Jungle Boogie.

Never been much of a beach girl (too white, too impatient). But a beach where dipping a pinky in the water can result in hospitalisation if not loss of the entire pinky and a fair bit more besides, Now That's What I Call Music.
So I headed up to the Daintree in tropical North Queensland 'where the rainforest meets the reef' creating an uninterupted Zone Of Potential Death. The world's oldest rainforest dates from when there was one supercontinent (called, apparently, 'Gonwandaland' proving that all scientists share a common ancestor with Dungeons and Dragons gamers. Peopled by Orcs too no doubt). The forest is home to some unique and endangered species including the Cassowary (an endangered relative of the emu sporting the novel feature of a razor sharp claw for chibbing unwary tourists) and is, of course, under threat. The state government is currently engaged in a scheme to persuade local landowners who have begun clearcutting and development to resell to the park. One can only hope the persuasion is of the variety that involves heads and toilets and an edgy cassowary sitting in the corner.

Foxy Lady.

I passed a relaxing few days looking out for crocs, bobbing my pants at the sound of fist sized jungle fowl, charging about in the dark looking for snakes with Botany's answer to Indiana Jones (fact; by weight there are more termites in the world than people. Thank God only we know this!) and hanging about (ooh, my wife, my wife) with Sunshine the fruit bat (likes; apples, flapping, pooing seeds. Dislikes; barbed wire, farmers) at the rehab center. I was hoping she'd score me some crack. She was holding out for a council house. I also got talking to the resident ecologist, who is (seemingly singlehandedly) replanting the forest, about mankind's impending doom. Key factors being population growth and air travel. I told him not to worry. We've got all the bases covered between us.

The Underwater World Of Inspector Clouseau.

Then it was off back to fantastically tacky Cairns (the only seaside town to opt for a mudflat instead of a beach ensuring that the only birds you can watch preening are the pelicans bedding in for the night) and a spot of diving on the reef. My submarine grace left a little to be desired but it was all worth it to see the oceanographic equivalent of kittens in a basket; clownfish nestling in coral polyps. Bless their little orange and white fins.

I'll leave you with this heartwarming fact; every year crocs eat more Germans here than any other nationality. Answers on a postcard. New slogan for the tourist board; 'North Queensland, menacing tourists since 48000 BC'.

Love, Flipper.