Where even eating dinner is dangerous

Australia," said the resort's general manager proudly, "is the most dangerous place in the world." He could have added, "and Far North Queensland is the most dangerous part of the most dangerous place in the world."

But he didn't need to. Minutes earlier he had tipped back a shooter of Tasmanian oysters and chilli, choked, and sent a mollusc shooting up the centre of the table. Even dinner in Far North Queensland is dangerous. Oyster spitting, we decided, would be the perfect regional sport. It was certainly an ice-breaker.

The GM was entertaining us at dinner at his resort, the Angsana, where you can go to the spa and have arcane things done to your body in the name of luxury and relaxation. I preferred the oyster spitting, but then I felt right at home in the north, where the people talk slowly and nothing moves too quickly, unless it is a shooting oyster or a snapping croc.

We were in Queensland to check out the small luxury-hotel end of the market which is my idea of a holiday. But Queenslanders - although the oyster spitter is a Brit import - can't help but make it all sound dangerous. This does, it is true, add a certain frisson to the experience.

And they can't help themselves: they're Aussies and, in our case, Aussies entertaining Kiwis. Putting the fear of crocs and spiders and stingers into their neighbours from across the Tasman is a truly national sport.

For example, at Bloomfield Lodge, later in the trip, I was told that on a New Year's eve a python joined the party: it sat in one of the sun loungers for the evening.

At Angsana, Nicholas, our entertaining host, said nonchalantly: "If you see a snake around one of the pot plants, just tell somebody." This is what counts for tourist attractions in the north.

At Thala Lodge you are greeted by a picture of a box jellyfish on the coffee table in your room, with some words warning you not to go in the water. The stinger season is from November through to May or June.

This seems like a peculiarly sadistic Aussie joke. We staggered down to the beach one afternoon - "It's not very hot," they said. It was only about 32 degrees - and stared at the surf.

Thala has a gloriously isolated beach, a bit rough, like our West Coast beaches, except with coconut palms. We itched to go in - but couldn't. Water, water everywhere and not a drop to swim in.

We could have had a swim in the enticing little rock pool halfway back up the track. But there might have been snakes in that overhanging canopy. We knew this because the resort has, charmingly, set up a water pipe into a tree hollow right outside the open-air restaurant. This has the effect of attracting birds. It also has the effect of attracting a python which, or so we were told, hangs in the tree and eats the birds.

We could also have pushed a buzzer to call a golf buggy to come and pick us up but I was with some fitness freak who insisted we traipse. I, on the other hand, can't see the point of going to the luxury end of the market if you're not going to be lazy. The instant we got back we jumped in the big pool which has a fake waterfall and a jacuzzi. A few branches fell in, which made me shriek. Well, they could have been snakes.

Then there are the crocs. Every hotelier we meet told us the same story about their Asian customers. They go to a croc park then come back to their rooms and call reception, shrieking that there is a baby crocodile in their room. There never is: it's an Indonesian gecko which might look a bit like a baby crocodile if you'd had 27 cocktails before dinner.

I blame Bruce. We met Bruce at Hartley's Crocodile Adventures where we'd been promised a Steve Irwin impersonator. Bruce was much better than that. Actually, he was a bit dismissive of Steve. "You can't train em," he said of the crocs, "even if your name's Steve Irwin."

We asked some stupid questions about the untrainable reptiles. Well, I did. As in: did Bruce like crocs? He said: "Do I like em? What, as far as eating em?" We tried everywhere to get some croc meat. But it was the same old story: Crocodiles, crocodiles everywhere and not a bite to eat.

Still, meeting Charlie almost made up for the lack. Charlie was a big ol' croc whose age was estimated to be between 70 and 80 years. In 1966 Prince Charles met his namesake. Charlie's stuffed now and some people might like to make a few jokes along the same lines about the other Charlie. I said I thought Hartley's should name a croc after Camilla. Bruce said: "OK. We'll name a croc Camilla. In your honour."

I got him back a bit later when he let us have a poke at a baby croc whose jaws were held together with a rubber band. I started to tickle its foot when he said: "I wouldn't do th ... " The croc flew up and hit him in the face. He thought he might have a bit of a bruise the next day. Oops.

I thought of Bruce on our way through Cairns (pronounced Cans) when a Queenslander, hearing our accents, gave us a bit of stick about the cricket and our national sport of chucking beer bottles. So, again, sorry about that Bruce. But not that sorry.

It wasn't a bit hot in Far North Queensland. That's why the koalas at Hartley's had an electric fan in their enclosure. The park has to have permission to keep the bears - and to grow their eucalyptus trees. Neither are native to the area and this is all World Heritage land.

Bruce shrugged and said the tourists want to see the things. I didn't. But the spider the size of my palm which spins a golden web was worth seeing. Even if Bruce thought it was funny to say: "Turn around and see what's behind you." Everything in the Far North is like being a hapless actor in one of those pantos where the audience gets to call out: "Watch out, it's behind you."

In truth, the most scary thing I saw - apart from Charlie, and he was dead - was a tree frog the size of a postage stamp. But you are not inclined to go wandering through the rain forest alone. That grunting sound is wild pigs. Or along the sides of creeks. That sound you don't hear until it's too late is the sound of a croc with your leg in its gob. Bruce told us how to kill a croc: "If it's got your leg in its gob, stand on its head with your other leg and push it under the water. It'll drown." Something like that.

You get hungry being scared. The best thing about the luxury end is that the food is bloody good - despite the lack of croc.

At Thala, possibly the most laidback of the three places we visited, you can get the degustation menu for A$70 ($75.40). This includes Moreton Bay bugs and reef fish and mango parfait.

Then you stagger back to your room not caring at all that you are likely to see a cane toad on the path. We didn't, but then I don't think those Queenslanders have a clue what one looks like. They'd never heard, until I told them, that you if you lick one it has an hallucinogenic effect. They should try it some time.

Thala has its own blissed out sort of effect. The rooms are lovely, with wooden floors and comfortable furniture and a balcony set in the trees. This means that you wake to the Australian equivalent of the dawn chorus: the dawn racket. It is relaxing without being in any way posh or intimidating. As are the staff, including the Kiwi with the Southland burr. He was the one who told us about the python.

To get to Pepper's Bloomfield Lodge, you fly in a little Cessna, along the Queensland coast, across the Coral Sea - this is worth the price of admission alone - then get in a four-wheel drive, then catch a little boat. It is isolated: from the air all you can see is the lodge's jetty.

Did I say Thala was laid-back? At Pepper's there's an honour bar system, no room keys, and the strapping female wait staff wear blue shorts and RM Williams boots. It's a bit like having your food delivered by an outback cop. This could be a bit exciting depending on your particular fantasies.

I didn't do anything at Bloomfield. You can go on a rainforest walk but I didn't want to meet a pig. You can go on a river cruise along a waterway where there is only one croc per kilometre. I've seen crocs.

I'm glad the owner wasn't there. He's an ex-SAS Brit who, says manager Peter, had to be persuaded that insect screens on the windows were probably a good idea.

Anyway, if somebody chooses to provide me with a wonderful verandah with a day bed and a view through rainforest to Weary Bay, who am I to resist such a subliminal message?

I wish I had done the same at Angsana. I opted for a half day trip to Green Island so that I could go on a glass bottom boat - being partial to such tacky tourist pursuits.

Green Island is vile. It is queues of hundreds of tourists on the jetty and a food court which smells like all food courts. And it lets male tourists wear Speedos. This should be banned.

The glass-bottom boat was a herd-em-on, herd-em-off experience with a commentary designed for the deaf and the stupid. Every time the commentator asked a banal rhetorical question along the lines of: "Can anyone tell me why Green Island is called Green Island?" the New Zealand bloke sitting next to me would mutter: "No, but I'm sure you're about to tell us." When we got off the boat, he said to one of the crew: "Your mate could talk through a mouth of golf balls." This made me very proud to be a New Zealander.

The best thing about the Green Island experience was seeing the best-ever photo opportunity of a photo opportunity: Two Japanese girls, either side of the island's croc park, holding their arms and mouths open, pretending to be crocodiles for the camera.

I'd have been better off staying at Angsana for the day. I had a huge apartment - you can cook there should you be so inclined - with big couches and a balcony overlooking one of the three pools. The restaurant is very good - and where else in the world could you be entertained so dangerously at your table by a shooting oyster?

* Michele Hewitson was hosted by Small Luxury Hotels of the World and Air New Zealand. 

Getting there

Air New Zealand is the only airline offering non-stop flights from Auckland to Cairns. For more information visit the website or call 0800 737 000.