Bob's warning about the stinging tree had thrown me. Before coming to the rainforest I had been expecting to be warned about spiders and snakes, not plant life.

The minibus trundled north, steadily clocking the 116 kilometres from Cairns to Cow Bay. The road followed the Captain Cook Highway along the Pacific coastline, cutting inland to pass through small towns in a blur. Signs of human habitation became sporadic, buildings made way for bush and a wall of forest gradually closed in, looming over the road like an angry parent. Our gateway into the park took the form of a cable ferry, transporting us across the murky crocodile waters of the Daintree River. "I hope you brought mosquito repellent", said Bob, by way of a welcome.

If I'd arrived in Cow Bay twenty years ago, I would have witnessed a completely different place. During the mid-80s the whole area was embroiled in a bitter turf war between the local timber industry and conservationists trying to save the last remnants of Australian rainforest. Thankfully, the good guys (eventually) won, and in 1988 the Queensland Wet Tropics World Heritage Area was born, signalling the start of a burgeoning eco-tourism industry - the Far North's biggest business. The Area stretches for 9,000 square kilometres, from Townsville in the south to Cooktown in the north, and includes the tropical rainforests of the Daintree and Cape Tribulation National Parks, where I was heading. This is an area rich in one of Australia's most famous products: potentially life-threatening fauna.

As I sat down to the Crocodylus Village Resort's mandatory welcome meeting, I had no idea what to expect.

"This is a cassowary", said Amy, holding a picture of a strange bird that looked like an emu with a blue head. "These birds will attack if provoked". We all laughed, waiting for the punchline. Amy's face remained serious. "No, really, they can kill!" The smiles vanished. "But don't worry", said Amy, "they don't come around that often".
"How often, is often?" I asked.
"Oh, every other day or so", she replied, pointing to a clump of trees, "they come to eat the plums". We all turned to look - the trees were outside our cabins. Amy was obviously intent on scaring us silly because she quickly moved on to other animals we should watch out for - including deadly bird eating spiders, one of which nearly killed a guide just the day before, and a giant python that lived in the walls of the kitchen, coming out at night to feast on wild rodents.

Crocodylus Village is built in the rainforest, so you don't so much watch wildlife, as live among it. Each of the 16 cabins is made from a mixture of local wood, canvas and mosquito mesh, which combines to make a jungle home that provides a basic shelter from the elements. A huntsman spider was waiting for me in mine, sitting on my pillow. At first I though it was made of plastic - a kind of welcome joke laid on by the staff - but a sudden burst of speed quickly convinced me it was the real thing. Random outbursts of screaming across the camp confirmed this wasn't an isolated event.

If you don't like creepy crawlies, then this isn't the place for you. Throughout the village lurked animals and insects just waiting to surprise me. Golden Orb spiders stretched huge webs across foot trails all conveniently placed at face level. Stick insects nestled in the folds of my bedding, whilst gangs of green tree frogs hopped around my feet in the shower cubicle. Moths the size of small birds bounced off flickering light bulbs, and mosquitoes hunted in cloud-sized packs. During dinner it wasn't unusual for football sized bandicoots to scuttle under the tables looking for food, brushing my feet as they passed and prompting me to spit beer across the table.

I could deal with the animals during daylight, but a rainforest in the middle of the night is a different prospect. Walking to the toilet block with only a penlight for protection is a test of nerves, and each night I scuttled along the path, avoiding spiders' webs and whimpering with fear at the slightest sound. One evening, I was hurrying past the plum trees for a call of nature when nature called itself. A couple of harmless brush turkeys shot out from the bush, causing me to let out a high pitched scream as they gobbled off in a panic. Never has there been a greater excuse for wetting the bed.

On the second day I jumped a lift in the village's minibus to nearby Cow Bay Beach, a stretch of tropical white sand that separates the rainforest from the reef. A bright yellow sign greeted my arrival: "Marine stingers are present in these waters during the summer months". It's one of nature's sick jokes, to provide beautiful blue waters that promise to cool and refresh, and then prevent you from swimming by filling the sea with box jellyfish, a critter with a potentially fatal sting. If it doesn't kill you, a lash from its poisoned tentacles will give you a slap to remember. "It's like being whipped with hot wire", reminisced Joel, one of the local guides.

That evening, as the cicadas kicked off their regular performance and a wave of mosquitoes arrived for dinner, Joel busied himself handing out torches and issuing instructions.

"Check your batteries, you don't want to be caught out there without light". The "out there" he was referring too was the jungle, for we were embarking on a little expedition. Each evening, one of the village's resident guides led a nature walk through the rainforest, pointing out the wildlife that our inexperienced eyes would otherwise miss. Stalking in silence, we stumbled upon sleeping birds perched on the ends of spaghetti thin branches, alert to the vibration of hungry snakes. Brush turkey nests, huge piles of earth two metres high, rose from the jungle floor flickering in the light of fervent fireflies. Tapping the bark of a fruit tree, Joel aroused the anger of an army of green ants who rushed from within the tree to defend their territory, coating the branch in an aggressive show of force. Keeping close, we progressed deeper into the forest, accompanied by the wind in the trees and the squelching of boots in the thick brown mud. Normally, you wouldn't catch me dead in the rainforest at night, but with Joel along it felt like an adventure - a taste of the wild with the calm reassurance of safety. Then my torch died, leaving me in darkness. Suddenly, it wasn't such a nice place and I hurried along to keep up.

In the rainforest alarm clocks are obsolete. As the first rays of sunlight break through the canopy a thousand hungry birds screech the arrival of a new day, waking you the way nature intended. Encouraged by the previous night's excitement, I pulled on my boots and headed to the start of the orange ropewalk - a self-guided tour through the rainforest. "Stay on the path", yelled Joel, like a warning from a werewolf film.

It didn't take long for my confident exuberance to be dissolved by paranoia. The start of the trail was less than a 100 metres away, but already the rainforest had closed in, sealing off all sounds from the civilised world. Geckos scurried for safety as I battled a path, brushing away branches and ducking beneath webs. Feeling completely alone, and very vulnerable, fear slowly took control, turning my purposeful stride into a sort of Queensland Quickstep. I hurried along the path, jumping at the slightest sound. The snorting of a wild pig behind me increased the quickstep into a steady trot, the bush becoming thicker, the rope obscured by thick mud. Out of breath, I stopped in a small clearing to check the map and gulp down some water. The giant eye of a tree dragon caught my attention, watching me as it gripped motionless to a thick branch. I don't know who was more scared, but I scurried away just to be sure.

Apart from watch wildlife, there's not much to do in Cow Bay. The resort has a shaded swimming pool and nearby, in the Cow Bay Hotel, sits Australia's longest bar. I amused myself with marathon scrabble sessions with Scotty, the barman, which soon degenerated into words of dubious quality. "Is jism spelt with a 'j' or a 'g'?" he asked.

My last day rolled around. Whilst shaving amongst the frogs and praying mantis that lived in the toilet block, my attention was drawn to a commotion outside. Through the windows I saw people rushing about, whispering to each other in excited machine gun bursts. Stepping out I found out why. Standing a few feet away was a cassowary. It stopped feeding on the plums that littered the floor and raised its head to look at me, its eyes sharpening in curiosity. The clicking of cameras went on around me as residents hid behind trees taking pictures. I recalled a story Joel told me of a teenage boy who'd been attacked by a cassowary. The bird ran him over, slashing his jugular vein in the process. Not wanting to become an exhibit in the local Daintree Environment Centre (that already displays a video of one attack), I backed away. Thankfully, the bird ignored me, allowing me to retreat to the safety of the toilet block. At least I was in the right place for such a situation!

Bob screeched to a halt in a cloud of red dust beside the stinging tree. Like most visitors to the Cape Tribulation area I'd survived my stay without mishap - no stings, slashes, burns or abrasions - although I did have a healthy crop of mosquito bites. "Warned you about those mozzies, didn't I?" said Bob cheerfully, as we pulled away.