see one person buy any of this meat. Not once. But they never stop cooking mound upon mound of it! Where does it go? Is this meat stockpile the answer to why Singapore has so many wild cats roaming the streets? I’ll never know it seems.

Maybe the natives do leave their gelid lairs at times to feast upon this sickly clarion. If they did, it would probably be only one of the very few times they actually endure a non-artificially controlled environment. Singaporeans live in air-conditioned homes. They travel to work in their climate-controlled cars or trains, and they work in similarly pleasant and almost frosty offices. And when free-time comes, they shop in malls that, in direct contrast to the blistering streets that house them, are cooled to such a degree they’re almost chilly.

Which leads us to the obvious: the shopping. Considering Singapore is a tiny island on the foot of Asia, with five million commercialism obsessed people milling about a place the size of County Dublin, it’s of little shock to hear that the city comprises of nearly nothing but shopping malls. I’m pretty sure that one could walk the length and breadth of Singapore simply by utilising the vast and labyrinthine network of tunnels, walkways and verandas that connect its malls like a giant mercantile web. You could likely even do it totally underground. We visit many of these multi-storey temples of trade, one in particular catching my eye as its entrance literally looks like the Tower of Orthanc – its escalator situated at the corner like a long tongue that leads up into its modern and chic belly where endless stores are stacked into the heavens.

Singapore is an epicentre for commerce, the range and abundance of products on offer nearly as diverse and eclectic as its population. Probably due to its strategic location as an aviation gateway from the west into the region, the city has flourished and become a microcosm of Asia; a melting pot where people from every corner of the Asian world have congregated and thrived. It’s as if some sort of all-powerful knell has allured them to this very spot, the promise of riches and freedom ingrained somewhere in the very fabric of the tiny island itself, forever within reach to any who answers its call.

It’s a multi-cultural city beyond any level I’ve seen before. Having dallied with membership of Malaysia for a mere two years, the island-state were kicked out (someone probably found its prodigious meat mountain) in 1965, since then promoting an open attitude to trade and work, managing to entice like-minded citizens from its surrounding countries to come, and work, and shop, and sweat.

Despite its historical connections with Malaysia, only about one fifth of the population are actually of Malay descent, with the majority of the inhabitants made up of a sizeable Chinese contingent. About 10% have an Indian background with the rest an assorted motley of Arabs, Eurasians and a smattering of other exotic nationalities that all merge together so seamlessly that it’s hard to think of them as, collectively, anything but Singaporean.

It’s a progressive town, with a travel network that puts Ireland to shame. (No shock there, the transport infrastructure of every single city we’re visited so far has surpassed the shambles of trying to get from A to B back home.) It’s not just the frequent and clean trains, it’s the attitude toward progress and investment that is refreshing. On a trip out to Little India I read an advertisement on the metro in relation to Singapore’s ongoing fibre optic cable upgrade. Want to know when the fibre is passing your business/apartment? Ring this number and we’ll tell you when it’s swinging by so we can hook you up with ultra high-speed internet. Not if it will be coming. When. And, trust us, it’s coming soon.

In contrast, look at Ireland’s antiquated system of monopolistic skulduggery perpetuated by the main vendor in the country, blocking IPs and suffering coverage blackouts willy-nilly. That’s even if you can get internet in your area. Live outside of Dublin and it’s a complete crap shoot.

It’s easy to say that, considering Singapore’s diminutive size, it’s easy to get a small country right. This couldn’t be further from the truth. This is an island-state that has fought tooth and nail to be a hub for the larger and ultra-competitive area, enticing investors into the market and providing world-class services for its increasingly affluent inhabitants. Ireland, on the other hand, stutters from one bad business decision to the next, tarnishing its international reputation and crippling its citizens with bad banks and worse morals from the people in charge.

But back to Singapore. If I’m being honest, I knew very little about the island nation before I went there. For example, I wasn’t even sure if it was even a real country. I know, I know. How embarrassing. More accurately, I wasn’t sure if it was merely a city, and if not, if this country was still a member of Malaysia or where in the smattering of islands in that neck of the woods above Australia it actually was. I’m educated now and I feel all the better for it.

Singapore is not for me, however. Apart from the ubiquitous shopping, public services that work and a cultural crucible guaranteeing that things will always be at least interesting, there are, however, a few negatives to the place. Compared to the rest of Asia, it’s not cheap. It’s still cheaper than Dublin, of course. But where isn’t? Living in Ireland is like living in Harrods, a Harrods that’s on fire with you stuck inside, trapped and unable to leave. Still, there are other more attractive places in Asia to live in and, let’s face it, despite the large amount of Westerns walking/shuffling about the place in the heat, it’s not a city that caters or panders to Western tastes.

In other words, Singapore is not somewhere that is completely “foreigner-friendly” per se.  Not in the “we’ll kill you if you call a teddy bear a religious name” kind of way (though I’ll get to that later) but more how the commercialism has ballooned into a beast; an esurient monster which is not too amiable toward those of us not from the area. The biggest issue I can see is how Singapore has embraced Laissez-faire economics, a system with apparently no morals, no boundaries, and almost no regulation against rampant price-gouging, and run with it. I’m all for capitalism and chancing your arm to see what you can get for your product or service, but the practice has blossomed in Singapore beyond the usual and acceptable “fleece the foreigner” shenanigans. Call it entrepreneurialism if you will, but there is definitely a case in Singapore of one price for the locals, and one super-inflated price for the tourists. Of course, this sneaky inflationary trait happens all around the world. It’s just exceptionally devious in Singapore.

Wishing to pick up a new lens for her camera, Sheila and I walk through endless sterile shopping complexes in search of a particular optical device. When we do finally find a store that has it in stock – a respectable FujiFilm stockist no less – we’re confronted by a pushy individual who rolls out the red-with-the-blood-of-past-chumped-foreigners carpet. He opens with a price of S$285 which is roughly €135. Scandalous, considering we’re seen it online for US$60 (plus shipping).

We show no signs of interest and I tell him what I can get the exact same lens for back home. “Sixty dollars? Not possible,” he says incredulously. We still don’t seem like we believe his bullshit price. So he halves it. “For you? S$180. I can do no more.” I literally chuckle, in part because he’s just wiped roughly S$100 off the opening price in a matter of seconds, but also because I know what’s going on here and I want him to realise that I’m not going to fall for the banana in the tailpipe routine.

“No way,” I tell him with a shake of my head. Sheila is laughing along and uttering words like “rip-off” and “sixty?” to which his eyes nearly squirt out of his thieving head. He offers another price I can’t remember but I’m pretty sure it consists of another sizeable drop. We’re still not budging. Sheila tells him we’re going to go away and think about it, virtual sales death to the ears of any sales-man. He spins the calculator on the desk to face us. “How much you give me?”

Sheila looks at me with an expression somewhere between smugness and spitefulness. I say “one hundred”, trying to gauge the guy’s reaction from behind the counter. Before I can work out if he’s stopped breathing or not, Sheila asks, as coolly as you like, “Sixty?”

We settle on eighty and submit our counter-offer. He balks, probably curses our names in some ancient tongue and retorts with “eighty-five”, obviously feeling like he needs to have the final say or be eternally shamed when turning up at the weekly “We scam tourists for fun” poker game.

Later on, Sheila does some research on the web and finds out that we actually got a good deal. I’m sure he still made his mark-up – just not to the extent some other less informed people online were subjected to. We find testimonies from a range of enraged people claiming to have been charged anything up to S$500 for the same piece of equipment. In a way I think “more fool them”, but at the same time, it’s this practice of trying to gouge as much money out of someone that I just don’t agree with. I guess it’s the discrimination factor. We’re being discriminated against because we’re not local. At least back home everyone gets ripped off equally.

This treatment of tourists can be seen further in Singapore’s facetious self-christened title of “City of Fines.” You can get a fine for jaywalking, for spitting, for feeding wild animals, even for scratching your arse in the presence of the President. I don’t even want to mention what happens if you’re caught with chewing gum on your person. Some of the amounts of these fines will take your breath away, and if you’re stupid enough to try and import narcotics into this idyllic land of meat and frigid shopping complexes, I mean that quite literally. The death penalty is enforced in these parts, a terminal solution for the stupid and the naive. William Gibson, whom I mentioned previously on this blog, once wrote a famous article about Singapore entitled “Disneyland with the Death Penalty.” It’s an accurate portrayal of the city, and one that got the magazine it was published in, Wired, banned forever in the micro-state.

The fact is, Singapore is a lot more liberal and open-minded than the illusion of strict, hardcore police-state it sometimes likes to purport. It’s a flavour of hypocrisy in a way as, though visitors to the island must be on their best behaviour, the locals can do whatever they please it seems. We see jaywalking, we see spitting, we don’t see anyone insult the President (and chewing gum is actually available to buy, albeit in a pharmacy) but, in general, there’s one rule for them and another for you. Which is OK in a way as I believe visitors to any land should respect the local culture and obey all rules and regulations – even if they appear a little backward. It’s just a little difficult to understand what is a law and what is one of those “we passed it because we had to” type enforcements. Of course, best bet is to just treat everything as risky, but it’s a gray area that is a little confusing at times and one that will have you sweating when you innocently step off a path, technically on to a road, and a cop is looking straight at you.

Case in point. At one point as we saunter around the city, around Clarke’s Quay in fact, a man walks towards us, crossing one of the many bridges over the brown and slow river. I only catch a snippet of the conversation being held between him and an unseen person at other end of his phone, but I easily pick up the sentence: “Yes, the escort must be no older than 35.” Singapore is many things: modern, vibrant, opulent yet with equal amounts of poverty alongside the sky-scrapers and frozen malls. It’s also apparently leading a double life.

Apart from our incessant ducking in and out of shopping malls mostly to stay cool, we decide one day to take a walk over what is probably the one part of the island that lacks any buildings, a micro-rainforest right in the centre of downtown. Our vantage point is assisted by a 9km walkway constructed over the foliage, numerous sections with their own quirks, names and qualities connecting one another to form a long and pleasurable forest walk – without actually setting foot on the forest floor. It’s hot and sticky, and we encounter numerous peculiarities during the two hour long preamble. Such as a troop of Chinese half-naked joggers who race along the tree-tops, sweating and swearing profusely in equal measure. What we don’t see are any monkeys, despite the numerous signs informing us of a S$1000 fine if we dare partake in the practice of feeding them.

Singapore is a strange collision of themes, sights and sounds. It’s an experience I would recommend to anyone – as long as they knew that there isn’t a great deal to see (or do) on the island other than shop, sweat and fret about committing some arcane crime that might lose you your hands, though more likely the contents of your wallet.

It was memorable, sometimes not for the right reasons but, as an experience, it was a intriguing part of our trip.

Note: Apologies for the lack of entries in this series of late. I’m back home after the trip, and though all of my travel logs were written before I left Asia (well, all but the final one), I’ve been so busy with settling back in and looking for work that I’ve neglected my blog. I have roughly six posts to finish the series out. Expect them all to go live this week.

As we trundle along the pavements of Cairns’ streets, I immediately notice how low the city is. It makes sense, I suppose, after all, if I was living in a city parked about twenty miles from the sun, I’d hardly be building towering complexes to get even closer to the source of all the penetrating heat either.

The layout of Cairns is genius. You exit the train-station and you’re in Cairns Central, the city’s largest shopping centre. You walk through said shopping centre and you’re soon surrounded by some rough looking bars and dodgy restaurants with names like Fasta Pasta. And then a short walk leads you down to the esplanade and a man-made lagoon where people jump in and away from the heat at all hours of the day.

The activities of the previous few days and all the travelling has completely wiped us out, so we decide Cairns is pretty much going to be “dead time.” After the first night in a hostel which acted more like a waypoint than anything else, we move to the Traveller’s Oasis, a nice complex run by a Northern Irish woman. We spend our days walking the short distance over to the mall and meandering about checking out shops and a smorgasbord of culinary options.

Though we never actually buy anything at McDonalds, we do sit in the food court and munch on their free wifi. We drink coffee, eat muffins, sushi and healthy wraps, and generally become mall-rats for a few days. It’s cool inside the mega-complex, there’s food and caffeine and free internet. I might be crazy but, considering there really isn’t a great deal to do in Cairns at the best of times, I’m content to say that “Yes, I spent a shed-load of time in a shopping centre on my trip and I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

I walk into the site’s two gaming stores and talk bollocks with the staff. It’s always fun to play the “How much does this guy know?” game with the guys and gals who work in gaming outlets. It’s always a two-way test. Am I some schmuck who doesn’t know his Activision from his arsehole? And, just as important, are the clerks just shelf-stockers who don’t know that Vagrant Story is the greatest RPG to come out of Japan, not Final Fantasy?

I should note that I fully respect these people. After all, the vast majority of them are gamers; my brethren and compatriots. That said, they do talk an awful lot of twaddle at times. Of course, that’s their job. And, let’s face it, a large proportion of the people who find themselves trapped in the shiny confines of a gaming store haven’t one iota about what the hell is going on, and are there only to, somehow, get a product they have a vague idea exists for a loved-one who’s probably not old enough to play it in the first place.

The sales clerk opens with an enquiry, something about a pre-order for Modern Warfare 2. I fit the demographic: early thirties, male, partial to shooting people in the head whether they deserve it or not. So it’s hardly some telepathic parlour trick that he has started the ball rolling with this particular gambit.

My accent declares that I’m unlikely to be dropping any coin in the store today. I could have moved to Cairns of course, but I’m also sporting blotchy skin, a dishevelled look Geldolf would balk at, and a wardrobe choice that screams “I live out of a bag. Sometimes I don’t wear underwear, and not out of choice.”

After a few preliminary rounds of the knowledge game, the clerk lets his guard down a little. He can tell that a) I know a thing or two about the industry, b) I’m not a fanboy who wants to talk about how a particular game is better on one console rather than the other and c) I’ve been starved of gaming conversation over the previous few months. We talk nonsense for about half an hour, using the parlance of gaming only a designated few can understand.

Of course, spending nearly a week in a mall would be a sacrilegious so, toward the end of our stay in Cairns, we decide to partake of yet another boat trip.

This time, it’s a larger vessel with multiple decks, a real dining area and a crew that actually deliver the safety demonstration without making wise-cracks about drowning. Fancying a change, we’ve signed up for some scuba, both our PADI licences sitting snugly in our respective wallets ready to be pulled out and waved under the nose of any dive-master who cares. Closer to the date, however, and we realise that the snorkelling we’ve experienced so far has been more than enough, it’s probably overkill to have to encase ourselves in so much equipment to go a few extra metres, and, most importantly, we’re both sporting the remnants of sniffles picked up somewhere between Hervey Bay and Cairns; a particular malady dive masters warn against diving with. Considering the last time Sheila dived (in Iceland) with a cold she surfaced looking like Carrie at the prom from the eponymous movie, we decide to change at the last minute and tell our tour operator that snorkelling will be fine.

We board and, unable to contain myself, I notice a couple of the deck-hands are Japanese and, you guessed it, I pluck up the courage and launch into pigeon Nipponese with one of them, the ever helpful Yuta. He gives me that “Ohhh!!” look when he hears his native tongue and folds into a deep bow, telling me how splendid my Japanese is. Either that or where the life-jackets were. It could have been either. Throughout the excursion I throw snippets of Japanese at him which, I think, he finds hilarious. Of course, my Japanese is severely limited, and I think the most complex (and bizarre) thing I said to him was “Ja, sore wa tsumarakunai deshita yo.” (“Well, that definitely wasn’t boring!”) after exploring one of the more cavernous and beautiful coral locations.

The whole purpose of the trip is the aforementioned snorkelling. We zoom out from Cairns at a rate much faster than any of our previous open-sea voyages. It’s because of this excessive motion that I start to feel exceptionally queasy near the end of the journey. In fact, if we hadn’t had stopped at the first dive location when we did, I’m pretty sure Yuta would have been cursing my Japanese-butchering soul as he cleaned up all the free tea and muffins the crew had plied me with earlier.

We wiggle into Lyrca suits (this time they incur no charge) and explore the Great Barrier Reef. For me, this was the pinnacle of our diving experiences in Australia. Sure, Bali Hai was more intimate and the coral a lot closer to the surface, allowing for a more leisurely drift and view type deal, but here on the Great Barrier Reef the range of coral and fish species is almost innumerable.

We dive at three separate locations, each slightly different and populated by varying local inhabitants. On the third dive, Yuta dons fins and mask and takes us on a guided tour of the area. As we follow him, bashing into one another at times or accidently sticking a fin into someone’s face, he dives and explores, resurfacing often to point below and blurt out a few choice words before a wave disrupts his broken yet passable English.

Finally, on my fifth and final dive in Australia, I find Nemo. Or the elusive clown-fish, to give him his more accurate moniker. Well, if I’m being honest, it’s actually Yuta who actually finds him in among the swaying anemones. He’s tiny, and just when I think he must be a baby Nemo, his young appears next to him, ducking in and out of the watery fronds. No, Nemo is just a lot smaller than expected.

Other highlights on the underwater trip include spotting a giant green turtle. Swimming silently and slowly about five metres below the surface, we line up behind him and, at least temporarily, become part of his migratory pack. He’s missing a foot, a malady Yuta explains as quite likely the result of a shark attack. He seems nonplussed about the missing appendage, however, and quietly drifts with the currents, holding his breath for a lot longer than any human (bar David Blaine) could muster.

Interspersed between the mall runs and diving, we take in a couple of jogs down by the esplanade. It’s a pleasant area of the city and I can see why most of Cairns are uncontrollably drawn to the boardwalk and surrounding amenities. On one particular run, the skies darken and a downpour so thorough is unleashed that I’m literally spitting mouthfuls of water as I pound pavement and boardwalk alongside Cairns’ coastline.

We change hostels simply because Traveller’s Oasis is full up, moving up to Tropic Days, a sister hostel around the corner where we avail of the “deluxe” room. Which is basically a room with a TV and DVD player. Amenities we never use.

Cairns reminds me a lot of an outpost town. Off the beaten track and thousands of miles from the rest of civilisation, there’s a nomadic quality to the place, its inhabitants seemingly a bit more rough around the edges and wilder than the other Australians we meet on our journey. As we walk along the sun-drenched promenades, live bands blasting out rock music at two in the afternoon, we finally reach McDonald’s down at the water’s edge where “Johno”, a slightly touched but amenable fellow, knocks out Jimi Hendrix classics on various guitars. It’s all very laid-back, isolated and carefree.

In truth, there’s not a lot to see or do in Cairns other than to use the place as a stepping stone out onto the Reef. But it’s still a nice place to visit, to eat and drink, but also to hide behind the pretence of someday buying a Big Mac while you “steal” the free wifi.

Actually, we’re not really in Airlie Beach, but it’s damn close and we’re promised a frequent courtesy bus that’ll whisk us into the nearby hot-spot pretty much at our discretion.

As we disembark the feeder bus, lugging backpacks from the trailer contraption that has followed us all the way from the train station like an obedient dog, the bus driver cocks his head to the sound of bird call and points up into the trees.

“Black Cockatoo,” he says, “really rare bird.” We look up and, no shit, what looks like two large, black parrots are perched on the branches of a near leafless tree welcoming us to the area.

I need an omen, anything that suggests life is going to get a little better after the horrors of the previous night, so I take this wholeheartedly. Two rare black birds. It’ll have to do.

We trudge our way up through the blistering heat to where we’ll be staying for the next few days. The hostel is laid out like a holiday park, twin rows of single storey chalets lining a road up to an office building and a rudimentary living area. We check-in and are welcomed by the seemingly perpetually stunned yet extremely helpful Ken, the proprietor of the place. After dumping our belongings into our shack, we return to Ken and tell him that we’re interested in getting out into the water on a sailing trip.

Ken immediately kicks into used-car salesman mode and plucks about a dozen or so colourful pamphlets from their plastic holders adorning both his desk and walls. They’re laid out in front of us like an excursion buffet, Ken rattling off well-rehearsed spiels about each of the numerous trips. Amusingly, Ken also seems to be fond of the phrase “shit-fight”. As in: “There’ll be a shit-fight for brekkie in the morning.” I hold my breath and do my best not to burst out laughing to his face. The second time he says it, however, I’m pretty sure I inadvertently pee my pants a little.

Ultimately we decide on a sailing trip on the good-ship Domino which promises to be intimate and spectacular. Intimate because it holds a maximum of eight passengers plus skipper, and spectacular because, for reasons that are never really explained, the captain and his vessel are the only operation in the area permitted to go to Bali Hai Island on a daily basis. Literally a tiny spit of an island near the north of the Whitsundays, Bali Hai is isolated, picturesque and boasts some of the best coral anywhere in the world – and that includes the Great Barrier Reef.

We also choose the Whitehaven Xpress excursion as, though definitely less intimate than the Domino sailing trip(the boat caters for around 50), it goes to Whitehaven Beach, a stretch of sand out in the Whitsunday Islands anecdotally considered the best beach in Australia. It’s so good, in fact, it’s where the slightly controversial Australian tourism advertisement that played back home (the one with the model frolicking around in the surf and asking “Where the bloody well are ya?”) was filmed. The movie Fool’s Gold with Kate Hudson and Mathew McConaughey was also filmed here. Shit movie. Nice beach though. In other words: if you’re looking for the epitome of what an idyllic beach looks like, you go to Whitehaven in the Whitsundays.

Both trips also provide the chance to do some snorkelling, something we’ve been looking forward to doing ever since planning this mammoth trip over a year ago. There is also promise of a barbeque and high adventure.

We take the free shuttle into Airlie Beach to get a look at what kind of town has sprouted up next to one of the most beautiful collection of islands the world has to offer. Unfortunately, Airlie Beach is not much to our liking. For one thing, it’s actually quite built up, something we are trying to consciously avoid during this leg of our trip. As the town focuses around a strip of bars and restaurants of the size we really haven’t seen since Sydney, we feel a little displaced; strangers in a strange town offering all the things we don’t want to experience travelling the globe.

The inhabitants of Airlie Beach are pretty much made up of your typical backpacker fare. And though we’re, technically, inherent members of this wayward tribe, we’re a few years older than your average “around-the-worlder” and the allure of staying up all night in bars and spending your diving money on pitchers of strange concoctions is not something we have much interest in.

We eat at a Mexican one night while a spell of bad weather rushes in from the ocean and sends sheets of rain slanting in on top of our burritos and quesadillas. Another night we’re lured in to the Hog’s Breath Cafe with the promise of a steak cooked for eighteen hours. As we sit on the first storey veranda overlooking the harbour, the dark leafy trees at our eye-level suddenly become alive with screeching and movement. What I initially assume are large birds, I quickly realise are giant bats swooping around the area and attacking one another in the trees. At least it sounds like they’re attacking each other – it could be bat-mating season in Airlie Beach for all I know. What I do know, however, is that if that’s them getting it on, I never want to be attacked by a bat.

First up of our double jaunt out to islands is the sailing trip. We’re dropped down to Airlie Beach by the perpetually cantankerous and transparently saccharine women who is obviously travelling herself but choosing to stay in the cabins and make some money annoying the guests. When she’s not managing to get us lost that is.

It’s here we’re greeted by the skipper of the Domino sailing boat, Reg. Originally from the Netherlands but very much a man of the globe now (he bought the Domino where she was built, in New Zealand, and then sailed her to Australia. He’s also sailed across the Pacific in the craft), Reg is affable without possessing that overwhelmingly fake “niceness” that comes with dealing with strangers who have just been entrusted into your care and expect to be entertained. He’s flagrantly honest at all times, especially when the boat starts falling apart later in the trip, but, in general, he emits a worldly vibe of experience and confidence that is both admirable and inspiring. Reg has seen it all. He’s not going to sit there and boast about it, but if you ask him – he’ll tell you stories of life on the open sea that will both enthral and scare the shit out of you.

My favourite turns out to be when he steered the Domino for 48 hours straight in a storm, his wife feeding him at regular intervals, blood pouring from the open wounds on his hands, his body wracked with pain and suffering I equate to chasing white whales and not sailing with one’s wife from one port to the next.

Joining our adventure are a German couple, Michael and Verena, who, after working for years for Lufthansa in Germany, decided a change was in order and moved to Sydney when an opportunity to work for Qantas presented itself. Michael is a quintessential German; vocal and eccentric, an engineer by trade who has a fascination with sailing. This fixation actually comes in handy later on when the aforementioned calamities strike the ship but, for the most part, he’s happy to bombard Reg with questions about jibs and main sails, how much this or that cost, when not enquiring about the virtues of a wooden ship encased in fibreglass versus today’s newer technique of making the whole thing out of fibreglass altogether.

We’re fortunate as, today, there’s only six of the maximum possible eight passengers on board, the final two made up of Stefan, another German who is travelling around Australia on his own, and Rob, an English chap who seems to have had a similar mid-life crisis to my own and, shunning the hardship of trying to find work in a recession, decided to just bolt for the horizon and see what happens. Apart from the paying customers, we’re also joined by first-mate in training Gary – a middle aged ginger bearded Aussie who we learn later has spent his life as a teacher but now wants to try out his sea-legs and become a qualified first mate – or whatever the actual term is.

After a perfunctory safety demonstration by Reg’s wife (“Can you swim? Great, welcome aboard!”), Reg guides the 40 footer out into the marina and sets off for the Whitsundays.

Sailing on the Domino was an absolutely thrilling experience. As we race across the marina, Reg berates other tour operators in the area who basically promise their customers a sailing experience but then motor about the bay all day, never once putting up the sail because, and I quote, “It’s too much like hard bloody work.” As the boat leans dangerously into the waves and we perch on the starboard side with the sea rushing below us, the water sometimes almost perpendicular to our feet, Reg regales us of the life of a sea-captain. He explains how he’s sixty-two and semi-retired. Having worked for the likes of Qantas himself (as a air steward no less. “Coffee, tea or me?” Reg asks jokingly), he has gone through a series of boats before the Domino. It sounds a little like a young man constantly trading upwards until he got what he wanted. The Domino, to him, is the pinnacle of his sailing dream; a boat big enough to live on (though he doesn’t, he has a house on one of the islands), but small enough for him to handle by himself.

We admire the view and Reg’s insightful anecdotes on life, sailing and growing old, skipping over the swells and out towards the islands. The Germans never stop nattering to him but he seems to take it all in his stride, correcting Michael’s limited knowledge of marine matters and dishing up glasses of orange juice when needed.

A couple of hours later and we reach the deserted Bali Hai. Along the way, Reg has noticed that the starter motor has given up the ghost, and with Michael throwing possible technical maladies at the skipper while Reg kicks and curses it, we resign to the fact that all close-quarter manoeuvring from now on will have to be performed “under sail” and not with the preciseness of mechanical guidance.

As an island, Bali Hai is remarkably small; more a tiny dot in an endless blue seascape and no bigger than half a football pitch. Reg ushers us into the trailing dinghy and then takes us in groups to the shore, leaving us there in order to return to the boat and pick up the Germans and Rob. I’m struck by the fact that, for the briefest of moments, myself and Sheila are the only two people on the entire island. We resist the urge to get naked.

We prepare for some snorkelling and survey our surroundings. I hear them before I actually see them – loud squawks of primal warning. Looking out over the makeshift bay of rocks and coral, we see a small squat column of gathered stones, like a silent cairn resting calmly in the breaking waves of the island, the top of this rocky outcropping adorned with a giant nest of branches. Resembling what I initially mistake to be a prehistoric lair, I quickly realise the shrieking is coming from a demanding osprey chick, its head barely visible over the filigree of brambles. I search the sky, and there sitting in the trees, like majestic sentinels, perch two giant osprey hawks.

We watch as the male and female take turns swooping into the waters, plucking a varicoloured fish from the sea before returning to the tree to examine their prey. The fish usually flap about in their hunter’s talons for a few minutes before the bird is adequately appeased that it’s truly dead and offers no risk to its offspring. It then glides into the nest and feeds the squalling youngster.

By this time Reg has returned to the island with the rest of the crew. We don our flippers and masks and walk backwards into the calm waters.

The coral around Bali Hai is truly outstanding. We visit a number of coral sites over the following days but what we see here is probably unsurpassed. Maybe it’s its seclusion or the low tide, but the coral at Bali Hai is literally like something from a nature program. With our masks and flippers securely fitted, we start investigating the area, skimming up and down along the coast while taking in the aquatic beauty below us. It’s hard to put into words just how clear and stunning the underwater world is. The various types of coral, some fixed, some swaying in an invisible current-breeze, always vibrant and awe inspiring. The fish are also plentiful and pretty much nonchalant to our presence. We see an eclectic range of species and creatures of various sizes from the tiny neon fish to a giant shuffling beast that looks like a barracuda.

After an hour of diving in among the coral gardens we surface and partake of a pleasant lunch on the island. Soon enough Reg tells us that it’s getting near time we were leaving. Before we go, we walk down to the nest to get a better look at the ospreys. With the adults keeping a watchful eye above us, we try to get a better look at junior but only manage to hear his incessant calls for fish. We take photos while Sheila complains at the lack of a telephoto lens. After a few minutes in the blistering sun we cautiously climb over razor-sharp rocks and board the boat.

The trip back is pretty much identical to the voyage out to Bali Hai with the added bonus of Reg asking me to take the helm and guide the boat in the general direction of our moorings. Sailing the boat is a thrill, something I didn’t think I’d actually get much of a buzz out of but, as the wind careens in and the boat starts to whip around in the force, the tiller starts to break free from my grasp and I find myself pulling or pushing it contrary to the wind and back on course with much satisfaction.

At some point on the trip back, one of the complicated mechanical doohickeys on the ship breaks. To the layman it appears to be a small box of levers and gears, some sort of contraption the boat’s many ropes are fed through and controlled within.

Reg curses and laments its cost and how he has literally just upgraded the “rope manipulation” technology on the boat. In other words, it shouldn’t be breaking so soon after purchase. Michael opens it up and start plucking small yet important looking metal plates from its now destroyed guts, much to the shock and bafflement of Reg. Ultimately, the lack of a fully operating “rope manipulating” system appears to do little but piss Reg off in relation to its pricey repair job. We can continue sailing safely with a little extra effort on the skipper’s and first-mate’s behalf. At least he’s managed to get the starter motor working again.

It’s only when we enter the marina at eight nautical knots, a fair gait I should add, and Reg attempts to down sail do we fully realise our predicament. For some technical reason I will never fully comprehend, but undoubtedly due to the banjaxed widget-box, the main sail will not descend. To put this another way: we’re racing toward the dock at twice the legal speed like the cruise ship about to slam into the island in Speed 2.

As Reg, Gary and Michael start scrambling up and over the rigging, the skipper turns to me and entrusts the long wooden tiller into my grasp with a steely expression. “I have to cut the sail,” he says, more serious than I’ve seen him all day, “here, steer the boat. Anywhere so we don’t crash would be great.”

Called into action, I focus on maintaining course and not hitting any of the other boats. At one point we need to do a 180 degree turn and make another pass at the marina entrance. Reg jumps down and steals the steering mechanism from my hands and throws the boat into a tight turn before going back to bouncing around the boat like a nimble pirate.

Eventually the main sail retracts and our speed lowers. Reg guides us over the final few meters still cursing the shoddy rope-box. It’s only when Sheila reminds him that it’s fortunate that we got the starting motor fixed does he visibly blanche. You can see his mind turning the variables over and over. No motor, main sail that won’t come down. How the hell are you supposed to dock a boat if you can’t control your speed?

We depart and thank Reg for a genuinely exciting day. Even if we didn’t have the highjinks at the end, the trip was full of memories. Of all the crazy things we’ve done on this trip, the bungee jumps, the sky-dives, the zorbing, the racing across the night in Hawaii, our sailing trip to Bali Hai ranks right up there, if not at the very top of all of the many wonderful things we’ve done on this around the world jaunt.

Bonded through the experience of life on the seas, we go for a few drinks with the Germans (Rob seemed to have just disappeared, likely just happy to be still alive). We talk about our lives and somehow get on to World War II. I’ve always been intrigued about talking to actual German people about their perception of the war but I appreciate that, socially, it’s always been quite gauche to bring it up. Like mentioning your friend’s extramarital affair in front of his wife years after she’s forgiven him. It’s just not done.

Thank Buddha for beer then, as I pick the brains of some very level-headed and knowledgeable Germans on the delicate subject. The conclusion (for those that are interested) was that Hitler started off with some good ideas and dragged Germany back into productivity – and then went bat-shit insane. We exchange email addresses with the guys (something we’ve rarely done on this trip. I genuinely don’t need to speak to the vast majority of people I’ve met on this trip again) and part ways.

Our second sailing experience in the Whitsundays was very different than our first considering the Whitehaven Xpress is a much more commercial and touristy excursion. The boat, much bigger and without sails, is faster than the Domino but completely lacks its grace and appeal. The team behind the trip are a family of brothers and one hard-working mother (who doesn’t actually make the trip out with us) who seem in their element joking with the passengers and generally being affable if not a tad cocky and all-knowing. It’s all smirks and high-fives as we thunder across the bay, completing the same journey we did the day before on the sailboat in a matter of minutes.  The ride is noticeably rougher as the boat launches itself off ramps of heavy swell, bouncing us around the cabin like weightless land-lubbers. After about an hour of this, we reach Whitehaven and I’m thankful for getting on solid ground again.

True to the brochures, Whitehaven Beach is breathtakingly picturesque. We take a walk up to a look-out point and marvel at the panoramic view. Then, from out of nowhere, Israeli girl from Fraser Island appears and we exchange some brief friendly comments, neither of us having any real desire to spend anymore time with the other. I remind myself to keep an ear out for her during the lunch-time barbeque when she will undoubtedly mention the “no pork” rule. I’m not disappointed.

The food is surprisingly good with a wide range of different meats and a large platter of succulent fruit. We eat well and walk up and down the beach as a constant stream of ships creep into the area and offload more and more tourists onto the white sands.

Back in the boat, we zip over to what is, for us at least, our second chance for some snorkelling. This time we rent stinger suits as the Brothers Dim seem sure there are jelly-fish in the water. It’s a scam to get more money out of the tourists, of course, but we go along anyway. After all, the thin Lycra suit adds an extra layer of warmth and does away with the need to apply sunscreen. Made up like a giant sperm cell — or if I’m deluded enough to even dream I look hot in a full-sized condom rigout, an aquatic ninja – we prepare for submersion.

Just as I’m dangling my flippers in the water and about to dip in, some large shapes emerge from the deep and start circling. It stops me in my tracks as, though I’m sure they’re not sharks, fish of such size inherently freaks the shit out of me. After one of the brothers starts to get antsy about me not getting in the water and letting other people sit at the back of the boat, I drop in and hope to whatever gods are looking that this monster fish doesn’t think I’m lunch.

The fish turns out to be a wrasse, about three metres in length and pretty docile when up close. Still, monster fish are a tad disconcerting so we stick to the reef and coral for a while before building up the courage to double-back and check out King Wrasse and his two equally large mates near the stern of the boat.

The second snorkel is fine but it’s nowhere near as clear or beautiful as our first experience out by Bali Hai. After drying off and settling in for the trip back, we eat some free cheese and try not to bring it back up again.

The Whitsundays are truly a paradise haven. It’s not all blistering white beaches and romantic sailing, however, as the surrounding towns offer little for those uninterested in raucous nightlife or the backpacking ethos but the views, the islands, and the real sailing more than makes up for it.

Dreading another train journey after the debacle of the last one, we make our way into town and then to the train station where we board for Cairns. It’s a daytime trip though, so, little chance this time of getting gassed.

Even now, sitting in Kuala Lumpur’s humidity and typing up my memories of the nightmarish event, I still can not fully comprehend, never mind see the funny side of, the absolute horror that befell me. I’m getting ahead of myself …

We decide to head north to the Whitsunday Islands by train. It’s a fourteen hour voyage through dark, inhospitable Australian hinterland, and considering it starts (or was supposed to start – the train was late due to overbooking and the company’s inability to find spare carriages) at 8pm, this part of our journey is going to entail sleeping through the night in a metal tube laden with some of the weirdest people on the planet. I’m not sure what attracts crazies to overnight train trips but, as we rocket north to a destination I’m not even sure exists, I soon have more things to worry about.

Myself and Sheila are separated during this ordeal (we go quietly, it wasn’t like Sophie’s Choice or anything) as, unless you fork out for a double berth (we tried, they were sold out), passengers are confined to sleeping with two other strange people of the same gender in a cabin that looks like it couldn’t adequately accommodate a pair of midgets never mind three grown adults.

I leave Sheila in a nearby berth with some peculiar woman rocking gently back and forth on the seats (which transform into “beds” upon request) and enter my berth. There’s one gent there, sitting and quietly reading what appear to be notes. He’s a man in his fifties, maybe sixty, and it’s only when he doesn’t move as I try to pass him with my bags do I realise that he’s disabled.

We never exchange names but talk a great deal over the following hours about a myriad of topics. He’s actually English and has been living in Australia since 1976 an, despite over thirty years on the continent, he has managed to retain his accent and a quintessentially British outlook on life. He tells me how much he enjoys travelling by train and imparts reams of local knowledge of the land we’re passing through I doubt I would have ever received if not in the company of such a sage-like elder of the area.

Soon enough it’s time to sleep, and I notice I’ve been lumbered with the top bunk, my new friend happy to simply lay on the seat below. The third member of our happenin’ gang seems to have never turned up, leaving the middle berth forever unused. This works out well for him though as he now has extra space between where he’s sleeping and the bottom of my bunk. For me, it makes no difference. I’m still entombed, vampire-like, in an area that is borderline torturous in size.

Sleeping on an overnight train is a little like eating on a rollercoaster. The practice comprises taking a very natural and common act you’ve been doing since the womb, twists it so that it is vaguely reminiscent of what you’re familiar with, and then injects it into a totally foreign and warped environment. I should add that this observation is not based on travelling by extravagant means such as the Orient Express, which I’m sure is a pleasant and thrilling experience. No, we were on the Sunlander – a train designed it seems to inflict as much discomfort on its sleeping inhabitants as possible.

I cagily climb into the top bunk and, though not usually someone who suffers from claustrophobia, the feeling of entrapment immediately grips me. My nose is about five or six inches from the roof of the cabin, and there are twin straps taut beside be between the bed’s edge and the roof, obviously to prevent me from rolling over in my sleep and plummeting to the cabin floor below. Or just committing suicide in general. Careening over the edge and just ending it all a remote yet plausible thought.

Just as I think my little capsule hell can’t get any worse, I hear the telltale sound of aerosol from below. The first thought that crosses my mind is that my new travel companion is simply freshening up. I’m not partial to dousing myself in spray before going to bed (or at anytime for that matter) but who am I to question other males of the species and their nightly rituals? When a foul smell hits me in the face like a thundering elbow, I rethink my theory to cover the possibility that the chap below has just let one off and is attempting to mask the foul stench wafting up toward me on the top bunk. It’s only when I realise the smell is less fart and more faecal matter do I understand that my unfortunate disabled bunk-buddy is attempting to cover-up something much more insidious and heart-wrenching.

Truth be told, I feel bad even mentioning this crazy episode from my around the world trip. It’s embarrassing, more for the guy in question that what I had to unfortunately endure. I’ll therefore leave it to your imagination as to what exactly was going on below me. Needless to say, as the stench lingers, I start to gag and my “shite or flight” tendency kicks into over-drive.

An hour into the endurance test I decide to escape. I’m not sure where the hell I’m going to go, but anywhere than here sounds good at this point. I somehow wriggle back into some combats and a pair of socks that appear intent on fleeing the room by their own accord.

I contort and twist my way out of the cramped sarcophagus, pain lancing through my feet as I unwisely balance on the rungs of the ladder as I try to shimmy my way down. He’s awake and asks if I want the light on. As imagery of what it must be like to spend time in the company of another man while incarcerated in prison clouds my mind, I utter no and bolt out the door. It’s nearly two in the morning. The train shuffles over the dark track below at a leisurely gait, secretly concealing the actual speed we must be travelling at.

The carriages are deserted, the only sound the repetitive hush as metal displaces air, starkly apparent when passing between the railcars. I find the dining cart and it’s empty. Considering it’s the middle of the night, I would have been more surprised to find it otherwise. I sit here for a few minutes feeling sorry for myself. Not angry per se, but definitely unhappy that, once again, things just can’t be simple. I had some idea that travelling by train at night would not be the most pleasant of experiences. I didn’t expect to be fumigated in the process, however.

After a short time trying to balance my feet on a nearby chair, I move to the next carriage where I find a more amiable sleeping set up. The crescent seating couches encircling the simple tables are perfect for curling up on. Apparently, I’m not the only person who has deducted this delicious realisation as there are two other people ahead of me wrapped around the tables and soundly asleep. A large, gruff man sporting a prodigious, white mountain beard sits at the doorway. I initially take him to be staff but, examining the redness of his eyes and the way he ushers me onwards, I quickly realise that he’s also in search of slumber, just too big to fit on the arc-like makeshift beds.

Fatigue and relief in equal measures wash over me, and after curling into the foetal position, I’m asleep within seconds. Of course, it’s all too good to be true, and soon enough I’m dragged from my haven by a large female train employee who is now informing the four of us that we’re not allowed sleep here and that we’re to go back to our seats or cabins at once. One of my fellow stowaways contests the request, begging for clemency, stating how the woman in her berth is snoring like a pneumatic drill and if there is any spare seats anywhere. I feel like asking if said woman has shit herself because, if not, I have your hand beat, lady. The conductor flicks through a manifest and shakes her head, barks no, and moves off. We’re to leave immediately.

I contemplate just walking the train all night but know it’s probably impossible to hide from the people whose job it is to throw people off the back at night. I’m not sure how much sleep I’ve gotten but, and I can’t believe I’m contemplating this, maybe I could go back to the cabin and, somehow, sleep in my reeking coffin.

Returning to the scene of the crime it appears I was hardly missed. I am wise, however, that there is not a lot my stinky friend could really say regarding my absence. I make some excuse about claustrophobia (not really an excuse actually) and, still breathing through my mouth, I vault back up into the heavens and harden my mind against my dilemma; fortifying my thoughts against the reality of my surroundings and focusing on the task at hand. Sleeping in a sewer.

I awake what feels like minutes later and rendezvous with Sheila in the very dining carriage I was rumbled sleeping in only a few hours previous. She looks tired. I look furious. I don’t really know what to say. I want sympathy. I want to stop feeling like absolute rubbish. I want off this train. Now. I relay my ordeal and Sheila is a mixture of shocked, compassionate and amused all at once.

It’s bright outside now. While all this was happening the train has made its way dutifully ever-northward. Soon enough we’re slowing and my cabin-mate is leaving a few stops before us. He swings down to the floor and drags himself along the corridor as I carry his bags behind him. Reaching the carriage’s exit point, he waits for his wheelchair which arrives a few minutes later. I don’t know if he wants me to stay and help him on to the wheelchair but, considering he’s just literally crawled his way off the train, and the fact that there are train personnel at hand with the chair, I wish him good luck with his business up north and return to my cabin.

Sheila hasn’t had a too pleasant a night either, though her demons were more in the form of incessantly chatty older women who can’t take a hint while you’re trying to keep to yourself. Perhaps some old people keep talking for fear of spontaneously dying if they ever stop; their words a tangible connection to the mortal realm, the reaper patiently waiting close by for them to take a breath, be silent, and then never speak again.

We’re tired and I rest on the seat while Sheila reads, the train seemingly content to ramble the final few miles to Marlborough – our final destination – at a crawl.

“This cabin still smells of shit,” Sheila says as I try unsuccessfully to block out the memory.

“Tell me about it.”

A rubber-faced true Aussie bloke who prides himself on being an outdoorsman, a lover of barbeques and a connoisseur of fine any alcoholic beverage, Neil spots that I’m Irish and asks if I’ve brought the beer.

Ah, cultural stereotypes, where would we be without them? I catch my tongue before insinuating he’s a rampant criminal/koala fucker.

It’s not the last time Neil mentions beer, as while we scamper around Hervey and Rainbow Bay picking up unsuspecting tourists, each new recruit to his burgeoning merry band of island hoppers are quickly informed of the inner workings of the alcohol market on Fraser island, our destination for the next two days.

Long (and tedious) story short, there are limited supplies on Fraser so, naturally, the laws of economics pass into almost feral territory (much like the island itself) and what might cost you $3 on the coast will invariably cost you $200 once on the island. I might be embellishing a little but, fair dinkum, Neil spins a stark and cautionary tale and depicts an uber-capitalist market nightmare, sharp fanged yuppies hell-bent on taking your cash on every corner. Or perhaps under every tree considering corners will be in short supply where we’re going.

Fraser Island is the largest sand island in the world and Australia’s fourth largest outright. There are no surprises that Tasmania takes the prize in the biggest area stakes. What makes Fraser so special is the sand part. The product of millions of tonnes of residue coming off the sandstone flats hundreds of miles south in New South Wales, these sand particles have travelled northwards along the east coast over thousands and thousands of years and, somehow, fused and become collected between the island’s two only rock-based formations. Indian Head to the north (actually a volcanic outcropping) and Hook Point in the south.

The island is a veritable shopping list of world phenomenon. Only sand island in the world where rainforest grows for example. All that gorgeous polished wood in the Sydney Opera House? The species of tree is found on Fraser. The Panama canal? Lined with the timber of amazingly straight and branch-less trees only found on, you guessed it, Fraser. Dingos? Packs of them. Tourists trying to drive around the harsh landscape, invariably flipping their jeeps and killing themselves in the process? Check!

The location has a long history and Neil spends the next two days dishing out as much of it as he can over a loud-speaker without crashing the bus (a second time – but I’ll get to that). Originally referred to as (and quite descriptively I might add) “Great Sandy Island”, the isle now has the indignation of being called after an English sea-captain who, being a bit shit with the whole sea-faring part, ended up shipwrecked on the island with his long-suffering wife. It’s a fascinating and apocryphal tale with such juicy highlights as Captain Fraser getting speared by the local natives, followed by his wife then returning to England and making money spinning the yarn up and down the length of the country. Riveting stuff.

Neil is a talented story-teller, but one thing he isn’t so good with is introductions. Hence, we spend the next 48 hours in the company of people we’re resorted to referring to as “the Israeli girl”, “the blonde Norwegian girls, before and after” (exercising that is – one is a little chunkier than the other), “the Germans”, “crazy Dutch girl”, “nice Dutch couple”, “the other Norwegians” and “Mrs and Mrs Canada”, who may or may not be together in more ways than one – not that it matters in the slightest of course. It’s just not something you flat out ask two people whose names you haven’t bothered to enquire about. We could ask them their names of course, but after facing death head-on with a bunch of people it almost seems rude to then sheepishly enquire as to what they are called.

After taking our money via a process VISA would frown upon and letting some air out of the tyres, Neil takes us toward the ferry point for a “Seven or eight minute jaunt over the waters to the island itself.” It’s on this journey that the roads become pure sand, and the company’s new bus/people carrier starts to toss its passengers around like a Waldorf salad. Up ahead, Neil spots a 4×4 truck type vehicle stuck in the sand, or bogged as Neil likes to inform us over the intercom, right bang in the middle of the track leading to the awaiting ferry. We can literally see the ship, a purpose built vehicle transporter, sitting at the inlet just waiting for us to make our rendezvous.

The driver of the offending 4×4 is out and inspecting his predicament. Upon seeing Neil and the rest of us waiting in the sand like an impatient shopper in the twelve items or less queue, he starts to wave us through, indicating how we should mount the sandbank to the 4×4’s left and literally skirt around the obstacle. Just as I’m thinking surely this is not a good fucking idea, Neil has gunned the coach forward and into the sandy bar. We immediately go into a forty-five degree angle, the 4×4’s left side and roof becoming dangerously visible to those of us who are sitting on the right side of the bus. And then, as if Isaac Newton himself was staring down and giggling into his cravat, the coach loses momentum, stalls, and then rapidly descends, sideways, into the awaiting 4×4. There’s a crunch as the two behemoths connect and swearing in five languages (not including Australian up front, its owner appearing to have a complete lexicon of curse words invented just for events such as this) resonates around the inside of the bus.

For what’s just happened, Neil is amazingly calm. “Fair dinkum,” he says, using an expression I was sure was a myth before coming to Australia, “I knew that would happen.” So, you’re purposely crashing buses with fee-paying members of the public on board then, eh Neil?

He gets out and surveys the damage and, truth be told, it’s not as bad as it sounded. Both vehicles sport some visible war-wounds from the encounter, but nothing a brush and some epoxy couldn’t correct. We manage to drive on to the ferry craft, thankfully without crashing into it, and in less than ten minutes later, we’re bounding down the opposite beach at a speed that is too brisk for comfort.

We stop off for morning tea at a pool of rust coloured water near the shore’s edge, and Neil explains how oil from the tea trees inland seep into the land and are slowly brought to the shoreline by fresh-water streams. The lagoon looks like a strange advertisement for hair product, the telltale ruddy stain of the oils separating near the edge where tadpoles skip about the place ambivalent to our prying eyes.

We move on, keeping to the wet sand where possible, dodging strange growths on the land called coffee-sand which look like rock but, considering this is a sand island, we’re informed is actually condensed sand to such a degree that it takes on the texture and appearance of stone.

We spot whales off the coast; giant beasts who tail-slap the froth just under the horizon, making their way south to breed. With Neil keeping a constant check on his food intake, we drive up onto the trails and head for Eurong, a small town hidden just behind the shielding swath of canopy. We stock up on beer and treats and head inland to an old wood-cutters’ camp where we eat a hearty lunch before moving on to check out one of the highlights on the island.

Standing guard and repelling the waves ever backward into the sea, the rusted and half-sunken wreck of the Maheno rises up out of the sand, incongruous to its surroundings. A passenger vessel back in the 1940s, the Maheno was retrofitted to act as a hospital ship when World War II broke out. Dutifully fulfilling this task, it returned to its previous assignment when the conflict ended only to be purchased by a Japanese firm for scrap. While on its way to the shipyards, under tow by yet another ship the Japanese company had purchased to gut, the line snapped and the Maheno drifted aimlessly onto the beach at Fraser Island. After a couple of half-arsed attempts to raise her mammoth girth from the clutches of the bay, they decided to leave it to become a future tourist attraction. Of course, I doubt they were thinking of such at the time. It was likely just tea-time and they wanted to get out of the sun.

Nobly, the Maheno served its country one final time despite having run aground at Fraser. Recognising its perfect shape and size for target practice, the RAAF routinely ran training sorties against the stricken craft as a way for its fledgling pilots to hone their skills. Neil smirks as he regales us of stories concerning wayward bombs missing the sitting duck only to be found a couple of kilometres up the bay. I can’t imagine missing a ship of this size by such a wide margin. Well, maybe if you were firing from a considerable distance perhaps. Like, from Sydney.

We take photos and marvel at the skeletal arms of a broken prow fruitlessly climbing out of a sandy grave. The ever-knowledgeable tour-guide, Neil tells us that five decks are always hidden below the surface, rusty beams occasionally poking their furtive claws out from the ground in the strangest of places. About ten metres to the south, and after a considerable sandy expanse of nothing, what must be the stern of the ship mysteriously surfaces. A dissected tail suggestive of the mass of iron and history somewhere beneath.

We make our way to Indian Head, the northern most point of Fraser and one of only a pair of locations on the island not made from the ubiquitous sand. We climb its steep but relatively low face and look out at spectacular views, a 360 degree vista of sea and sand, the curve of the earth easily recognisable from this height and exposure.

Neil is determined to squeeze as much of the 75 mile long island into the two days we’re here, so we quickly move on (after more tea and biscuits, the man loves his Rich Tea) to McKenzie Lake, a fresh-water body of water near the centre of the isle. It’s an amazing place and populated with a scattered cadre of holiday-makers in search of its legendary healing waters and sand. It’s a strange sensation swimming in what is essentially a large lake of rain water. With no salty sting in our eyes, we splash about and swim out to where the lake-bed drops off considerably. As the water is crystal clear, it literally looks like a white ledge dropping off into complete blackness.

The sand is nearly 100% pure silica, so fine in fact that the numerous people at the lake frantically start rubbing it into their jewellery, skin and even teeth. Considering most exfoliation beauty products in the world contain some amount of silica, it’s like walking on a brilliantly white beach made of expensive scrubbing cream.

Completing the day at Dilly, a camp-site hidden further inland, we partake of a prodigious barbeque cooked up by Neil. We talk to our fellow tourists and get a feel for what everyone else is doing. It seems we’re the only people doing the whole around the world trip thing but others have equally mammoth travel stories of their own. The Dutch girl, for example, took a coach trip from Cairns to Fraser, all 24 hours of it, before jumping on Neil’s merry bandwagon. It’s no wonder that she’s the last to materialise at dinner.

We talk to the Canadian women mostly, learning about their lives back home in Canada and how one, Jackie, was made redundant before deciding to go on this trip of a lifetime. She tells me how invigorated she feels, now free from the office job she was good at but canned from nonetheless, free to go back and throw herself into her actual love – coaching. I can relate, and I wish her the best when she returns, confident she’ll make a success of it.

We turn in and rise early for breakfast that consists of fruit and cereal. A member of the troop appears and tells us that there are dingos nearby so, coffee half-drunk, we spill over to the fenced area to check out a mother and pup staring back at us from behind the security of the railed fence. Dingos are dogs, basically, but there is something we notice while watching them move and watch us that cagily sticks out. They might look like dogs but these animals are completely feral and dangerous. Not sensing a threat, the mother pads her way off into the brush leaving the pup to stare at us in what looks like a mix of wonder and confusion. We leave them to their wild existence and pack up for the second day.

Day two of the trip is considerably more laid-back than the first. We check out Coloured Sands which is exactly what it sounds like; giant sandy cliff-faces of the area, varicoloured by oxides, enzymes and decaying vegetation, staring down at us in a mixture of greens and blues. Ochre and mauve tints also visible in the strata like a natural and multilayered stain all along the cliff-face.

We paddle up another freshwater stream, Ely Creek, marvelling in the cool water that slowly makes its way down to ultimately spill into the sea. Neil tells us of the millions of litres of freshwater lost to the salty depths of the ocean each day while I do my best not to get completely soaked.

With a long journey ahead, we move on. And then disaster strikes – in more ways than one. We’re rattling down the beach at a fair clip when what sounds like a massive tyre deflating can be heard reverberate around the cabin. Neil jams on and takes a perfunctory walk around the bus. “Not a puncture,” he reports, “maybe it’s the bloody air-con gone tits up.” After a thorough inspection, it’s decided that it’s not the air-con so, not sure what the hell the sound was, we take off again. It’s at this point do we realise just what predicament has befallen us. The coach is languid, slow in movement and complaining in earnest at the task of moving on the wet sand. Neil grimaces and takes a second inspection of his stricken vehicle.

“Fair dinkum, we’ve only blown the bloody turbo.”

Required to traverse such a punishing terrain, the now blown turbo is what has been catapulting us up and down the beach for the past two days. Without its punchy assistance, the coach is severely disabled; lacking the necessary power to climb the steep hills and plough through the sticky wet sand. We’re fucked basically.

“Eh … time for lunch folks!” Neil exclaims and we jump off. I devour a couple of chilli wraps despite feeling a little queasy, the early signs of something not right in my system. Neil, when he’s not punching me in the side after a March fly the size of a dollar coin lands on my t-shirt, frantically waves down any passing traffic. He calls someone back at base to inform them than, not only has he crashed the new bus (the “Pride of the Fleet apparently”), he’s now destroyed the engine.

Somehow, he fixes the turbo. I’m pretty sure I hear him tell one of the other passengers that he “just stuck the pipe back on”, but at this rate I don’t really want to know. Also, and this is the second part of today’s disaster, whether from the incessant bouncing or other physical demands, it’s back – my shoulder constricts and the recent pain returns with a vengeance.

As we continue on, my chest feels like someone has inserted a hot knife into it, causally twisting it at a tempo I can’t predict other than knowing for sure that another grind is coming. My back screams, and as the sun bakes us from above, I start to lose my mind. Again. Just like in Brisbane. Only this time it’s exceedingly worse. The other passengers look on in half-concern/half-fear as spasms rack through me, sending my arms flaying about like a hyperactive octopus on meth. I care not a jot as the pain sends me into a limbo where time and space melt.

To be honest, I’m not sure how I made it back without offing myself. We stop off at a petrol station near the end of the voyage and I buy painkillers which I then rapaciously munch through. By the time we’ve gotten back to the Woolshed I’m on the other side of crazy, the analgesic virtues of the painkillers washing through my like a cool wave, diluting the agony with each passing undulation. It’s over but, Christ, I’m ready for the scrap heap at this point.

Our remaining time at Hervey Bay is spent relaxing and going for a nice run on the beach. Soon enough it’s time to pack up and head for our over-night train to Airlie Beach. If I thought the train journey to Hervey Bay was bad, I was in for a rude-awakening when it came to the next leg.

What I can only describe as an inbred family has taken up a series of seats beside, in front of and, at times, around us.

They’re made up of a mother and apparent step-father who spend the next few hours slapping their children and laughing maniacally in the process. It reminds me of the saying: “It’s amazing how, if you want to own a dog, you have to get a licence, but any complete shithead is allowed to have children.”

Whether it’s the numerous toxins charging around my body or their corollary side-effects, by the time we hit the coach my head starts to pound as if pressure is being exerted from the inside out. My back is also acting up again and by the time the promised hour long bus trip expands into its second, I’m about ready to give up and die, or kill someone. I’d happily resort to either.

Eventually, we alight from the shadows of the bus and stumble around the Koala Beach Resort. It looks fine in the dark, and we’re eventually directed by what looks like a drunken taxi driver towards the rear and a bar where a fairly helpful barman takes our details – and strangely gives us blankets. I’m a little taken aback but maybe Aussies are of a more hardcore breed this far north and bury themselves in woollens when it’s over twenty degrees at night. All I know is that we won’t be mirroring the practice.

By the looks of things, despite Sheila having performed the exact same age-old sequence of registration steps with HostelBookers.com as before, we’re not booked in. He sticks us in a room where, after popping two painkillers and some weird Chinese herbal tablet that promises a restful night’s sleep, I happily collapse. As like most things regarding the Chinese, the remedy is suitably efficient.

We wake with sunlight assaulting the windows outside, our vaccination inspired sickness seemingly absent and a quest to sort out our accommodation hiccups from last night. Unfortunately, the bint behind the counter is about as helpful as testicular cancer, and just as welcoming. When she’s not blowing her nose at us or generally giving off a malevolent vibe, she’s asking Sheila to print out booking confirmation emails and other such random bullshit. After what seems like trying to teach a dog algebra, we eventually unravel the mystery and set about checking out Hervey Bay to see what all the fuss is about.

The sea-side town is deceptive in size with many of the town’s inhabitants living a little inland and away from the touristy beach. That said, the crux of the town’s focus is along a tree-lined strip that hugs the beautiful sandy coastline. We walk up along the beach and take a dip in the tepid waters, watching as children do the same while a film crew seemingly records a production just off the shoreline. From the setup (overturned boat with people in distress on top) I assume they’re purporting the illusion of being maritime victims of some tragic sea-faring event out in the middle of the ocean. Later on in the week and during another walk, we come across an odd gaggle of people dressed a little too formally for the sandy environment. With Ben Harper’s “Angel” playing on a nearby sound-system, a bride dressed in a soon-to-be sand-soiled wedding dress is slowly walked toward a make-shift altar by a teary father. In terms of wedding locations, you could do a lot worse than Hervey Bay.

Back at the hostel, and after another useless and condescending hoe-bag staff member practically tells a caller that she is, in fact ,the world’s stupidest woman, we decide we’ve had enough of Koala Beach and its temperamental prima-donnas and promptly check out. Through the wonderful use of the Internet we’ve found alternative accommodation up the road, and though it requires a 1.5km trek in about 30 degree heat laden with over twenty kilos of baggage, it’s a fair better prospect than suffering the whim and venom of two of the worst backpacker workers we’ve come across by far.

The Woolshed is pretty much what it sounds like: self-contained wooden apartments laid out amongst a series of vegetation and what appears to be early colonial buildings. We check in and lie on the bed with the overhead fan on full blast, frantically shedding clothing and taking on water to stem the onslaught of Extreme European Melting Syndrome. We talk to the helpful proprietor behind the desk and explain how our attempts to book an excursion to Fraser Island have so far proved troublesome, and, within minutes, he has us booked on the Fraser Experience for the next day.

We thank him and explain how our experience of Hervey Bay (pronounced Harvey by the way) has been less than spectacular thanks to the ineptitude and rudeness from the cows at Koala Beach. He responds with a knowing nod. “We get a lot of people coming up here after one night in the Koala,” he says without any sign of hubris or haughtiness, “place is a real shit-hole if you ask me.”

We rest up and prepare for Fraser the next day, having no idea of the adventure ahead of us.

We locate luggage (thank you Virgin Blue for not losing it) and take a courtesy shuttle into the heart of Brisbane. Even in the gloom of Australia’s forever marching spring-time dusk, I’m impressed with just how open, clean and seemingly modern Brisbane is.

A short walk later and we’ve located our hostel; one of a trio in a line next to one another, all apparently resembling a reckless fusion of sorority and frat house. Somewhere near its corrupt heart an Irish bar festers, the strange sound of inept warbling permeating through the walls in sickening waves like drowning sheep.

We find our room, and it’s around this point that a repeat performance from the morning in Sydney when my back decided to painfully entangle itself flares up again. At some point in the middle of the night, as sex-starved backpackers race around the complex in search for the willing (or the drunk) and with the neon sign outside bleeding an amber glow into the room, my back explodes in pain. It’s excruciating and, soon enough, I have Sheila up and delving into baggage in search of narcotics. I take two (I wanted to take ten) and Sheila proceeds to massage an enflamed bundle of sinew and nerves in my back. With tears streaming down my face, I’m vaguely aware of my surroundings as painkiller, massage and fatigue eventually drag me under.

Sore, tired and generally of a pissed off disposition, we walk into Brisbane and take a look at Queensland’s biggest city. My impressions of the previous night are only compounded by how clean and well planned out it all seems in the light of day. Brisbane is a new city, with a genuine sense that some degree of thought has been invested in its layout and construction. Unlike Dublin, which resembles the planning deftness of a demented child. We hit the high-streets and walk in to a medical centre and book vaccinations for tomorrow. The rest of the day we spend walking around or relaxing back in the hostel and availing of the free wifi; a veritable treat in these parts.

Day two in Brisbane we walk back into town for our appointment with various innocuous forms of modified viruses. We’re on time, but in the great tradition of medical centres, we’re kept waiting for over an hour. A young and visibly upset Asian girl comes in during this time and announces that she is in need of an “emergence appointment”. She goes in before us but is literally walking out the door about three minutes later. I don’t want to judge, but, the only emergency I can think of that can be described, diagnosed and prescribed in such a short time is emergency contraception. But who knows.

The doctor (eventually) sees us both at the same time, and as Sheila lies on the bed dreading the needles and I sit in an arm-chair not really giving a shit, a batty nurse comes in and asks us where we’re going so as to know what to inject us with. We give her our itinerary, and she starts pulling out boxes from a fridge that appears to cater for every disease known to mankind. I see names such as diphtheria, polio, typhoid, dysentery, malaria, Japanese encephalitis, hepatitis, yellow fever and all forms of gypsy magic.

We’re immunised against typhoid and hepatitis A, the B flavour reserved for those who consider themselves at particular risk due to certain activities in Thailand. As I have no plans to sleep with any Thai prostitutes, I think I’m fairly covered. The two vaccines are injected in one cocktail of protective goodness and, truth be told, I barely feel a thing. Sheila also doesn’t pass out despite a history of fainting at inopportune times. It’s at this point that the Doc asks us if we want Swine Flu. Well, not actual Swine Flu per se as I’m pretty sure he’d lose his licence if he infects us with the actual H1N1 virus, but the vaccine is available – only if we want it of course. As we’re moving back into Ireland’s flu season, and we’re here anyway, we sign up and it’s soon prepared in a separate needle.

This one I do feel, whether because it’s a bigger needle or simply because protection against virulent pigs needs to go that little bit deeper. The nurse mentions diarrhoea and suggests antibiotics which we accept but end up not paying for. She also explains that we should expect headaches, fatigue, cramps, and general malaise due to the vaccinations. Basically I’m about to get my period. She also reveals that my left arm will probably ache for a while. “That will be the typhoid,” she says, knowingly. Great. Though being dead would undoubtedly suck more.

Food wise, Brisbane is a success during the day and an absolute disaster at night. For lunch I seek out sushi in great platters while Sheila avails of wraps and other chicken based products. We suck on half-priced smoothies and walk around admiring the city, from its university grounds to a pleasant park nearby. At night, however, everything “does a New Zealand” and shuts up early and we resort to Hungry Jack’s. Which is actually Burger King under a different name for some bizarre reason. Probably something to do with copyright.

At one point in a food court I spot a Japanese guy labouring over some text. I take a peek and I notice that he’s translating some English into his native tongue. Ironically, as I waited for Sheila to return from the bathroom, I was translating some Japanese into English on my iTouch. The irony that, somehow combined, we would make a formidable opponent, isn’t lost on me.

Having survived the madhouse that was our accommodation and a flirtation with some life-crippling diseases, we walk down to the train station and board for Maryborough West, a train station that will allow us to connect to our next port of call – Hervey Bay. Temperatures are high in Brisbane as we leave, knowing full well that we won’t be experiencing anything cooler for a long time.

For this part of our journey we’re staying with an old friend of mine, Jonathan, a fellow Irishman who I worked with in my last job and someone I was happy to stay in touch with when he fled to Oz.

A tech guru with a disdain for the Java programming language and a penchant for charity work (or at least trying to drag charities into the 21st century so they can generate more money for their collective causes), Jonathan has magnanimously offered to put us up for a few days in his apartment.

Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, we gratefully accepted.

Jonathan, or JC as we affectionately call him, once endured an exceptionally long distance relationship with his girlfriend Kisu whom he met while working in China some years ago. As she continued to add a myriad of letters after her name, headlong on an unending journey through medical practice, JC braved some time back home in Ireland writing applications that, ironically, I had to use as a Project Manager and would often eternally curse. When it was time for them to reunite, considering Kisu is Nepali, a nationality I soon learn comes with its very own asterisk next to it in terms of international recognition, their options were fairly obvious, with a move to Sydney being top of the list.

There’s a moment of apprehension as we walk out into Sydney Airport’s arrivals. I had fired off a mail to JC that morning from Queenstown, New Zealand armed only with the knowledge that, as JC is pretty much jacked into the nexus of the Internet at its very core, he’d ultimately get the email. It’s like dialling the operator and just knowing someone will be at the other end of the line. JC is connected, and any digital message directed toward him was sure to be digested, logged and catalogued within nanoseconds. Lo and behold, just as I’m contemplating flagging down a cab and playing address-roulette with some strange driver, there he is, bigger than life and as welcoming as ever.

We grab a taxi and hit the hot Australian streets bound for Newtown, a suburb of Sydney I don’t even remembering existing the last time I was in Oz. That said, that was twenty-five years ago when I was a child. We run through the obligatory “Have you heard about …” series of questions with numerous stories flying about the cab regarding old acquaintances from back home. A short while later we’re in the Newtown district and outside JC’s apartment on Georgina Street.

I’m not sure just how new Newtown is but it definitely gives off a strong Soho vibe. We see more restaurants and coffee-shops at a glance across one small stretch of real-estate here than we saw on the whole of New Zealand’s south island throughout our travels.

JC apologies in advance for the condition of the apartment, a tactic pretty much everyone but royalty or rappers on Cribs deploy as some sort of pre-emptive strike against what is basically people’s normal living conditions. This time, however, there’s some heart-felt meaning in the apology as the place has just been fumigated for cockroaches. Apart from a telltale tang in the air, it’s actually barely noticeable, though we do come across some of his arthropodan sub-letters of varying sizes during our stay.

Kisu is a delight, fussing over us and cooking non-stop while making sure we have everything we need. There’s a lot to be said about long-distance relationships; why people do them, why most times they invariably don’t work, but in the case of JC and Kisu, you can see why they toughed it out. They were determined to make it work and endure the time apart for a future together and are now living what must have felt like a distant dream for so long.

JC has taken some time off work and also has the luxury of working from home a couple of days a week. Kisu also does a lot of out-reach work at medical centres and hence works abnormal hours so we’re pretty much under their feet for the most part. Considering he’s also studying for his M.Sc., we make a concerted effort to get out and about and give them their much needed space. Also, we’re here to see Sydney again, and as much as we enjoy Kisu’s Dahl (a Nepalese dish featuring lentils, vegetables, chicken and a spicy curry sauce) and the free Internet access, we also want to see as much of the city as possible during our short time here.

We’ve both visited Sydney before. Me when I was still in short-pants and Sheila back in 2001 as part of her New South Wales trip. That said, it’s hardly familiar territory, and the last thing we want to do is miss out on one of the biggest cities on our global excursion.

Sydney is nothing like I remember, and apart from a few obvious local attractions capable of engraining themselves into the mind of a young boy of six years of age, it’s all new sights and smells as we soak in Australia’s biggest metropolis. We do the mandatory trek from Newtown into the city (it takes about 45 minutes each way) and enjoy the balmy breeze wafting in off the harbour. We locate the Opera House perching proudly into the bay as a throng of people both local and those here on vacation mill about enjoying the sounds and charms of Circular Quay. We join them before taking in the adjacent botanical gardens which offer a pleasant, if notably humid, walk.

We spend most of our time in Sydney either talking and enjoying good food with JC and Kisu or walking about the city’s busy streets. We eat at an authentic Chinese restaurant where Kisu orders in Mandarin and we dig into the likes of peppercorn fish, a dish that literally melts in our mouths, along with other assorted spicy fare. On one night JC throws an impromptu barbeque and some of their friends come over. Sonny, a tall shaven headed Indian, is charming and confesses that he loves breasts. He just also loves the cock. And Mitra, an Iranian born Canadian who educates us on the fine nuances of Persian New Year.

As we devour wave after endless wave of assorted meats, our hosts regale us with a flood of Sonny stories, each tale usually featuring equal parts alcohol and foam party. Sonny coyly deflects the encounters with good-humour and feigned shock, promising us that he’s not really that bad. It’s a great night as I drink beer and wine while eating what is truly the best barbeque food I’ve probably ever had. We then have two desserts and the guys head off home; jobs to go to and commitments to keep the following morning.

During our stay, JC also introduces me to Campos, a gourmet coffeehouse around the corner which smacks of coffee-acumen on a scale that I’m unlikely to see again. The narrow store is full of java-heads picking over the many blends. One such on offer, the Obama, is a heady mix of American and African beans, and though I’m tempted to taste what the President’s namesake is like, I end up picking a bag of the house speciality. I ask if the beans can be ground and the barista bombards me with questions of how I’m going to drink his prized elixir. Am I using a coffee machine? If so, what type? How hot is my water? Has my apartment recently been fumigated for cockroaches?

I end up conveying my basic knowledge of coffee consumption without making a total tit of myself. Maybe. He nods and promptly hands the bag to a cohort who then pours the contents into a grinder before selecting the appropriate texture for my needs. After I’ve returned to the apartment I brew up some coffee for myself, JC and Kisu and we all agree it’s damn good … considering the reduced price.

Sydney is also the start of our journey where the climate takes a noticeable surge towards hot and humid conditions. We take a short walk up the road to a clothes station and dispense of numerous heavy garments including my long suffering jacket. I just can’t see myself using it in the rest of Australia or Asia so in it goes.

On our last day in Sydney I wake up on JC’s couch with a strange ache that starts somewhere near my right collar-bone and quickly spreads inward and into my right-upper back. It’s uncomfortable but I think little of it. Out seeking some lunch and gifts for JC and Kisu, however, things take a turn for the worse and my back tenses up like someone has inserted a ratchet, cranking the muscles together into a tight pinch. A dull persistent pain starts to build, and by the time we’ve picked everything up and eaten some pasta, I’m ready to pass out in the apartment. I lie on the floor in the foetal position and try to rest but the pain soon becomes so nauseating that even thinking straight becomes problematic.

JC is in work so I log on and message him enquiring about painkillers and analgesic ointments of any description. He directs me to his medicinal stash, and after some paracetamol and a weird foul smelling emollient I eagerly rub into my back, the pain eases and we pack up.

We’re to meet JC and Kisu after work in Hyde park at the centre of Sydney for a food fare. We walk in and wait at the fountain while a cheesy yet talented mariachi flamboyantly charges through a set list of well-known guitar greats. Hyde Park is decked out in streamers and small white stalls containing an eclectic array of dishes are erected in a common ground area catering to a throng of people milling around sampling everything in sight.

JC soon appears followed by Kisu and we quickly discover queuing for the culinary delights would leave us late for getting to the airport. We detour to a Korean restaurant where Mitra from the night of the barbeque joins us. Ordering pretty much everything on the menu, the table becomes a riot of colour and peculiarities. Unfortunately we have to leave early, saying our goodbyes to Kisu as JC walks us to the bus-stop with the assurance that he’s welcome in our house anytime along with our free Internet.

A short bus journey later we have our bags followed up by a taxi ride to the airport. We check-in and everything seems to be going to plan until the guy at the gate stupidly announces that we’re missing our cabin crew. They’re somewhere in the airport, however, though there will be a half an hour delay.

Just as the mob are losing patience, the blushing blondes dragging tiny carry-on luggage behind them like petulant children finally arrive and scuttle on to the aircraft. We’re not far behind them and soon rocket up the eastern coast of Australia to Brisbane.

Sydney was a highlight for us despite not actually doing much in the city. With New Zealand being a series of adventures interspersed with constant and often slow travel, relaxing in Sydney with friends was just what we needed. Not to mention the free Internet …