My sleep-haunted cries came only as stifled whimpers, muffled by my clamped jaws and the bedding. What started as the previous evening’s premonition had been driven home with startling swiftness that morning. Jason rousted me from my slumber with, “Come on lazy bones, GET UP.” The coincidence of our hostel being called ‘Lazy Bones’ wasn’t wasted on me. Regardless. It was official; our trip in the tropics had turned into motorcycle boot camp. I didn’t dare to ascertain the time for which my morbid curiosity so desperately wanted to know. Too late, I was told. “Pass me my spork would you, darling and I can spoon your eyes out,” was my preferred response at 4.56am—fuelled by a desire for a sense of well-meted justice. You could even say I’m not a morning person.