We carried the basket of scrabbling turtle hatchlings down to the beach.
‘We’ll release them here,’ said Nick. ‘We need to give them a run-up before they enter the sea. That gives them a chance to get their bearings, to set their internal magnetic compasses, so they are able to navigate when they get out to sea.’
‘Where will they go?’ I asked.
‘Nobody knows for sure. The next few years of their lives have been dubbed “the lost years” because they are hardly ever seen. They probably get swept along at the mercy of the ocean currents. How they eventually get their bearings and swim back to the place they were born is a complete mystery.’
Turtle hatchlings erupting out of their nest like bubbling lava.
The sunny side of the turtle hatchery will produce mainly females.
We watched in awe as the hatchlings made their perilous dash for the sea.
‘Notice how they’re all heading straight towards the setting sun,’ said Nick. ‘They always head for the brightest point in the sky. It’s a big problem when they emerge from nests on tourist beaches, of course, because they head for the hotel lights instead.’
‘Oh my God!’ shouted Stephen suddenly. ‘One’s been grabbed.’
We rushed over to see a hatchling disappear down a hole in the sand. I rescued it just in time and let it go a safe distance away. I know you’re not supposed to intervene in nature, but I’m afraid I couldn’t resist. Our hatchlings needed all the help they could get. Plus they were irresistibly cute.
‘That was a ghost crab,’ said Nick. ‘Lots of hatchlings get picked off on their way to the sea, not just by crabs but by gulls and rats and things.’
The hatchlings ran straight into the surf without skipping a beat, diving into the waves and swimming as if they’d been doing it their whole lives.
‘Unbelievable,’ I said to Stephen. ‘I just can’t believe this is the first time they’ve ever set eyes on the sea – and yet, there they go, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.’
‘I suppose it is the most natural thing in the world,’ he replied.
Without the benefit of swimming lessons, the baby turtles started swimming automatically. Their flippers did an intriguing mix of doggy-paddle and breaststroke, while their heads bobbed up and down so they could breathe. They looked just like clockwork toys.
‘I wonder how many of them will make it?’ asked Stephen.
‘I’m afraid the odds are not very good,’ answered Nick. ‘They’ve survived the hazards of the beach…’
‘With our help,’ I interrupted.
‘Yes, with our help,’ smiled Nick. ‘But now they have to run the gauntlet of the reef, where there are loads of hungry fish that would love to snack on them. They’ll just keep swimming frantically for a day or two until they are far out in the open sea, where they might be able to hide in floating seaweed and be a little safer.’
The hatchlings will be looking over their shoulders for about a year, by which time they will be roughly the size of saucers and their shells will have hardened enough to make them less easy prey for predators.
But even as adults they face a barrage of threats. One of the biggest dangers comes in the form of fishing nets – tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of sea turtles die in them every year.
We watched as the last of the hatchlings disappeared beneath the waves.
‘Hopefully,’ said Nick, ‘one of them will be back, in maybe 20 or 25 years’ time, to lay her eggs on the same beach, right here, where she was born.’
‘Good luck,’ called Stephen to the now-invisible babies. ‘I’ve never seen anything quite so magical in my entire life.’
We flew from Kota Kinabalu to Tawau, in the southeastern corner of Sabah, and had the shock of our lives. We travelled over a never-ending expanse of man-made plantations. Vast swathes of what was once tropical rainforest had been cleared to make way for row upon row, mile upon mile of identical palm trees.
‘I’ve seen the future of Malaysia – and it’s bleak,’ said Stephen, staring out of the window in dismay.
‘How do you know?’ I asked.
‘I’ve read its palms.’
He was absolutely right. The rapid expanse of palm oil plantations in Southeast Asia could be the single most immediate threat to the greatest number of species on the planet.
Palm oil is one of those things we’ve all heard about, but probably couldn’t discuss in any depth at a dinner party. Don’t worry – most politicians couldn’t, either. It’s a bit like ‘global warming’, ‘sub-prime mortgages’ or ‘saturated fat’. Just hearing those words sends an automatic signal to the brain that says ‘bad’, though we’re not entirely sure of all the details.
This is one of the few times in the book when I am going to rant, because palm oil is a bigger disaster than you think, regardless of how big a disaster you think it is. It’s about as environmentally friendly as dropping some plutonium into the reservoir at Staines. Vast areas of tropical rainforest are being cleared to make way for palm oil plantations – millions of hectares in Borneo alone in the last few years.
Palm oil is derived from the fruit and seeds of a particular species of tree called, rather unimaginatively, the oil palm. This oil is a key ingredient of many processed foods (though we don’t know about it most of the time, because it is listed simply as ‘vegetable oil’). It is in great – and growing – demand as a source of non-hydrogenated vegetable fats. It’s used as a cooking oil, too, and in everything from soap to washing powder.
Palm oil plantations – possibly the single most immediate threat to the greatest number of species on the planet.
Food and cosmetics companies, smelling huge profits, are driving the demand for new supplies and turning a blind eye to illegal habitat destruction in the process. The incentives to produce palm oil are so great that national park and reserve boundaries are often changed to make way for new plantations.
It is also in great demand for biofuel. How ironic is that? Apart from anything else, clearing the forests releases huge amounts of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, causing damage that far outweighs the benefits of switching to a so-called environmentally friendly fuel.
When the forests go, so do most of the native plants and animals. And, in a place like Borneo, that means a heck of a lot of different species. There is a well-known story of a botanist spending a few days tramping around about 10 hectares (28 acres) of jungle in Borneo and discovering no fewer than a thousand new species of flowering plant. I am no botanist, but even I know that is a lot (more species than are found in the whole of North America, as it happens).
Apart from the obvious ethical and emotional reasons for worrying about some multinational company coming along and bulldozing that 10 hectares of forest, and everything that lives in it, there are some practical reasons, too. Nearly a quarter of all prescribed medicines are derived from just forty plants, and the vast majority – at least 99 per cent – have never been tested for their potential healing properties. Just imagine what medical nuggets those 10 hectares might be harbouring. And 10 hectares is just the tip of the iceberg.
Malaysia is far and away the largest exporter of palm oil in the world, and Indonesia comes a very close second. Their economies rely on it – and so do the livelihoods of millions of people. But there are solutions. For example, there is plenty of non-forested land that would be perfectly good enough to meet the growing demand for palm oil plantations. It’s not being used, though, because the corporations responsible for palm oil find it cheaper and easier to bulldoze tropical rainforests – and, of course, the rainforests provide valuable timber that gives them an extra financial bonus.
We landed at Tawau, still in shock, and drove through yet more endless palm oil plantations as far as Semporna. We passed a convoy of tankers along the way.
‘You know what?’ said Stephen. ‘I think I’ve just discovered the least environmentally friendly job on the planet.’
�
��What’s that?’
‘Driving a petrol-driven palm oil tanker.’
It’s hard to know where to begin with the island of Sipadan, our next stop. I’d heard about it for years and was actually getting quite tired of friends raving about the place, claiming that it’s home to the world’s best dive site, richest coral reef, clearest water, blah, blah, blah. I don’t mean to be rude but, honestly, I’d got it. Sipadan is ‘bloody, bloody brilliant’, as one friend exclaimed.
Well, I’ve been to Sipadan at last, and I’d like to add my own particular perception to the fray: it’s bloody, bloody brilliant. I can’t think of a better way of putting it than that.
Right on the border with the Philippines, in the Celebes Sea, Sipadan is a pile of living coral sitting on top of an extinct volcano. It rises steeply from the sea bed, which is 600 metres (2,000 feet) away down in the depths, and breaks the surface by no more than the height of a man. The island itself is quite small – about 12 hectares (30 acres) – and consists of a slash of gleaming white sand topped with verdant palm trees. Imagine a cartoonist’s impression of the ultimate desert island – and that is exactly what it’s like.
We were completely spellbound as we approached in our dive boat. It’s the kind of place that makes you want to paint a picture, write poetry, sing songs and, I’m afraid, phone all your friends to bang on about it until they tell you to shut up. It’s so spectacularly breathtaking that your brain struggles to process so much heavenly wonderfulness. And that’s just the view from above the surface.
‘You know the saying “the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence”?’ said Stephen. ‘Well, this is the other side of the fence. It doesn’t get much better, does it?’
We had to sign in with the marine park authorities first, so docked at the rickety wooden jetty. A small Malaysian navy boat appeared alongside. There has been a heavy military presence on Sipadan since 2001, when 21 people were kidnapped at gunpoint by Filipino terrorists (most were held for about a year, then slowly ransomed off for millions of dollars).
The military is also there to deter illegal fishermen. We’re not talking about a couple of men with nets or fishing rods – it’s much, much worse than that. One of the great scourges of coastal seas in Southeast Asia is fishermen armed with lethal weapons. Many coral reefs in the region have been destroyed by dynamite fishing (using home-made bombs to stun or kill schools of fish) and cyanide fishing (squirting cyanide into reef crevices, to stun the fish hiding inside, and then breaking away the coral with a hammer to collect them by hand).
The fishermen completely destroy the coral in the process. They are trying to catch live fish for the luxury food trade (live groupers and Napoleon wrasse, in particular, are in high demand in Hong Kong, Taiwan, Singapore and other parts of Southeast Asia) and for the aquarium trade (which has an insatiable appetite for colourful fish to sell to animal-lovers who like to put them in tanks).
‘The worst thing in the world is to be born tasty,’ commented Stephen.
‘What’s the second worst thing in the world?’ I asked.
‘To be born Welsh, obviously.’
[Stephen has just asked me to point out that this was, of course, a stupid joke and that he loves the Welsh more than you could possibly imagine, and he once went to Cardiff. Next time he promises to make a joke about the Scots, the Irish, and then the English. And the Americans.]
Even the heavy military presence on Sipadan didn’t dampen our enthusiasm and we wasted no time in getting ready for the first dive of the day or, in Stephen’s case, the first snorkel of the day.
I say we ‘wasted no time’ but I’ve never known anyone take so long to get into a wetsuit as Stephen. I was completely ready in my suit, fins and mask, with my weight belt around my waist, a tank on my back, the regulator in my mouth, and was sitting on the side of the boat about to do a Navy SEAL backwards roll into the water, when I realised that Stephen had barely got one leg inside his wetsuit. And it was back to front.
I made a mental note for next time: persuade him to get ready the night before and sleep in his wetsuit. Then we might have a fighting chance of getting in the water before sunset.
‘These things are bloody impossible,’ he complained to the world at large, puffing and panting and sweating profusely. ‘This had better be worth it.’
He stopped to take a short break and started texting.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ I asked.
‘Texting,’ he replied bluntly, knowing that I was getting impatient. He didn’t look up.
‘Who are you texting now?’
‘Alan Davies. He’s a keen diver and I just wanted to tell him that we’re here. Shouldn’t you be sucking in nitrous oxide or helium or something?’
The phone bleeped.
‘What did he say?’ I asked, failing not to be intrigued.
‘He says “Lucky bugger – even more jealous knowing it’s completely wasted on you”.’
‘Have you never considered learning to dive?’ I asked.
‘Not really. It’s always struck me as a bit like skiing, with lots of competitiveness and one-upmanship. I can just imagine sitting on a dive boat with people looking aggressively at my equipment and thinking “I’m a better diver than you” or “I’ve dived deeper than you” or “I don’t like the look of your dive watch”. You must admit lots of divers really fancy themselves, don’t they?’
‘I’m going to learn to dive,’ said Stephen. ‘I’m definitely going to learn to dive. And I’m going to do it right here in Sipadan.’
‘Well some do, obviously, but so do people who play football or go to knitting classes. It’s human nature. That shouldn’t put you off, though.’
The starfish that looks like a chocolate chip cookie.
What a healthy coral reef should look like, without the damage caused by dynamite and cyanide fishing.
Despite all the protestations, I helped him into his wetsuit – ‘ow!… stop, stop!… that hurts!… don’t pull so hard … ouch!’. He just had to find his snorkel, spit into his mask and squeeze his size-twelve feet into a pair of size-eleven fins, and we were ready to go.
We peered into the crystal-clear water at all the big fish milling around by the side of the boat.
‘Be careful when you answer, Mr Bond,’ he said, in his best Bond-villain voice.
I rolled over the side and started to descend. The water wasn’t just warm – it was positively, sizzlingly, magnificently balmy. I reached the reef fairly quickly and started to move down the sheer wall that plunged into the ocean depths, where I was joined by the rest of the crew. There was quite a strong current and we were suddenly whisked along like astronauts being sucked into outer space from the safety of the International Space Station.
The reef wall was teeming with outrageously colourful fish, spectacular corals and bizarrely shaped sponges. There were spirals of barracuda and schools of big-eye trevally shoaling in the open water. A couple of large grey reef sharks passed close by overhead and we encountered more white-tipped reef sharks on this dive than I’d seen in the whole of the past year diving in lesser parts of the world.
One of the highlights was coming face to face with an enormous male Napoleon wrasse – now an endangered species because so many have been taken for the live fish trade. It must have been at least 1.5 metres (5 feet) long. Bright purplish-blue in colour, with thick, fleshy lips and a protruding forehead, it was unlike anything else on the reef. The best thing about Napoleon wrasse is that they can change sex. Actually, it’s only the females that can change into males rather than the other way round. There are lots of good jokes in that, but I’ll let it pass.
The turtles were another star attraction. They were everywhere. Most of them were massive green turtles, but there were a few smaller hawksbills too. We must have seen at least a dozen altogether.
By the time we returned to the top of the reef, the current was so strong I couldn’t fin hard enough to make any progress. I had to dive
rt into a small gully and catch my breath. As I pushed back out into the maelstrom, and started kicking like a madman, I noticed that all the fish – even the tiddlers – were overtaking me. With no apparent effort, they were swimming up-current. The little buggers. Of course, I consoled myself, it would be a different matter in our world: put them on land and they’d be flailing about all over the place.
I surfaced right next to Stephen, who’d apparently been waiting impatiently at the surface, and he started rapid-fire talking even before I’d removed my mask and opened my eyes.
‘Holy mackerel!’ he started (for once his favourite expression seemed to be perfectly apt). ‘The intensity of the colours is absolutely astounding. I don’t think I’ve seen any flower on the surface of the planet that has the same kind of purity and blazing intensity as those colours down there. And the clownfish. Did you see the clownfish? What about the starfish that look like chocolate chip cookies? Amazing. And all those things I can’t identify? They are amazing, too. Not to mention all the turtles and sharks. But I have to say I really like the small stuff – I could have stayed in just one place for an hour and not got bored.’
He barely drew breath and was still deliriously talkative as we clambered back into the boat.
‘I’m going to learn to dive,’ he said. ‘I’m definitely going to learn to dive. And I’m going to do it right here in Sipadan. I’m going to get one hell of a dive watch, too, just to annoy all the other divers. I’m going to come back here for a holiday. This has to be the most extraordinary place on the planet. I’m definitely coming back.’
Then he paused for a moment.
‘The only trouble is I haven’t had more than three days off in a row since I was eight.’
A white-tipped reef shark with its fins still intact.
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