I knocked on the large wooden door, the red sign above me banging in the wind.
A greasy man ran his fingers across his chin and eyed me wearily.
He cut me off, indicating with raised hand to say no more.
He pointed around the side of the restaurant.
Following the cracked concrete path, I edged around drums of oil and pots of paint.
She raised her clever opal eyes to me.
“You have come to the right place.”
Bako National Park is one of those places which takes your breath away with the chill wind and sweeps magic through the trees.
Travelling by boat, you can stay on the island, but no one recommends it.
The beach is cool and windy, the jungle stifling and steamy.
Sweat drips down the bridge of your nose and down your ankles into your socks.
Beware of sting-rays when you swim in the murky ocean.
Proboscis monkeys crash through the jungle, sending shards of leaves over your head, to congregate on the sand in deep grunting discussion.