Something was wrong.
As Dave and I made our way through the bustling streets of Sandakan, I was suddenly overcome by an intense urge to throw up.
That was weird.
“Uh, babe?” I said, with a tremble in my voice. “I think I gotta go back to the room. I don’t feel so good.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I dunno; I just feel really sick.” I started to panic. “I’m going to be sick. I don’t know. I just need — I need to lie down for a bit, I think.”
Dave handed me the keys to our guesthouse, and I jogged back to the room, sweat pouring down my forehead. One minute I had been happily walking to breakfast, and the next, I was feeling like I’d been struck down by food poisoning. It had all come on so fast.
I sat down on the bed and let out a groan. I couldn’t rest for more than a second; I sprinted to the shared bathroom and threw up on an empty stomach.
“Ugh,” I muttered as I washed my hands afterwards. “I feel terrible.”
By the time Dave returned to our room, I was feeling even worse, now expelling what felt like everything I’d ever consumed from both ends of my body. I was desperately gulping down dissolved rehydration salts and wondering whether I should go to the hospital or not.
“Go on without me,” I croaked dramatically, as though were both minutes from death and I thought I could save his life.
Dave reached for my hand, concerned etched across his face.
“I can’t leave you like this.”
“I’m fine.”
He shook his head. “You’re far from fine.”
“I know. But, it’s just food poisoning. I’ve had food poisoning before.” In fact, I’d had food poisoning more than anyone I’d ever known.
“I’ll be okay,” I reassured him.
After he left, I sunk into the pillows and ran through a list of meals I’d eaten over the past couple of days. I’d eaten much the same as Dave, and everywhere we’d chosen to visit had been clean, filled with locals, and well-reviewed: the trifecta that usually meant that you wouldn’t get sick.
It was so frustrating. I had been looking forward to visiting Sandakan, and this was our only day to try to cram its sights in.
We had planned to visit two animal sanctuaries while we were in the city — one for sun bears and one for orangutans, but it was only Dave who’d be hanging out with them.
As Dave texted me photos of sun bears lounging and orangutans swinging, I alternated between the bed and the bathroom. I knew that taking Imodium wasn’t recommended for food poisoning, but all I wanted was to end this pain. I took a Dramamine in an attempt to dampen the nausea, then slept until Dave returned.
“So what do we do now?”
I’d expected to feel better, but this bout of food poisoning was proving to be particularly brutal. By this stage, I was confident my genetic makeup comprised 95% rehydration salts.
The following morning, Dave and I were supposed to be heading into the Bornean jungle. Deep into the jungle. Several-hours-away-from-a-hospital into the jungle. A driver was booked to collect us from our guesthouse in less than 12 hours.
But I wanted to go.
I was desperate to go.
This was the part of the trip that I was most excited for. We’d booked a homestay on the banks of the Kinabatangan River, which is one of the best places on the island to spot endangered, only-found-in-Borneo animals. The owner was a renowned animal-tracker, famed for having shown David Attenborough around the region while he was filming in town.
And yet.
I groaned and shook my head.
“I can’t do it.”
We texted the owner of the homestay, Osman, and asked if we could delay our arrival by a day. He agreed, which now gave me 24 hours to recover.
The following morning, I felt just as terrible, but I knew I couldn’t stay in Sandakan.
I really didn’t want to ruin our trip to Borneo, and cancelling this experience would do exactly that.
This jungle cruise was the entire reason why I’d begged Dave to come to the island with me. To miss out on the best part of Borneo would be ludicrous. I had no idea if we’d ever get the opportunity to return.
We texted Osman to let him know we were going to make our way to him.
“Lauren! David! Hi!”
Shhhhlllleerrrcckkkkkkkk.
Osman promptly wiped a metre-long trail of snot from his palm to his armpit, then held out his hand to greet us. He let out a loud snort.
“I don’t know why, but my nose is sweating today,” he told us.
We both recoiled in horror.
Sweating?
This man most definitely had a cold, and now we were most definitely going to catch it.
It felt too rude to ignore his outstretched hand, so Dave and I dutifully made contact with his mucus-soaked fingers.
The boat ride from the jetty to Osman’s home, however, was incredible. The absolute definition of paradise. We were on a calm chocolate-coloured river surrounded by dense rainforest on either side while the sound of a thousand birds threatened to drown out the sound of our chugging engine.
When we stepped up into the homestay, we were greeted by a photo of David Attenborough with Osman smiling behind him. Attenborough had filmed several documentaries in Borneo, and always spent time with Osman when he did. That was the prime reason why we’d chosen to stay here — this guy was the best of the best when it came to spotting wildlife, and his unrivalled reputation had my stomach churning with anticipation.
Well, it was churning from something.
“So, guys,” he said to us. “Tell me — what do you want to see while you’re here?”
“Definitely pygmy elephants,” I said, knowing that they were the ultimate prize for anyone on the Kinabatangan River.
The Bornean pygmy elephant is a sub-species of the Asian elephant; endangered, with only 1,500 of them remaining in the world. They’re cuter than cute, coming in at just a fifth of the size of other species, and I was desperate to spot a human-sized pachyderm.
Osman was confident he could take us to see some, but I was still full of skepticism. When there are only 1,500 of them left in the wild, the odds had to be low.
Before we’d even had time to unpack, the three of us piled back into the boat, and Osman began racing along the river. “I can’t promise anything,” he shouted over the sound of the engine. “But I think I’ll be able to find some for you.”
I knew I’d be satisfied spotting anything rare and diminutive. The Kinabatangan River is home to the Bornean Big 5, which should really be labelled the not-so-big-5, because all of these animals are tiny. You’ve got the pygmy elephant (world’s smallest elephant), the sun bear (world’s smallest bear), the mouse deer (world’s smallest hoofed mammal), and the black-thighed falconet (world’s smallest bird of prey). The Bornean rhino used to be the smallest in the world until it became extinct.
As I kept my eyes peeled for anything grey and human-sized and tried to ignore the crocodiles, I couldn’t stop smiling. I may have felt like I was on the verge of emptying my empty stomach into the far-from-empty water, but I was still so fortunate to be here right now.
After 15 minutes, we had been joined by another couple of boats on the water.
This area of Borneo is unparalleled when it comes to spending time with endangered animals, so we were far from alone. There are half a dozen hotels located on this stretch of water, and they all offered tours of the river.
Just a few moments later, I got to witness just how adept Osman is. As the other tour boats puttered along the river, we were dipping and diving into the mangroves, spotting proboscis monkeys every hundred metres. The other guides hung back a little, then stealthily nipped in to where we’d been to show their guests the same thing.
I was seriously impressed by Osman’s skills.
And then.
“Found them.”
Osman cut the engine.
We’d been meandering down the river for an hour by this point, and I had been close to losing hope.
Osman pointed to our right and just beyond the tree line, I caught a glimpse of a herd of teeny-tiny elephants crashing through the jungle.
“Oh my god,” I whispered.
“Hold on,” Osman said. “I can get you closer.”
He gracefully spun the boat around then forced it into the mangroves until we were less than a metre away from the elephants.
This isn’t hyperbole: we were less than a metre from a dozen elephants that were about the same height as me.
I wanted to cry.
This was the single best moment of my travels to date. Screw the Sahara Desert and Mount Nyiragongo — I knew I was going to be talking about this scene for the rest of my life.
And then it got even better.
As we held a collective breath, the elephants continued to push through the branches and vines in order to completely surround our boat. I didn’t know whether to be afraid or delighted.
I spun my head in all directions, unable the process the fact that I could reach out and touch seven pygmy elephants from where I was sitting. The one closest to me rolled its head back and let out a large trumpet and I decided I could now die happy.
I glanced back at Osman, who was basking in satisfaction. Somewhere along the way, we’d managed to lose the other tour boats, so it was just the three of us sitting in complete awe of these magnificent animals.
We spent an incredible amount of time with them, continually reversing our boat and repositioning it further up the river, putting away our cameras so that we could focus only on the scenes in front of us.
When the elephants finally trampled deeper into the jungle, I allowed myself to breathe deeply for the first time in over an hour.
This had been one of the most magical moments of my life.
There’s a reason, though, why visiting the Kinabatangan River feels like a National Geographic magazine come to life. Unfortunately, it isn’t a pleasant one.
Everybody knows that the rainforest in Borneo is under threat. Palm oil plantations now blanket the island, cutting down the wildlife’s natural habitat in its wake and forcing them to live closer and closer to the water’s edge. Half of Borneo’s original rainforest has been decimated over the past few decades, and numbers of animal populations are shrinking.
There are only 1,000 proboscis monkeys left in Sabah. A thousand Bornean pygmy elephants. The Bornean rhinoceros is most likely extinct and the sun bear is at a high risk of joining it. The list goes on.
While these events make for fantastic animal-spotting, you can’t help but feel guilty and helpless when you realise why this stretch of jungle is so dense with wildlife.
Back at the homestay, Osman’s wife cooked us dinner while Osman regaled us with stories about what it’s like to live in an area so remote, as well as how he managed to perfect his wildlife-spotting techniques.
His home was basic — basic as hell — but there’s nowhere else I would have rather been in that moment. I mean, sure, I was having to run to the bathroom every ten minutes, but what an unbelievable place to be doing so.
“So what do you want to see tomorrow?” Osman eagerly asked. His prowess at taking us to see animals was so great that we could essentially name any animal found in this part of the world and be confident we’d actually see it.
I thought about it for a moment, feeling like I was ordering off a menu. “What about orangutans?”
“Sure, we can see them, but we’ll have to be early. About 5 a.m.”
“No problem. Let’s do it.”
***
That night, I slept soundly.
Well, soundly until around 3 a.m., when I heard a loud crashing sound. Dave let out a groan and scrambled across the room in a panic.
Shit.
Literally.
He’s caught my illness.
I rushed after him and on to the terrace where Dave was standing, panting, wildly looking in all directions.
“Go to the bathroom,” I whispered urgently, shoving him inside the house. I watched him disappear behind the curtain and start throwing up.
This was not looking good. This was not looking good at all. I let out a sympathy retch, and waited for him to emerge.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered when he staggered out of the bathroom. “Dave, I’m so sorry.”
He winced in response, and I helped him back inside our room.
***
When the alarm sounded at 4:30 a.m., Dave let out another groan.
“I can’t go,” he muttered.
“Okay, no worries. It’s fine. I hope you feel better soon.”
I kissed his cheek and wandered outside to greet Osman by his boat.
“No Dave,” I called to him. “He is sick — he’s caught my illness now and has been sick all night.”
Osman looked at me with a blend of surprise and fear. “You guys were just in Kota Kinabalu?”
“Yeah, a couple of days ago.”
“There’s a cholera outbreak. I got a text on my phone last night about it. Outbreak in Kota Kinabalu.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. You might need a hospital.”
I grimaced. “Maybe. Let’s see what happens.”
I was approaching day four of the sickness and feeling no better. In fact, I felt worse.
I’d been taking Imodium to try to prevent extreme levels of dehydration, but I hadn’t eaten anything in days; the only thing I could stomach was rehydration salts. I was still waiting to feel better — desperate to feel better — but it wasn’t happening yet.
Cholera, though?
I doubted it. Cholera was a disease from decades ago and barely affected people now. Every time I’d visited a travel clinic, the nurse had told me I hadn’t needed to bother with a cholera vaccine because it was so rare.
But I was in Borneo. An island with plenty of serious diseases to offer up, from rabies to polio, and yes, cholera. I’d had no idea at the time that a cholera outbreak pops up in Kota Kinabalu on an almost-monthly basis.
“Did you eat in the shopping malls?” Osman asked, steadying the boat while I hopped in.
“Of course! Some of the best food is in the malls.”
His eyes widened as he climbed in after me.
“I really think it’s cholera,” he gravely said. “The outbreak is affecting restaurants in the shopping malls.”
“Oh, really? Well, let’s see.”
I was dismissing his concerns because it all seemed so dramatic. The odds would have to be so unbelievably low. We just had food poisoning — I was sure of it.
Osman started up the engine and it was too loud to continue our conversation. I sat at the front of the boat with my camera in hand, watching one of the most impressive sunrises of my life and trying not to fret.
Surely I’d be sicker, I thought to myself. Surely I’d know if it was cholera. I mean, this is the worst I’ve probably ever felt in my life, but like, surely I’d feel worse.
We had a solid hour of motoring to get to the orangutans, so I dismissed my fears and turned my attention to the rainforest waking up around me.
Osman suddenly cut the engine and I immediately craned my neck towards the trees where he was pointing.
“There!”
“Where?”
“There. In the tree. See! Three of them.”
“Yeah. Wow!” I lied.
I couldn’t see a thing. Apparently Osman could tell, because he told me to look more to the left.
I squinted as hard as I could until, finally, I figured out where to focus my eyes. From the leaves of the canopy, a mass of orange made itself known.
Three wild orangutans — two adults and a baby. A baby!
I swooned with delight.
“How old would the baby be?” I asked Osman
“Very young. Almost newborn.”
It was gripping on to its mother while she cradled a protective hand around it, then I gasped as she picked it up and put it on her back.
A scene from Planet Earth unfolding before me. I had to keep reminding myself that these were wild animals — I wasn’t in a zoo. I wasn’t watching TV. I wondered if I should pinch myself.
After five minutes, they were on the move, swinging from branch to branch with their long ginger arms, making it all look so effortless. Yesterday, I had been convinced that nothing would be able to top my experience with pygmy elephants, but now I wasn’t so sure.
Osman revved up the engine and we set off along the river once more, stopping to look at proboscis monkeys, hornbills, crocodiles, and kingfishers.
There was so much to spot near these waters in the early hours of the day — so much more than the day before.
Osman took me down a small laneway — a narrow tributary of the river about a metre wide with macaques on either side. After powering through the stream at top speed for a while, making me feel like I was playing a video game, he cut the engine and we drifted towards one of the banks. A dozen macaques were lounging in the branches of a nearby tree, and I flinched in response.
If you’ve travelled anywhere with macaques, you’ll know they’re mischievous-slash-evil and will do everything they can to get their hands on your belongings. I instinctively tightened my grip on my camera.
Osman let out a laugh. “No need to worry — no problem!”
I turned to look at him.
“These monkeys are fine,” he told me. “No human contact. These monkeys don’t care about you — they won’t steal because they haven’t been taught to steal.”
“Oh.” I relaxed my shoulders, and took a few photos. “It’s weird seeing them so calm.”
***
When Osman turned the boat around to head back, I allowed myself to worry.
I had no idea what kind of state Dave would be in and Osman’s words were still ringing in my ears. Were we being stupid to stay here, hours from a hospital? What if something really bad happened?
I hopped out of the boat and rushed up to the wooden deck to see Dave.
“How are you doing?”
“Terrible,” he croaked, lying out across the wooden boards. “I’m just… exploding out of both ends.”
I giggled. “Do you think it’s cholera?”
“What do you mean? Why would it be cholera?”
“Osman said we should leave. We’re hours away from a hospital and…”
“It’s cholera,” Osman announced, interjecting. “I’m telling you. You need to be beside a hospital, man.”
I was starting to get frightened, and I’d never seen Dave in a state like this before. He looked seriously unwell.
Osman’s wife brought out some breakfast, and we both sat at the table with churning stomachs.
“I can’t eat this,” I whispered to Dave through gritted teeth. “I really can’t do it.”
In front of me were a pile of chicken nuggets, some potato waffles, and a pile of rice. I could see the droplets of oil glistening in the morning sun. My stomach lurched and I hurried to the bathroom.
For the rest of the afternoon, Dave and I tag-teamed in and out of that tiny room like a grim game of wrestling, except instead of going on perform a chokeslam, we were crying on the toilet.
It was possibly the least fun I’ve ever had.
Now, I’m no stranger to basic accommodation — I’ve stayed in dingy old rooms full of cockroaches and taps that only let out brown water — so in ordinary circumstances, staying with Osman wouldn’t have been a problem.
In diarrhea-based circumstances, it was kind of a nightmare.
You see, this family is all about open plan living. There was a huge living room, where the family would spend most of their time, and then each additional room was separated by a thin curtain rather than a door.
That was a problem.
Because while Dave and I were throwing up, Osman, his wife, his three daughters, and his two grandchildren were all watching TV in their living room. Yes, every three minutes, Dave or I would sprint through the space to the bathroom where, separated by only the flimsiest of material, we would empty our bodies from both ends.
The taps and shower were fed from the river, so there was no real way to feel clean afterwards.
***
Osman urged us to leave one final time, and by this point, I was feeling worse than ever. I’d had a solid four days of illness, and was still desperate for my world to stop spinning. Dave was doing worse than I was, and I was starting to worry about him. I’d never seen him look so helpless and frail before.
“Let’s go,” I said to Dave.
“Okay.”
We bundled ourselves into Osman’s boat and then into an air-conditioned minivan for the remaining three hour drive back to Sandakan. My emotions were jumbled. I was scared that we might have cholera, disappointed we were having to leave such a remarkable place, relieved to be out of the jungle, and exhilarated after having one of most incredible experiences of my life. I didn’t know how to feel — well, aside from nauseated as hell.
An hour into the drive, Dave and I had to beg for a stop at some public toilets so we could throw up for the twentieth time that day.
Things were not looking good for us.
As we left the river and ventured into range of cellphone towers, our phones leapt back to life and I found myself on Google, researching the symptoms of cholera.
I was alarmed to discover that cholera-sufferers will find themselves passing a litre of milky-coloured water every hour at times, as that’s exactly what Dave and I had been experiencing. Cholera, it seemed, basically makes a human expel all liquid in their body immediately, causing them to go into shock and die within hours.
It’s surprisingly easy to treat, however, with rehydration salts. I breathed a sigh of relief when I remembered how many of those we had both been drinking. Without rehydration, half of people with cholera die; with rehydration salts, that number drops to just 1%. Isn’t that wild?
I was comforted to know I’d unexpectedly done everything right, and that we likely wouldn’t need to go to a hospital. Still, there was no question that when we reached Sandakan, I was going to be dipping into my emergency fund.
I always make sure I have an extra thousand dollars accessible for every trip I take. It’s for terrible situations, such as getting mugged or, y’know, catching cholera. In this case, I was going to be using it to stay in the nicest hotel in the city.
The downside of having an emergency fund is that the money will never be spent on something enjoyable. I’d have loved to have been able to take full advantage of the facilities at the Sheraton, but instead, I would be spending my time sleeping and visiting the bathroom.
Let’s just say that when the receptionist welcomed us to the hotel and handed us vouchers for four free glasses of wine, we were not exactly feeling jubilant.
We made an effort every now and then, spending an hour in the hotel swimming pool, where we held our breaths and hoped we wouldn’t vomit in the water. We even attempted to use our drinks vouchers one night and ordered a couple of glasses of mediocre wine to sip as we watched the sunset.
I even tried my best at the extravagant breakfast buffet, piling my plate high with food and then mostly sticking to pineapple slices because anything else would turn my stomach.
And then we both woke up with colds. With my stomach issues now combined with a sore throat, I thought back to that snot-soaked handshake with Osman and grimaced.
By this point, I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of Borneo.
***
“So how long were you sick for in total?”
“So long.”
It was eight months later, and I was stretched out on a yacht in the Mediterranean with five friends. As we read books and drank vodka in a secluded bay, I couldn’t think of anywhere I’d rather be. Two of my friends, it just so happened, were doctors, so I was excited to get their take on the dramatic experience. They were already convinced it really was cholera.
“It was really bad,” I continued. “Honestly, my stomach is still messed up. Dave had it worse than me — he was much sicker, but he recovered within a week. I was just like, sick to my stomach for ages. We even went to Bali for a month afterwards and I felt terrible the entire time I was there.”
“You definitely had cholera.”
“But wouldn’t we have been sicker?”
“It sounded like you were pretty sick.”
“But we didn’t go to a hospital.”
“Yeah, but you’re healthy people. You have a good immune system. Cholera wouldn’t have killed you.”
“Right. But—”
“Seriously. I’m certain it was cholera.”
I was beginning to be convinced, because while I’d been in Sandakan, I had been researching a lot.
Yes, there had been an outbreak in Kota Kinabalu.
Yes, the dates matched with ours.
Yes, it had been at a restaurant we’d eaten in.
Yes, we’d had all of the symptoms of cholera.
Yes, we’d definitely had cholera?
Either way, Borneo had simultaneously managed to offer up one of the best and worst travel experiences of my life.
With a shudder, I downed my shot of vodka, padded across the hot surface of the yacht, and dove into the cool waters below.
There’s no doubt that the best travel stories come from the worst experiences. And there’s no doubt that this is one of my favourite experiences to share with friends.
But sometimes, just sometimes, it’s okay not to have a wild story to tell. It’s okay to go somewhere and simply let the peace wash over you — no struggles, no hassle, and no explosive diarrhea.
As I emerged from my dive and swam towards a pebbly beach, untouched and utterly serene, I felt something rare: pure, uncomplicated joy. It wasn’t about the story I could tell later; it was about the moment itself.
And that’s the thing about travel. It isn’t always about the tales of hardship or the adrenaline-filled adventures. Sometimes, the greatest gift a place can give you is the chance to simply exist in its beauty. Because in the end, it’s not the story you tell that matters, but how the experience changes you.
And in this case, Borneo had left me with a stomach that has never been the same again.
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