It is February 2002 and I have come to Laos as a member of a German-American expedition to put up new rock-climbing routes. We are doing this mainly to encourage rock-climbers to come to the country, so that they will have a fabulous time whilst spending the cash that this lovely country so desperately needs.

I am apprehensive about being back in ‘Lane Xang’, the ‘kingdom of a million elephants and a white parasol’. My first trip here in 1996, reconnoitering Lao mountains for rock climbing potential, was somewhat less than a huge success. At that time the country was not yet fully open for tourism and was still in the process of shrugging off its fearful past. In Vang Vieng, where I am now, we saw more AK-47s than umbrellas. Armed men put paid, at gun-point, to one of our climbing trips. Whether they were terrorists or freedom fighters depends, of course, on your politics.

I made one or two tentative attempts to try to find out who they were and what the grenade launchers were in aid of, but to no avail. During another trip we found a human skeleton, right where we intended to start climbing. We debated what we should do. Finally we tried to ignore the skeleton and climb, but it didn’t feel at all right: we accepted defeat and returned to Germany. On the plane home the far-below clouds became a mirror for my feelings: I couldn’t resign myself to never again experiencing the beauty and tranquillity of Laos and the kindness of her people – I vowed to return.

Hopefully we’ll have better luck in putting up new climbing routes this time. The job consists of attaching a series of bolts to the rock-face, one every two or three metres. Alert and properly-equipped climbers who attach their ropes to these bolts can ascend in perfect safety as, when they fall off, their descent will be arrested by the attachment of their rope to the bolts.

When we climb a route for the first time there are no bolts to secure the rope to, so we must attach the rope instead to small metal nuts which we wedge into cracks and to loops of rope which we sling around rock spikes. It is a scary business, as the nuts and rope-slings can and sometimes do rip loose when a climber falls from too great a height.

We spent the last few days thrashing through the jungles around the little town of Vang Vieng, looking for steep, clean rock-faces. Eventually we found a huge cave called Tham Nam Them, whose stunning 50 metre-high walls are perfect for hard routes. Just getting to the rock-face was an adventure. After a 20 minute off-road ride in a truck we waded through a big river to reach a jungle trail, which led to the entrance of the cave. The climb was on the other side of the 300 metre-long cave, in which there is a chest-deep river. We carried everything above our heads, while watching out for snakes; we saw lots of them, including some 15-foot-long king cobras.

My surgeon’s salary back in Germany enables me to live life in the fast lane, climbing, skiing and partying as much as I want. Until a few years ago this was enough for me, but more recently the pleasures of self-gratification have paled and, to find meaning in my life, I now like to take five months a year off to serve as a volunteer at a hospital near Vang Vieng. During the week I work hard at the hospital, and on the weekends I work even harder to get the Vang Vieng climbing scene started.

Right now, halfway up a new route, this work seems to be too much for me. My muscles scream in protest. I scream in protest, at what I can tell is about to happen. I have been hanging on by two fingertips to a tiny ledge for too long, trying to throw a sling around a rock spike. Lactic acid overcomes my muscles, my fingers uncurl and gravity takes control. Falling off rockfaces is something I’m used to and which I’m usually unconcerned about. But today is different, as I am setting a new route. I have not managed to attach the rope to a bolt as there are none in place yet. Instead I have secured myself by wedging an 8-millimetre chunk of iron into a small downwards-tapering crack. I have already fallen off at this spot three times and on all occassions the small metal wedge has held my fall, but it is a scary experience to fall off onto such flimsy safety equipment, as I know that if the metal wedge is ripped from the rockface by the force of my fall, then I will hit the ground – at speed. A strangled whimper comes from my mouth. Two seconds later I am dangling at the end of the rope, with nothing wounded but my ego.

I am desperate to give up, but can’t. I know it’s only my pride, but my wife Isa is with me and last night I bet her a month’s washing-up duty that I could do it. She starts to sound panicked. She tells me to forget my silly one-sided bet, that when we get back to Germany she will be on permanent washing-up duty, if I will only agree to come down.

Eventually I do what she says: what we are doing is quite dangerous enough without making it more so by succumbing to silly testosterone displays. Today has scared me witless, bashing my slightly-superannuated bones against the spikey, almost untouched and so loose limestone, whole chunks of which often come off in my hand, sending me on not-so-leisurely and unplanned trips southwards.

I have got as used to falling off when a handhold gives way as it is possible. What I will never get used to is a huge big lump of limestone falling off from under my feet. It‘s a uniquely scary feeling to be following a bike-sized boulder down a rock-face. It feels as though both you and the boulder are destined to continue the plunge to its conclusion and it is the hugest of reliefs when you feel the rope tighten around your waste and arrest your descent. It’s even more of a relief to then look down and see that your wife has not been squashed flat.

Many people have asked me why I do something so dangerous. Other than the opportunity to get into the outdoors with a good group of friends and undertake a physically and mentally challenging sport, I have a theory. I know that, while climbing, I totally forget about everything except the problem at hand. This is a common thread in adventure sports: by intense concentration and involvement in the present moment you achieve a release from everyday problems and worries. I personally prefer the longer release afforded by climbing to the much briefer moment which for example sky-divers gain. I regularly spend hours in this state of self-forgetfulness through intense concentration. Maybe the sky-divers’ and base-jumpers’ brains are wired differently from mine. Perhaps their brains need adrenaline in an intense, short burst, while I prefer my terror to be a lengthy and drawn-out experience. The way I see it, why should I be content with only being scared witless for a few moments when I can choose to be petrified for most of the day? I suppose I ought to point out to those of you who were, until you started reading this article, considering climbing in Laos and are now thinking that you’d rather climb into Parkhurst jail or maybe don a straight-jacket and then free-climb London’s Post Office tower blindfolded, that the rock-faces there are now as safe as anywhere, thanks to the assortment of intellectually-challenged adrenaline-junkies who have done the scary stuff for you already.

You can now climb in Laos without wading chest-deep across snake-infested rivers, and you won’t get hurt unless you behave foolishly. There are about 100 bolted routes of all grades, including some spectacular multi-pitch routes. I hope you will come and enjoy the climbing, not just so that the Laos economy can benefit from your spending power, but because both novice and experienced climbers will love the climbing here, in SE Asia’s most unspoiled country, peopled by the friendliest people it’s ever been my privilege to get to know.

If visiting Thailand, why not visit one of the country’s currently best three beach destinations:

Koh Lao Liang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/kohlaoliang.shtml

Ao Nang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/ao_nang.shtml

Railay/Tonsai: http://www.andamanadventures.com/railay-tonsai.shtml

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On the one hand, the northern Thai city still holds on to its rural roots and the earthy local culture known as ‘Lanna’, which literally means ‘one million rice fields’. On the other hand, Chiang Mai has its own airport, three universities and outlets representing all the country’s main chains of shopping malls and restaurants.

Its main attractions, however, are its style and its splendour. Wander the Old City’s backstreets and you will stumble on some of southeast Asia’s most alluring Buddhist temples. There are over 300 temples in Chiang Mai and its outskirts, of which maybe be most magnificent is Wat Doi Suthep, topped by a stunning 24 metre high gilded chedi, partially shaded by gilded bronze parasols. Established in 1383 and famous for its large gold-plated chedi, it overlooks the city from its 1,073m eerie on the slopes of 1,685 metre Doi (Mount) Suthep and is visible from the city on a clear day. The site was selected by sending an elephant to roam at will up the mountainside. When it reached this spot, it trumpeted, circled three times, and knelt down, which was interpreted as a sign indicating an auspicious site. Centrally-located Wat Phra Singh temple’s small wooden Phra Viharn Lai Kham building is perhaps Chiang Mai’s most beautiful. The front of the building’s exterior is ornately decorated with gold leaf flowers on a red lacquer background whilst, in the interior, exquisitely carved window frames compete for the eye’s attention with fascinating and detailed wall murals.

At each corner of the Old City moat, you will be distracted by the spicy aromas that waft from the woks used to cook the region’s distinct cuisine, which fuses Thai, Lao, Burmese, Mon, and Chinese influences. For visitors whose bums are bored of bucket seat restaurants, the city has droves of restaurants that serve every kind of cooking imaginable, from water buffalo beef to tapas. Chiang Mai is Thailand’s fifth biggest but second most-visited city and is a magnet for settlers from around the globe, many of whom are eccentric or unusual.

Meet silversmith Steve McCarthy, who designed the chalices that grace the spectacularly successful 2006 religious mystery movie The Da Vinci Code. McCarthy calls Chiang Mai “as close to paradise as you can get”. He likes the way that locals know neither the time nor day, have few wants and no pretensions. “People laugh at people who spend money ostentatiously,” he says, adding that everyone who visits Chiang Mai returns.

The temples and museums are as good as culture vultures would expect from Thailand’s second city, but what you maybe wouldn’t expect is that the shopping here is so good that even unreconstructed males might miraculously find themselves actually enjoying it. Chiang Mai, along with Bangkok’s weekend Jatuchak market, is one of the two best places to go shopping in Thailand. The city is the country’s best place to buy art and sculpture, of which the value and the quality of the higher-priced items is amazing. It’s best to buy it here as most of the best pieces never leave town: the best artists, like those the world over, are more interested in painting than selling. At the Sunday market here you can pick up beautiful oil paintings at less than a tenth of what comparable quality would cost you in the West. The market is open from 3 till 10pm, but don’t leave too early, as the best painters are a bit bohemian and don’t bother turning up till quite late, as they don’t have to try too hard to sell their work.

Whilst in Thailand, why not visit one of the country’s currently best three beach destinations:

Koh Lao Liang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/kohlaoliang.shtml

Ao Nang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/ao_nang.shtml

Railay/Tonsai: http://www.andamanadventures.com/railay-tonsai.shtml

Six hours earlier, the noise of waves crashing ashore had woken me from a deep sleep. Mounting excitement propelled me from the bed when I realised from the volume of sound that the waves were substantial. It was still dark, but I knew that I could catch the dawn from my suf-board if I left immediately. A while later I was several hundred metres out to sea, battling my way further out and, between soakings, watching the dawn paint the sky from a celestial palette of pinks, yellows and crimsons. I was totally alone and knew that this was not safe or sensible, but I did not care. I felt that my daring to be there gave me a kind of spiritual ownership of the place and that this feeling more than compensated me for my almost complete lack of other worldly possessions – the most valuable of which I had with me, my board. I usually love my board, but sometimes I blame it when I fall off and swear at it big-time. One of the reasons I love my surf-board is that, after I’ve blamed it for my shortcomings and sworn at it, it never holds it against me or sulks in any way. I can just jump on and ride away, as though nothing had happened.

I am now having lunch with my Dad, who has flown in from Perth, en route to a business meeting in Tokyo, to see me and presumably to try and coax me into his company – or any company at all, provided it’s not the company of surfers. He’s not had much luck at this task. Six months ago, when I was having a blast, neglecting my university studies in favour of chasing Perth surf, he tried pleading that I should pack in surfing as my Mum was worried sick that I might be eaten by a shark. This happens to a fair few surfers down-under. I felt a bit sorry for both my parents when their plan rather back-fired on them: I agreed that it wasn’t safe, quit uni and came surfing here instead. I just hope he hasn’t heard about the surfer who washed up here drowned the other month. I think a blow on the head from his board after a major wipe-out was probably the cause. I’ll probably not make an old corpse myself, but I don’t care. My Dad’s hotel, the Maya Ubud, is quite a contrast to mine. It looks like a palace compared to my lodgings, but then so does everywhere. I look again and realise that I’m not doing the Maya Ubud justice by including it with ‘everywhere’; it really is tastefully and typically Balinese, whereas mine is about as basic as you can imagine – thin mattress, fly-sheet, fan, shared cold shower.

My Dad asks me what I think of the Maya Ubud.

“It’s lovely, Dad, exquisite”.

“Wouldn’t you like to be able to afford to stay here?”

“Not really, Dad. I think that right now, at this very moment, I’m enjoying being here more than you are, because you’re used to staying in these places, whereas for me to come here and eat this fab food is a really special experience”.

I suddenly remembered that Dad gets offended when I put his values down that bluntly. I had been talking to him just as though he were one of my surf buddies. To try to make amends I quickly added “I really appreciate your coming all this way to spoil me, but honestly there’s nothing I need that I don’t already have. I really enjoy my life here. Better than that, I love my life here, because I always live in the present. Everybody knows that living in the present is the key to contentment.”

“Son, if you live in the present you’ll never achieve anything in life. In order to achieve things it’s necessary sometimes to dwell on the past and worry about the future”. I had to disagree. “I’m sorry, Dad, but I totally disagree .There’s no intrinsic meaning in achieving anything anyway, so why should I bother? I might as well live in the present and be as content as possible.”

This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. My parents are so cool about my complete rejection of their value system, I really respect them, not just for their attitude about this issue, but also for all they’ve done for me in the past. Actually, there is one source of intrinsic meaning in my life – she’s called Jenny and she’s from California. In order to go and be with her in the States, I’ve realised that I’m going to need to go back to Oz and get some money together. So I discuss this with my Dad, who’s delighted.

“I wasn’t so different from you when I was your age” he said.

“Not quite so idle, but not far off it” he continued. “In those days there wasn’t a sub-culture of idleness, so people who wanted to laze about had to laze about with low-lifes. The problem these days is that civilized young blokes like you can laze about with other decent young people, so it’s much more enjoyable. “

“Your mother’s more worried about you than I am. I reckon that you’ll get bored rigid with this sooner or later. Besides, you said you were doing this to reject meaninglessness, but your life of pleasing yourself has got to be the most meaningless life imaginable. I stopped idling around when I set up home with your mother. I spent over a decade in jobs that were often rather dull, but it never really bothered me, because I knew exactly why I was doing it, I had all the meaning I could possibly have in my life, in providing for you and your sisters. So I’m not too worried, I reckon what you need is to really fall for some woman, then start imagining what you could do to make her as happy as you possibly can.”

After Bali, why not visit one of Thailsnd’s currently best three beach destinations:

Koh Lao Liang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/kohlaoliang.shtml

Ao Nang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/ao_nang.shtml

Railay/Tonsai: http://www.andamanadventures.com/railay-tonsai.shtml

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Travel can be wearing when that much-vaunted heritage tour ‘treasure trove cave’ proves to house one shabby Buddha and a few burnt-out joss sticks. Likewise, even the Giza pyramids can seem hyped when seen in context, squashed up against Cairo’s filth. Disappointment abounds.

Few tourists, however, report feeling let down or jaded when they witness Angkor Wat: the Cambodian temple complex built at Angkor on modern Vietnam’s fringes for King Suryavarman II in the early 12th century as his state temple and capital city. Angkor Wat (‘Mountain Temple’) is one of the largest monuments to religion ever built and is a magnet for superlatives. Lonely Planet calls it ‘one of the most inspired and spectacular monuments ever conceived by the human mind’.

The scale of the monument makes it hard to grasp: it features the five towers shown on the Cambodian flag, covered galleries, chambers and courtyards on different levels, all linked by stairways. The whole stands for the cosmic world with the central tower symbolising Mount Meru: the mythical, sacred mountain at the core of the universe.

Nothing about the structure of the world’s biggest temple is mundane, not even the moat. Symbolic of the world’s seas, the moat makes the one that rings the Tower of London, built at about the same time, resemble a rut. No army ever made it across its gaping expanse. The temple’s restrained monumentality and precise proportions amply justify its status as one of the seven wonders of the world. No words are up to the task of adequately describing its sublime power, unity and style. Language fails, the reader must see Angkor with his own eyes.

Smothered by jungle, Angkor Wat only became known to the west in 1861. Thank the French botanist Henri Mouhot, who ‘discovered’ the architectural marvel while hunting orchids in North West Cambodia’s jungles. Like many who would follow in his footsteps, Mouhot was blown away.

Here we relate the ecstatic reactions of Mouhot, of a medieval monk and of two more recent visitors, all of whom attempt to dig beyond the superlatives and explain what the supreme masterpiece of Khmer architecture means to them.

Henri Mouhot, 19th-century explorer One of these temples — a rival to that of Solomon, and erected by some ancient Michaelangelo — might take an honourable place beside our most beautiful buildings. It is grander than anything left to us by Greece or Rome, and presents a sad contrast to the state of barbarism in which the nation is now plunged. At Angkor, there are ruins of such grandeur that, at the first view, one is filled with profound admiration, and cannot but ask what has become of this powerful race, so civilised, so enlightened, the authors of these gigantic works?

The temple is of such extraordinary construction that it is not possible to describe it with a pen, particularly since it is like no other building in the world. It has towers and decoration and all the refinements which the human genius can conceive of.

Antonio da Magdalena, Portuguese monk who visited in 1586

Michael Di Giovine, author: ‘The Heritage-scape: UNESCO, World Heritage and Tourism’.

I first fell for Angkor in 2002, when I was directing group tours to Cambodia and Vietnam. Cambodia was really just coming into the mass cultural tourism market, and many of my travellers simply did not know what to expect.

They came for many different reasons and had divergent expectations. Yet, like me, all were struck by the sheer vastness of the place, the beauty and exquisite artistry of the monuments, and the uniquely Khmer melding of Hindu and Buddhist depictions.

I remember being particularly struck by an Angkor Wat sunrise where I felt like a spectator to the melding of man and nature. Unlike the sunsets that are greeted rowdily at the Angkor mountain temple Phnom Bakheng, this was a solemn and transcendent occasion, imbuing me with a strong sense of the enormity of life and the sublimity of creation. At 4 am, I recall, the mist hung heavy and wisps of steam rising from Angkor’s moat made the long causeway I was crossing almost imperceptible. Despite the crush of people, most were silent, and I felt as if I were the only person entering the immense temple complex.

I sat in the courtyard just inside the outer wall, gazing like the others at the thick blankness before me, wondering where exactly the telltale pine-coned towers would appear. When daylight finally threw its first streaks of colour across the sky, Angkor emerged – at first a silhouette, an almost two-dimensional rendering of this crowning achievement of humanity – and then gradually became clearer, fuller. When the world awoke in a soft blue-gray wash, so too did my understanding of the power and diversity of mankind and the variety of its symbols, motivations and achievements.

Martin Gray, author: Sacred SitesFor my visit to Angkor, which lasted more than a week, I had decided to arrive before the time of the rising sun. Sitting to the west of the great temple, alongside its wide moat of water, I watched as the sky changed from black to purple to pink. The water mirrored the sky and thus born from the night’s darkness was the most sublime temple of all southeast Asia.

Constructed by the Kings of the Khmer civilisation between 802 and 1220 CE, the temple complex of Angkor is exceeded in size only by that of Bagan in Burma. There are more than 100 stone temples at Angkor, of which Angkor Wat is the largest, and altogether they represent one of humankind’s most astonishing architectural achievements.

During the half-millennia of Khmer occupation, the city of Angkor became a pilgrimage destination of importance throughout southeastern Asia. As such a pilgrim I had also come. Wandering about Asia for several years I had explored the temples of both Hinduism and Buddhism. There is a sense of holiness and power to these places that reaches to the very heart of every visitor. Pilgrims speak of miracles of healing and mystic visions, of spiritual insights and enhancement of personal creativity.

I experienced such wonders myself and was also amazed at the magnificent beauty of the site. The temple of Angkor Wat is itself only a part of a vaster complex, which includes such jewels of sacred art as the Bayon, Ta Prohm and Bantai Serai. Take your time when visiting this ancient holy place, let it work its magic on your heart and mind. It is an experience you will never forget.

If visiting Thailand, why not visit one of the country’s currently best three beach destinations:

Koh Lao Liang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/kohlaoliang.shtml

Ao Nang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/ao_nang.shtml

Railay/Tonsai: http://www.andamanadventures.com/railay-tonsai.shtml

5-star resorts the world over are often beautifully designed, but on Bali the 5-star vacation experience is different. Here it is not necessary to insulate yourself in luxury establishments in order to avoid the outside world, as is unfortunately necessary in the capital Jakarta. The beauty of Bali’s rice terraces can not be adequately described in words or art and must, like those in the Philippines Banaue, be seen with the eyes. These landscapes, sculpted by human hands, sometimes feel too man-made to be real and almost like journeys inside a painting, in which a careful artist has skilfully enhanced the bounties bequeathed by nature to maximum effect and optimal proportion. The serried rice terraces compete for the eye’s attention with burbling irrigation canals and with the jungle-shrouded rivers which sometimes form a convenient path-way for Balinese women to sway gracefully beneath improbably precarious loads perched on the top of their heads. In a society where art is regarded as so fundamental a part of a person’s life that the local language does not have a word for it, the entertainment is also stylish. Balinese dance is justifiably world-famous for its subtle sign language and beautiful costumes, but not so well-known are the coming-of-age dances in which one teenage girl at a time dances surrounded by a circle of up to a hundred boys. After she taps a boy with her fan, he dances with her, but in a very different style to hers. Whilst she is attempting to maintain grace and elegance, his sole objective is to squeeze her bum. It sounds uncouth, but is just hilarious, as she vigorously defends herself, often by jabbing her fan, to painful effect, into the most sensitive parts of the boys’ anatomies.

In a deeply religious Hindu society, everybody pays great attention to the ceremonies that mark life’s major events, with funerals in particular being very grandiose events full of colour and excitement: a Balinese’s last journey takes so long to organise that bodies must be temporarily buried while the myriad arrangements are made.

All Balinese bear one of only four given names, Made, Nyoman and Ketut. A family’s first child is always christened Putu/Wayan, with the second known as Made, the third as Nyoman and the fourth as Ketut. From the fifth child on the naming cycle starts afresh, with any fifth child that makes an appearance known as Putu/Wayan.

The latest threat to the lovely rice-terraces, after the solution of the pest problems caused by the Asian Development Bank’s ‘Green Revolution’ project, comes from an unlikely quarter: prosperity. Balinese farmers, especially young ones, are leaving the land in droves for better-paid and physically less demanding jobs as caddies and waiters. It is hoped that some of the huge numbers of tourist dollars flowing into Bali can be spent subsidising rice farming, in order to preserve this unique landscape and its aquatic traditions. The best time to see the rice paddies is during the hour before dawn, the hour the Balinese call “the silk time”. But, even for the chance to experience heaven, that is a little too early for most visitors, who prefer the twilight hours.

The night was balmy and, after supper, the moon rose, yellow and huge. After a short walk along a tree-lined lane we came to a gap in the trees. Water chattered and laughed in the gullies all around us and, spread out before us, was a blue, moonlit valley. The terraced paddy fields hugging the contours of the hills were filled with still water, drained of colour by the night. Each patch of black water reflected it’s own little moon. A breeze crinkled the satin-like surface and scattered the golden moon-beams. Then the breeze died, the gold reassembled and the moons settled back into their pools. Frogs croaked. Water gushed. Briefly we mourned the loss of all those moons until our eyes adjusted to the dark and the banks of the terraces came alive with more light. Sparkling sequins of white light flashed around as our minds reeled in the attempt to take in such beauty. Whether the moons or the fireflies were the most beautiful is impossible to say, as both art and words are inadequate to the task of framing such serenity. If heaven exists then maybe it looks a little like Bali.

Water is sacred in Bali. Everywhere you go, you hear it bubble and gurgle and giggle and splash. The ancient irrigation system consists of a network of gullies and channels, dykes and runnels that carry the precious fluid from the river and through the sinuous, rice-paddied, terraces. Water is so vital to rice, and so to life, that in Bali the temples control its flow. The priests are the experts in how the waterways work. They know where each channel runs and when each sluice needs opening, and it’s their duty to ensure that every terrace gets filled and that every farmer gets an adequate flow.

Every day, in the late afternoon, all over Bali, you’ll see villagers, in their sarongs, sauntering down to the rivers to bathe. The women gather in one place, dipping and laughing, shampooing their long black tresses. The men gather in another, splashing each other and playing with their children. “They want to give us taps,” I heard one man exclaim, “they say it will make life easier. But we don’t want water from taps. It contains chemicals. We have this beautiful river, how can anybody improve on this?”

Tirtaganga is a special place where, in bygone days, Balinese Kings built a great Water Palace. The kings are long gone, but there is enough grandeur left to enable you to imagine attendants in vivid sarongs laying gold cloth on gleaming stone steps to aggrandize the journey of the king and his courtiers to the three jade-coloured swimming pools. These days the steps are mossy and the spirit statuary is mottled with lichen. Instead of gilded princesses, rice farmers wallow and chat while their wives offer flower-filled palm-leaf baskets to the Gods.

It is unsurprising that Balinese love their island, but it might surprise some readers to know of the lengths to which these gentle people have in the past gone to defend it. In the 1840s the Dutch established a presence by playing various distrustful Balinese realms against each other, before mounting large-scale naval and ground assaults, first against the Sanur region and then against Denpasar. The Balinese were hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned, but rather than face the loss of their island, 4,000 of them marched to their deaths in a suicide attack on the invaders. Afterwards the Dutch governors were able to exercise little control over the island, and the religion and culture remained intact.

When Japan occupied Bali during World War II, a Balinese military officer, Gusti Ngurah Rai, formed a Balinese army of freedom fighters. When the Dutch returned to Bali to reinstate their pre-war colonial administration, they were opposed by the Balinese rebels. On 20 November 1946, the Battle of Marga was fought in Tabanan in central Bali. Colonel I Gusti Ngurah Rai, 29 years old, rallied his depleted and nearly beaten forces in east Bali at Marga Rana, where they made a suicide attack on the heavily armed Dutch. The Balinese battalion was entirely wiped out, breaking the last thread of Balinese military resistance.

The well-developed infrastructure for leisure activities, including golf, sailing, diving, dancing and partying, complements the island’s idyllic landscape and turns Bali into, for many holiday-makers, the best destination in southeast Asia if not the world.

If dancing is your way of reviving your energy and spirits after an aeon behind a desk, then you will be pleased to hear that Bali has the clubs you need. Try the 15,000 watt Double Six, where DJs from across the world play eclectic and variable mixes that have only one thing in common: the ability to make you want to shake your bits till dawn. If you get bored of getting on down to the music then get on down in a more extreme way, courtesy of the club’s bungee jump. KUDOS, the hippest place on the island, prides itself on a computerized colour mixer that synchronises the music with pre-arranged lighting sequences of the bar and interiors.

If visiting Thailand, why not visit one of the country’s currently best three beach destinations:

Koh Lao Liang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/kohlaoliang.shtml

Ao Nang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/ao_nang.shtml

Railay/Tonsai: http://www.andamanadventures.com/railay-tonsai.shtml

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AJ Hackett opened the world’s highest sky jump, a plunge off the 233m outer rim of the Macau Tower, in 2006. You, too, can jump off the Macau Tower – if, that is, you fancy plunging towards tarmac at a hundred kilometers an hour.

A hybrid of bungee jump and skydiving, the sky jump is a controlled aerial journey involving no rebound or hanging upside down, which ends with a gentle landing at the base of the tower. The system is regulated by a cable brake and the fall takes 14 seconds. The inaugural jump was completed by Mr. Hackett, from New Zealand, on 17th December 2006. His career as a sky-jump installation tester began on that day and thankfully can continue, due to his having got his sums right.

Dare-devils are clad in specially tailored suits and connected to three cables, so ensuring absolute safety. At approximately 10 metres above the ground, the cable drum switches down-gear to allow for a soft landing. Unlike a bungee jump, Sky Jump is a controlled aerial journey, so you won’t bounce back and you won’t end up upside down. There is also no chance of the cable wrapping itself around your neck, as has happened to at least one bungee jumper.

I had a great experience at Macau’s Great Tower and would like to share it with you. When my Dad asked me what I wanted to do on his day off in Macau, I said I wanted to see the sights, one of which is the Macao Tower. I didn’t know about the jump, so you can imagine my surprise when I looked up to see someone plunging earthwards from the top. “Wow? Dad! That’s amazing. I want to have a go” I said, tugging at his shirt, as I realized what was happening. “I thought you would,” he said as he fished for his wallet. A little later, as an attendant helped me into a harness and tightened the straps, I watched the orange jumpsuits walk around the outside deck as if they were training for a moon-walk. A Chinese man got suited up before me and I watched him enter the crew pit, then be guided outside to where the jump gate is located. A crew member grabbed the “Big Man” (a long, thick set of cables wrapped together in material) and hooked it to a loop on the man’s back. After the checklist he guided the man to the gate.

He told the jumper that at 50 feet he would stop his fall to take a photo and asked that the jumper look back up at him. The man nodded in agreement, looking as though he didn’t trust himself to speak for fear of emitting an un-macho squeak. The attendant opened the door and led the man to the edge. He didn’t hesitate and was gone in seconds. I doubted whether I would be so brave. I felt adrenaline entering my heart as I took a deep breath, trying to control the mounting fear of knowing it was my turn. I stepped outside. Out on the deck, the crew member said “Don’t worry, Losie, it’s safe”, pronouncing my name in the usual Asian way. Its used to find it sooooo annoying that Asian’s can’t pronounce my name “Rosie”, but I changed my attitude when our Filipina nanny pointed out that I couldn’t pronounce her name properly either. He yelled back the checklist and asked me, “Are you ready?” But he wasn’t really after an answer and so didn’t give me time to open my mouth and say:

“NO, Definitely not, I’ve changed my mind, don’t bother about a refund, I want to go down the slow way. I mean, I can’t feel any wings sprouting out of my shoulders, so I can’t possibly fly, right, so this is lunacy. I might be a young British female, but DO I LOOK LIKE A B***** BIRD ?

He opened the gate and told me to put my hands on the top bar of the railing as the gate swung open in front of me. I did, but realized I really had changed my mind and was not going to jump – no way, José. “Look over there, Losie, look at Hong Kong” the crew member said, pointing at where my sister had been born. “You’ll be fine. Trust me” he assured me. “No. This does not feel right. I do not want to do this,” I said, standing at the edge with the gate wide open.

The crew member attempted to reassure me, closing the gate and talking some calm back into me. I didn’t hear him – the only thought filling my mind, heightened by the blood throbbing almost audibly in my temples, was that jumping off the tower was suicidal. Life suddenly seemed even more precious than previously, I was far too young and thought myself much too beautiful to die. Besides, I’d never had any children, never been rock-climbing in Krabi, never seen a sunset from Annapurna base camp, only seen Boyzone in concert nineteen times.

This felt very different from jumping out of an airplane in Australia. That had seemed only slightly daft, as the airoplane was perfectly serviceable and I had no particularly pressing appointments on the ground. The crew member continued to try to reassure me “Come on Losie, you don’t want to come this far and turn back”, he said.

Before I could give voice to my objections I heard the sound of cheering and realized that everyone on the top floor had gathered behind us and was cheering me on. “Please don’t do that,” I said, waving feebly at them while smiling wanly. More afraid of the embarrassment of turning back than of the dangers of proceeding, I turned round, faced the open expanse and leaned forward. The cable stopped after 50 feet for the attendant to take my photo. “Look at me,” he yelled from above as I hung suspended below. “I can’t,” I yelled back, “My head doesn’t turn that far. It’s impossible, my neck’s not long enough. Who can do that, anyway? I mean, how many giraffes do you get jumping off this thing?” The cable was released and I started a pleasurable descent, slowing down about 30 feet from the bottom and landing softly on my feet, right on target. Dad’s eyes were the first things I saw as I hit the landing pad. He was laughing a somewhat nervous laugh, presumably relieved it was all over. I suddenly realized how much he loves me, that he was willing to put up with watching me do something that must have scared him witless.

 Our driver Andrew greeted me at the exit. “You crazy lady. Your Dad say you no like be high, why you jump?” he asked. “Because I wanted to beat the fear” I said. Today, the spectators on the top floor had given me the courage to jump by shaming me into banishing the fear. Andrew asked Dad why he didn’t jump too. “I have no desire to do things like that,” he replied. “I’m old enough not to need to bother with proving things.” What is brave? To jump or not to jump. Which is braver? She who jumps or he who jumps not? AJ Hackett once chided reporters. “You must jump before reporting,” he said. So, now, after having completed the same feat, I feel I have earned the right to ask, “If you are young, do you have what it takes? If not, is the only reason that you wouldn’t do it that you feel you don’t need to bother?”

Whilst in Thailand, why not visit one of the country’s currently best three beach destinations:

Koh Lao Liang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/kohlaoliang.shtml

Ao Nang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/ao_nang.shtml

Railay/Tonsai: http://www.andamanadventures.com/railay-tonsai.shtml

Borneo is the third largest island in the world, located east of Singapore. The Borneo jungles are not only magnificently spectacular, but they are also relatively untouched. When one finds oneself amongst the many segregated worlds of lush vegetation that Borneo has to offer, one can only wonder … “How could an exotic land that offers so many species of wild life have escaped mass tourism?”

In the modern age, when tourism has a tendency to develop and then envelop any place of beauty, Borneo has so far escaped this fate. This is an extra benefit that heightens Borneo’s natural and unspoiled charm and which will, we hope, continue to enhance Borneo’s majestic splendour through the years. So remote is Borneo that one of its many superlatives, the world’s largest and most overwhelming cave system, the Mulu, was only discovered by the West in the latter half of the twentieth century.

About the size of Texas, Borneo is the third largest island in the world. Most of it belongs to Indonesia, but the northern provinces of Sarawak and Sabah, former British colonies which are now part of Malaysia, draw most of Borneo’s visitors.

The primitive image of Borneo which we held in the last century is out of date. Malaysian Borneo is civilised; Kuching and Kota Kinabalu are modern, bustling little cities, plus the island has a reasonably effective tourist infrastructure. The blend of old and new in Borneo is nicely summed up by a sign in the Limbang airport that sternly prohibits the carrying of blowguns aboard aircraft.

Because of its great variety of attractions, Borneo trips tend to be smorgasbord-style affairs. You may be climbing 13,455-foot Mount Kinabalu one day (no technical skills required, but nevertheless a stiff hike) and sleeping in a longhouse with Iban tribesmen the next. Although headhunting is now outlawed, you may meet some folks who remember it—or may even have practised it in the ‘good’ old days. Jungle treks and cave explorations in Mulu National Park, visits to Sepilok orangutan sanctuary, white-water rafting trips and scuba diving along the 3,000-foot sea wall just off Sipadan Island are also popular Borneo diversions. Whatever you do, it’s virtually certain you’ll ride in a boat at some point—Borneo is so mountainous and densely forested that roads exist only along the coastline. In the interior, rivers are the only highways.

Practically speaking Borneo is not an easy place to see on your own. Attractions are widely scattered and require a variety of transportation. Many cool spots are reachable only by longboat or small aircraft, which require advance planning. On the major rivers such as the Baram and Rajang, however, there are fast, cheap express boat services (if you have the bottle to ride them). These incredibly sleek, speedy and claustrophobic craft look much like wingless jet airliners—the drivers even paint on fake cockpit windows to further the illusion—and have a terrible safety record. Local tour operators in the main towns of Kuching and Kota Kinabalu offer Kinabalu climbs and visits to Iban longhouses. The downside, of course, is that, almost by definition, any outing that’s easy to arrange on the spot is going to be more crowded with tourists.

Simple guesthouses in the larger towns go for $10-$20 a night, while Western-style hotels run in the $40-50 range. Jungle lodge prices are in the same range.

And don’t worry about the leeches. The pesky little critters usually manage to get through any protective clothing, but you won’t even notice that they’re sucking your blood because they first inject you with a local anaesthetic. It doesn’t hurt a bit, but it can be a bit of a jolt when you remove your shoes and find blood-soaked socks. But unless you’re seriously squeamish or a haemophobe, Borneo leeches are not that big a deal. Really.

Whilst in Thailand, why not visit one of the country’s currently best three beach destinations:

Koh Lao Liang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/kohlaoliang.shtml

Ao Nang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/ao_nang.shtml

Railay/Tonsai: http://www.andamanadventures.com/railay-tonsai.shtml

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As sports go, in terms of sophistication ‘tubing’ is right up there with darts. Further similarities between tubing and darts are that, like darts, tubing is a sport which involves virtually no physical exercise and during which the ‘sportsman’ is encouraged to consume large volumes of beer.

If you want to go tubing, all you need is a tractor tyre’s inner tube and a river. Then you deposit yourself in the middle of the tube, legs dangling over the edge, and float downstream. The objects of the exercise: relax, drink as many cold beers as possible and flirt with the maximum number of strangers.

I know the ins-and-outs because I presently find myself in Vang Vieng in Northern Laos, the tubing capital of the world.

The Vang Vieng tubing experience lasts three or four hours and essentially entails soaking up sunshine and cold beers at riverside bamboo bars kitted out with music, rope swings, zip wires and jumps. Between bar breaks, the day-tripper floats down the Mekong’s majestic tributary the Nam Som, bumping into random strangers and admiring the spectacular scenery, which consists of limestone cliffs rising from rice paddy fields.

I am about to climb aboard one of the tyres, but before getting carried away down the river, I want to ensure that the river does not swallow my phones (I have more than one but not, I must repeatedly tell every Laotian I come across, because I have a ‘Mia Noi’ – ‘little wife’, or mistress). In theory, I should be fine because I have a dry bag: an elongated rubber pouch folded over seven times and fastened with a backpack-style click-clip.

Earlier, the dry-bag shop assistant had insisted that his product would do the job. I was dubious and cross-examined him – I examined him so much he got cross. Eventually I splashed out to the tune of 20,000 kip, suspicious I was paying a zero too many, before jumping in a minibus with six other travellers – a mix of middle-aged Koreans, gap-year British kids and goateed, dreadlocked Scandinavians.

Around 500 adventurers make the journey down the Nam Som every day. I notice that I am the 195th, according to the marker pen squiggle on my hand, as I kick my tube into the river.

The tube promptly takes off, forcing me to run after it. I jump in and fall out, scraping my knees on the stony riverbed, provoking several small children to snigger and whisper “farang ting tong” (crazy foreigner).

I climb back in. This time, the tube rears up like a malevolent horse and I collapse, backwards, back into the muddy Mekong’s tributary.

Finally, I succeed in planting myself inside and, steering with my hands, start cruising slowly down the somewhat dirty green river, whose flow is interrupted by rapids which, thankfully, have less kick than a fengshui-inspired garden water feature.

Soon a skyscraper-high bamboo platform rears up on my left. Next to it the first bar looms into view, belting out Ricky Martin’s La Vida Loca, a song commonly sung by drunk pirates en route to a firing squad, I once read.

Grabbing the bamboo barge pole that a barman extends, I reel myself ashore and meet a scattering of Brits led by Guy, a Home Counties type with air ace looks and not a hair out of place. While I sip my skittle-sized bottle of Beer Lao, Guy tells me that getting too drunk is a bad idea. Only the previous week a girl who jumped off one of the podiums crashed head-to-head into a tube-rider.

The tube-rider apparently escaped serious injury. But she “ripped her jaw off”, Guy says, lending credence to a blog posting I read, which reported a drowning. I squirm. Everyone falls silent.

Just to prove that I’m just as childish as the younger crowd which I’m drinking with, I feel obliged to pull at least one Tarzan stunt. So I finish my beer and make my way up the skinny bamboo ladder, grip the handle of the aerial slide and check that nobody is lurking below. I zoom down the wire and collide at speed with the river.

A rumble of bubbles. My body knifes through the water, experiences traction, hits a halt, gathers upwards momentum and then bursts through the surface. That certainly blew away the cobwebs.

Coaxed and cajoled by the boys, Guy’s English rose girlfriend eventually heads for the ladder, looking like someone walking the plank. In the wake of her splash I move on, soon followed by Guy’s squadron. The last time I see him, he is mounting another much higher platform with a cheery wave.

As I turn a bend in the river and he disappears, I imagine him executing the perfect swallow dive. Enticed by a barrage of Britpop, I head for the next bar, dip into my dry bag and rummage around for a wad of notes, only to discover that I am already down to my last 40,000 kip. Ouch!

Over the din of Faithless and The Arctic Monkeys, I ask the ruddy Liverpuddlian barman what that pittance will buy. “A small beer,” he says.

After finishing it, I am obliged to go tee-total, which is maybe, in the light of Guy’s observation, a blessing. As the party revs up and gets into full swing, I tire of the noise and all the tediously young and clichéd traveller-talk – how much this and that bus/boat/plane/dinner/shirt/battery/box of matches costs. I continue downriver, then settle for a while into a peaceful riverside berth formed by an overhang of undergrowth.

I fall into conversation with a Guangdong legal assistant who recently quit her job to go roaming. We bump together and become a double doughnut until, in the run-up to a series of rapids, she steers away and waves good-bye.

I do nothing – I just spin and watch a goat chew grass. It seems to do this in extreme slow motion, but maybe this is just an illusory effect of me having slowed down. The improbable happens – I relax. I am suffused by a pleasant and unusual sense of in-the-moment tranquility. I can see why some people become hooked on tubing and do the journey as many as 10 times in a row.

I slowly revolve through the haze towards a herd of buffalo taking a dip. They are disembodied, a surreal jumble of huge heads with ropes through their noses. As I near, they startle, then settle.

Beyond the buffalo, two locals wade across the river, looking statuesque with impossibly large bamboo bundles on their heads. One splashes my camera, reminding me that, here, if you want to take someone’s photo, you should ask first. Laotians are shy people.

All the more wonder that, during the 1960s, America saw fit to drop more bombs on their country than were used during the whole of the Second World War. Laos has the dubious honour of being the most bombed country in history. Thanks to the bombardment, people – often children – still get maimed in the fields of Laos today. But the little girl who now approaches me in the shallows at the end of the tube ride has an air of indestructibility.

She tries to take my tube off me, whilst demanding money. I do not pay as I have heard that, if I do, she will walk away with the tube and never return it to base, forcing me to pay a fine.

As I am returning my tube I bump into the Guangdong legal assistant and am not too surprised when she refuses my dinner invitation – well, it was a rather optimistic one, I suppose. Maybe I’ll take another ride down the river tomorrow.

If visiting Thailand, why not visit one of the country’s currently best three beach destinations:

Koh Lao Liang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/kohlaoliang.shtml

Ao Nang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/ao_nang.shtml

Railay/Tonsai: http://www.andamanadventures.com/railay-tonsai.shtml

 The Kinabalu Park is famous the world over for the highest mountain in South-East Asia – Mt. Kinabalu, a vast, jagged granite massif rising to 4,101m. (13,455 ft). The mountain is the focal point of the whole Park, which covers an area of 754 sq km (291 sq miles) of Borneo Island in Sabeh, Malaysia and includes vegetation types ranging from the lush lowland zone through the tropical oak, rhododendron and conifer forests, to the alpine meadow plants and stunted bushes of the summit zone. The Park probably has one of the richest diversities of flora in the world.

Trek Kinabalu

Mount Kinabalu is the highest mountain in south-east Asia and offers a unique climb from tropical luxuriance through sub-alpine forests to the rocky summit plateau. The climb starts from Mount Kinabalu Park Headquarters, only a couple of hours drive but already more than 1500m above Kota Kinabalu on the coast. There is ample accommodation here, from dormitories to comfortable two-person cottages. Whilst the round-trip trek to the summit can be accomplished in two days, a more comfortable 3-day trek is recommended for biology-lovers who want to fully enjoy the rich diversity of flora on the mountain. There are 2 trails up Mt. Kinabalu. The recently-opened Mesilau Trail offers more opportunities for viewing flora and fauna, whilst the Summit Trail is the more direct route.

The use of an authorised guide is compulsory, whilst a porter is an optional luxury. Many of the trees and flowers are unique or extremely rare but to the uninitiated novice in matters botanical, there is no doubt that the pitcher plant steals the show. Even the most casual observer cannot fail to notice these impressive insect-guzzling monsters, with up to a pint of liquid in their death-by-drowning chambers, waiting to lure and then drown the passing fly or mosquito.

The summit trail winds up a steep staircase of gnarled tree-roots to a mossy world of drifting clouds and orchid-draped trees, where pitcher plants and rhododendrons abound. Just above the tree line at 3350m is a comfortable rest house where most parties spend the night. Before dawn next morning everybody is up and climbing by torchlight towards the summit. A steep rock step is aided by a fixed rope which continues all the way to the summit even where the way becomes quite flat when it winds across bare granite slabs in an eerie moonscape of rock twisted and contorted in weird wind-fashioned ways.

 The early start is a good idea in order to enjoy the views before the usual mist descends on the summit, which normally happens at around 10 am. It is not a good idea to climb too quickly as the wait for the magnificent sunrise at the summit is rather cold. The arrival of daylight reveals the remarkable summit plateau of the mountain, a vast expanse of smooth rock with a weird assortment of rocky pinnacles rising from it, almost like the udders of an inverted cow. In clear weather, you can almost see all of Sabah spread out below in a magnificent soul-expanding panorama of jungle and forest, river and rock. Luckily for peak-baggers the highest pinnacle, Lows Peak, is also one of the easiest. On the way down you can take a glimpse down the dizzying depths of 1,000 meter-deep, 16 kilometer-long Lows Gully, which splits the summit plateau into the western and eastern plateaus. With the early start the descent to Park Headquarters is easily done in one day and is normally accomplished with the satisfied glow of having climbed one of the world’s most spectacular and interesting mountains.

Rafflesia – World’s Biggest Flower Rafflesia is perhaps one of the two groups of plants that are associated with Kinabalu more than any other, besides orchids. The spectacular Rafflesia, which grows wild in these forests is, perhaps surprisingly considering its size, a parasite – it has no stem or leaves of its own and gets its nourishment from thread-like filaments which spread down through the roots and stems of its host forest vines.

The buds appear as small knobs covered in dark brown bracts on the stem of the vine and take about nine months to develop to the size of a cabbage before they open. The flowers are notorious for their bad smell, which is most unpleasant but only lasts for three to four days. Two species have been found on Kinabalu, the huge Rafflesia keithii, which really is a giant, growing up to a whopping 94 centimetres (37 inches) across and the smaller R. pricei, about 30 centimetres (12 inches across).

Other peaks on the mountain are Victoria’s Peak (4,090m.), Donkey’s Ears Peak (4,054m.), South Peak (3,931.5m.) and St. John’s Peak (4,090.7m.) on the western plateau. On the eastern plateau, stand King Edward Peak (4,086m.), Mesilau Peak (3,801.3m.) and King George Peak (4,062.6m). These peaks are only for experienced climbers as they are challenging climbs requiring ropes, for which a special permit from the Park authorities is required.

Whilst in Thailand, why not visit one of the country’s currently best three beach destinations:

Koh Lao Liang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/kohlaoliang.shtml

Ao Nang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/ao_nang.shtml

Railay/Tonsai: http://www.andamanadventures.com/railay-tonsai.shtml

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“Via what?” you might ask? Don’t worry. Hardly anybody has even heard of “via ferrate”, as they are known in the plural. That includes Mount Kinabalu visitors from Italy, who should maybe have a better idea because their First World War Dolomite forebears devised them so that they could kill Austrians with greater ease.

A via ferrata (Italian for “iron road”) is a mountain path consisting of fixed steel rungs, rails and cables. Soaring up to 3800 metres, the via ferrata I am entangled with, which is called Mountain Torq (old English for “necklace”), offers fantastic views from vertiginously dizzy heights. Mountain Torq is both the world’s highest and Asia’s first mountain steel staircase.

Opened in December 2007, Mountain Torq is fair game for anyone aged 10 to 70 who is moderately fit and equipped with above average get-up-and-go. You put on a harness and are hooked onto the cable that lines the route, then clamber and scramble or just plonk your behind on every rung, as some particularly nervous individuals do.

Why bother going anywhere near it? Because a ferrata route enables people who have never climbed anything wilder than the office ladder to touch the void, overcome their fear of heights and experience altitude through the eyes of a rock climber. Even if you have to put up with being dressed like a dork, as I am.

My climbing costume consists of three shirts along with a purple balaclava and a pair of fuzzy mittens donated by a female Aussie backpacker. I feel preposterous yet confident.

I have already managed to navigate the UNESCO-listed world heritage site foothills of Mount Kinabalu itself. No mean feat. You must trek for four to six hours up a dizzying array of steps. These steps take all conceivable forms: shallow steps; cliff-like steps into the unknown; steps made of roots; steps of chipped, slimy rock; steps supporting whole colonies of toads.

As a result of all the impromptu training I feel “in the zone” but have made progress hard by rejecting the “Walk the Torq” beginner’s route in favour of the deceptively named “The Preamble”, which meanders for 1.2 kilometres through beautiful rhododendrons and the bone-like branches that snake everywhere in the mossy humidity. Make it through the jungle and you arrive at a gleaming succession of rungs that single-handedly takes you from 3,200 to 3,800 metres above sea level.

By the standards of via ferrate, The Preamble is “difficult” (the official rating). All the more so for me because I have chosen to double the calories by going up, not down.

When I started climbing in the starry dawn the muted light softened the contours of the abyss. Now that the sun has risen, I can easily get a sense of the immensity if I look down. Whether to look down or not is a big question. Some climbers adamantly refuse to, keeping their eyes rigidly glued upwards. After a while I start to look down regularly as, in a funny way, I come to like the fear so induced. It certainly makes me feel very alive and in the present. I totally forget about the financial and relationship problems that have been nagging at me for weeks.

It’s really perfect, this via ferrata lark. You get the adrenaline buzz of doing something which your senses are screaming at you to desist from, while maintaining perfect safety. Thanks to your hooks, the farthest you can fall is two feet. After a while I let go and lean back on the lanyard, just to see what it feels like – it turns out it’s a bit like sitting in a comfy sofa. I enjoy the effortlessness of being supported by the mountain and sway from side to side a bit just to heighten the experience. After a while I realise there’s nothing to be scared of except fear itself – and maybe the scorn of the purists who insist on climbing unaided. After reflecting for a while I decide that such soloists need their heads examined and that I thus don’t really care what they think of me.

Before embarking on my “big wall” climb I was obliged to fill in the standard “if you die, tough” document with a next-of-kin section, which made me wonder how many climbers come to grief on Kinabalu. Nobody seems to know – or at least be willing to tell me.

Wilfred Tok, the 39-year-old Singaporean mountaineer behind Mountain Torq, says that many people, even the British Commandos who virtually run up the mountain, experience the banging headaches associated with altitude sickness (much to their shame when they see 70-year-old Japanese ladies acclimatising perfectly). Anyone with a history of strokes should not try the Kinabalu via ferrata, as the rapid altitude rise is dangerous for such people.

My curiosity is aroused by a book I find in one of the mountain huts – “Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained” by the late Everest conqueror Sir Edmund Hillary. Sir Edmund’s non-fiction thriller is awash with accounts of redoubtable men having magnificent accidents. After one recounted fall, a rescued climber named McFarlane, who seems to be dying, quips that he much prefers being carried down a glacier to walking.

That’s climbing. Even if you have a ruptured spleen and bloodied skull, the rule is: keep on smiling and remark, say, on how you’re looking forward to meeting attractive nurses or doctors in hospital. Every cloud has a silver lining – even the black one that triggered the avalanche.

On my jaunt, the closest event to an accident occurs when the rope linking me to my guide snags on a bonsai tree sprouting from the rock face. Awkward, but no big deal. I regularly forget to unclip my karabiners and with a lurch run up against one of the superglued bolts that help keep the cable hugging the mountain.

Thanks in part to such hitches, my “assault” takes three hours to complete, making it the longest three quarters of a mile I have experienced since nursery school walkies. I should have stocked up with chocolate from the mountain hut’s strange little canteen, where I had been somewhat surprised to see a squirrel walk into a cupboard.

I don’t feel fit. I don’t mind wheezing like a bellows when attempting to talk to my younger companions, but when I realise that someone twenty years older than me is fitter, I get a bit gloomy. I wish I hadn’t spent most of the last 42 years consuming too much beer and lamb madras.

Exhausted, I almost stagger from the top rung onto the slate moonscape at the rock face’s top, where a climber set to follow in my footsteps, only downwards, asks how it was. “Tough,” I say.

Fifteen minutes later, from a distance, I can still see him and his friends marooned on the plateau. My guide explains that people find the descent scarier than the ascent. The laser-like sunshine leaves nothing to the imagination and many first-timers just freeze. Others, when confronted with the chasm, cry – men as well as women. I’m pleased I haven’t blubbed, it would have been almost as embarrassing as when I got all teary when the Kylie Minogue concert tickets I was trying to buy last year sold out.

Whilst in Thailand, why not visit one of the country’s currently best three beach destinations:

Koh Lao Liang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/kohlaoliang.shtml

Ao Nang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/ao_nang.shtml

Railay/Tonsai: http://www.andamanadventures.com/railay-tonsai.shtml

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