It was a foreboding start. I sat on the street 40 minutes after the bus was supposed to pick me up for a 3-day, 2-night tour of Halong Bay. This is not unusual in Asia, but is extremely frustrating. The amount of time wasted waiting around that could instead have been spent getting other things done (like this blog) or, more often (and more truthfully), sleeping is criminal. No bus showed up, rather a man walked by on the street and asked me if I was going to Halong Bay today. Yes? OK, then follow him. We didn’t walk to where I’d booked the ticket, but rather to one of the ever-present Sinh Cafes that have spread through Hanoi and indeed southeast Asia like the bubonic plague. And there, waiting for a bus, was Nathan, my kiwi friend that I seemed fated to travel with. Whenever we parted paths, purposefully or not, we always found each other again. And now here we were, of all the places to book a Halong Bay trip, on all the days, not only in the same city, but on the same boat. Or so we thought. After they herded us onto a bus half an hour later (bringing total waiting time to one hour 20 minutes) the bus drove several feet then stopped. A woman ran on and told me I had to get off the bus. And then another twenty minutes I was on another bus bound for Halong Bay with, I imagined, the group I would be boating with. I should’ve known better; Nathan was not among them.
Indeed, the organization at Sinh Café exists at an unprecedented level of neglect. It is probably the most fantastically disorganized but still functioning thing I have ever witnessed. We arrived at the Halong City harbour where we waited 15 minutes in a sea of people coming and going and general confusion before being herded onto boats. Again, I was separated from the people I’d made friends with on the three hour journey from Hanoi and put on a boat with yet more strangers and some familiar faces, Nathan among them as well as an obnoxious American I’d SCUBA dived with in Nha Trang. Then we learned that contrary to the itinerary as given, we would not be sleeping on the boat that night. We’d be staying in the hotel. And so we cruised through the beautiful karst landscape of Halong Bay and on to Cat Ba Island where all of us – except for Nathan and the American – were instructed to get off. Apparently Nathan would be sleeping on the boat that night while the rest of us wouldn’t. I don’t think I can put into words the sheer amount of confusion and disarray felt by both us and our “guides”. Yes, plural, they changed from day to day and boat to boat so that nobody ever knew what was going on. If you were going to run a criminal organization and wanted to be at the top with your minions having no idea of your identity or evil intentions, Sinh Café (which I would soon learn was, in fact, a criminal organization) had the model perfected.
So I didn’t see much of Nathan in the end, unfortunately. But for all the mess I was lucky enough to find myself with a pretty great group. A nice couple from England and three really cool English guys with whom I spent most of my time. We got to our hotel on Cat Ba (not as advertised) and had the evening free to explore the town. We did just that and had some fresh beer which had far-too-high an aluminum content to satisfy the Alzheimer’s guidelines and a pretty early night. We had to be checked out of the hotel by 7:30 the next morning for our 3-hour trek to the top of some of the karst pillars. The morning came with some really bad (and chilled) pancakes served with honey that, I suspect, had been mixed with soy sauce and had bananas tucked between them. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds; at least there was no rice or water spinach. And then our trek. Our guide wasn’t much of a guide at all. He did bring us up the hill but left many in the dust as he set a new speed record for the trail all the while going incommunicado. We stopped at one point and he told us to continue to the top and then come back down. We did.
The view from the top was beautiful, which was no surprise, as we’d been treated to some amazing glimpses of the landscape on the way up. It was not especially challenging, though the heat and particularly the humidity were a bit much. And then back down to find our guide was not where we’d left him nor anywhere to be found, but we made our way on our own with the other group’s guide, by now soaked in sweat, and waited for lunch. Our three hour trek had been just over one and we had some time to kill before getting taken back to Cat Ba. We returned and then set out right away for the beach as the day had grown ever hotter, bypassing Beach 1 in favour of the more secluded Beach 2. Both had pounding waves and the day was spent playing in the surf and stretching out on a towel that, inevitably, was placed to close to the water and had to be moved back as the crashing tide came in. And then back to the pier.
We were supposed to be on a boat by 4:00, but arrived with no guide or boat to get on and watched them all sail away. We were left on the dock alone without explanation or guide for over an hour, left to fend off the women selling drinks and Oreo cookies for far too much money. 5:00 and one of our company’s boats arrived, but the guide on that boat told us it was not for our use. When asked what was going on with us, he neither knew nor cared to know or look up anything. Could he call and find out? Could he even stop to answer a question? No. Oh, we got in his way. It had a been a long day, a lot of waiting, and they had our passports, these unorganized and unmitigated clods. He wasn’t going anywhere until we had some answers, or that was the theory we had. Of course, if you’re not willing to really follow it up, then yes, he was going somewhere. So we let him go away, the only man who might’ve had the power to answer why we were left high and dry.
It was almost another hour before another boat arrived – by now, we’d been sitting in the middle of nowhere for two hours after we were supposed to be aboard. Were we supposed to be aboard this? Nobody was sure and then one man rudely waved us on as if quite perturbed to have to pick us up. Did he have our passports? Another, grumpier wave. Passport? ID? We knew he understood but just increasingly annoyed waves and dirty looks. Where’s my passport? Then he practically spit on me and turned away in disgust, as if asking if they had been given our passport from the hotel was the most unreasonable question ever. By now, as you might have guessed, I had about had it with this company and these people. With being treated like a virus instead of a customer. With being lied to. With being scammed. With being ignored and treated like I was an idiot. I took the small corner left of my over-priced Oreo and threw it at him. Yup - not my most shining moment. But he was paying attention again.
And then he was shouting and spitting and I was demanding my passport and he was calling me every name in the book and then grabbing a piece of wood. I stood and looked up at him on the boat and asked if he was going to hit me with it. And finally, word of someone that spoke English – a guide? – coming to the boat. Fine, I’d sort it out with her. She was having a perfectly good conversation in English but when asked by one of the English guys about our passports, she suddenly lost the ability to communicate. Great. While I don’t defend losing my temper (nor do I really regret it, if I am to be really honest – though I am embarrassed about the oreo), you have to understand the amount we had been and were being jerked around. That we had been given little of what we’d been promised and paid for. And that there is a scam here where they ‘keep’ your passport for a couple of days and return you a decent fake of it, meanwhile selling the original. You, most likely, don’t notice until the airport. And pretty much all of us were concerned that this was precisely why we were so steadfastly ignored when the question of passports came up.
Regardless, we were able to ascertain from this woman (eventually) that we were on the right boat and that they had my passport somewhere. Not really good enough, but as good as we were going to get. At least it seemed like the hotel had gotten it to the boat, though no, they couldn’t show me MY passport. And finally, 15 minutes later, our guide arrived. The man I’d confronted, who then confronted me with a stick, had been glaring daggers at me the whole time not to mention complaining to anyone who’d listen. I have little doubt he never mentioned threatening me with a board or being a rude and arrogant $@#^%&. The guide had the nerve to lecture me before having heard anything from our side. Apparently I have to respect him but he doesn’t have to return the favour. A while after that was dealt with, I sat the guide down and told him exactly what had prompted our collective annoyance and my angry response. And then, easy as pie (except for an eye-roll from our captain), he finally showed me my passport. Why, oh why, couldn’t they have just done that when we asked?
We had enough time to kayak 40 minutes (again not the three hours paid for) before it got dark and then left only to realize we were missing the English couple. We picked them up and had a good night on the boat with some of the new people. I partied with a Dutch couple who were very nice as well as Hazel and Alice (two English girls), who were likewise nice and good fun, too. Of course, it’s difficult to party when beer is so expensive, but we made the most of it and a cigar the Dutch guy had. And then our final day, which was supposed to include a swim, a climb up Monkey Island (some were told, not me), and who knows what else, but only included breakfast and a very slow ride back to Halong City. And then, a few hours in Hanoi after a pretty decent lunch and a crowded ride back before I was aboard a sleeper train to Sapa. In retelling this, I was forced to underscore the negative aspects of this company’s tour but if you put aside being lied to, scammed, and maltreated, the actual area itself was terrific and worth at least two days. Unfortunately, I think most of the companies are equally corrupt, so I’m left without someone to recommend, but I hope that if you do get here you’ll not be stuck with some North Vietnamese people endeavouring to keep stereotypes of extreme rudeness alive while undertaking to ruin your trip. Whether they succeed or not is up to you and I.
The road was perilous. It writhed and undulated around mountains as though the pavement itself was trying to shake us from its spine. The irony is that out the window, this vengeful road is nowhere to be seen. Only the earth falling away below is visible, ever waiting to swallow you whole. Dalat is situated 1500m above sea level and as any physicist will tell you, that's a long way to fall. Almost 5000 ft for the metrically challenged and for those who've been up flying with me, about 5 times the height I generally fly around the city. The driver would let the bus accumulate speed to the maximum possible turning speed, holding down the brake just enough to keep us on the road. An hour and a half of this and there was more of the brake pad in the air than on the wheels, so acrid that even the driver couldn't ignore it and pulled over. 15 miuntes overlooking the abyss while they dumped cool water from a mountain stream onto the brakes and then we were back on the bus, still not using the engine to slow our mad rush to the bottom. It was only a matter of time, I knew, before our brakes would fail entirely. I just hoped that it would be somewhere near a runaway lane or where we wouldn't have too far to fall.
Although I'd brought a book to read and was quite tired due to a lack of sleep there was no closing my eyes. The valley floor materialized in the distance and the brake pads were vapourizing once more and I watched intently in the hope we would reach it. As fast as we seemed to be moving, the valley seemed agonizingly far but finally we turned one last corner and there was no longer a dizzying drop out the window. I was going to make it to Nha Trang, a city on the coast of Vietnam, after all. I arrived with Nathan, the Kiwi I'd met up in Dalat and a couple other girls we'd met on the bus and began the hunt for a place to stay. The first thing we noticed were how aggressive the touts are here. Where others would take a "no" or two, they'd eventually leave you alone. Here, short of ripping them off their bikes and introducing them to a left and right, they will stalk you no matter how much you ask, demand, and yell. After all, they want to claim the commission for herding you in to a hotel even if you did your level best to shake them and ignore and do the opposite of everything they said.
Nathan and I checked into a place called Sunflower Guesthouse, quite central and $4/night each. We had the worst meal I'd had in some time at a place that had relatively decent and cheap beer, explored the city, and I booked myself on a SCUBA dive for the next day. Nha Trang is pretty well known as the place to dive in Vietnam, and while not comparing with other dives, it was well worth the price. For $45, I had lunch and three dive sites and saw my first octopus! Finally!! I have been wanting to see an octopus since I first started diving and there, where I least expected it, an octopus left the shelter of the rock and swam off, quite a big one. We dove off an island not far from land at three sites, Madonna Rock (my favourite site), Pipe Beach (home of many many pipe fish, relatives of the seahorse), and Moray Beach (famous for Frog Fish and where I saw my octopus). On the dive I met a nice couple from Melbourne and after dinner they invited me back to their five star hotel for a swim. I didn't turn them down.
One more day wandering the beaches and relaxing around Nha Trang and we were off on a night bus to Hoi An twelve hours north. Hoi An is also a beach town, but more importantly it's famous for the sheer number of world renowned tailors at quite reasonable prices. So after getting off the bus at 7:30 in the morning, checking into the Grassland Hotel (equally far from everything, but beautiful rooms and free bike rental) I was tailor shopping. The hotel gave me a free ride into town, or rather, the tailor "Blue" did, and I checked them out. My first inclination was to simply get prices and start shopping around, but I quickly realized this was more complicated than a simple "a suit costs x" and moreover, I had no idea what I wanted. What colour? Black? Gray? Brown? Stripes? Even if different fabric cost different amounts, how could I compare prices when I didn't even know what fabric to look at. And so I spent over an hour looking through magazines and realizing that I definitely wanted a gray suit as well as a black one. And I thought a brown one would be nice too after seeing them in the catalogue.
Finally, I'd decided on three suits and styles and therefore fabrics after a lot of comparison and gleaning what knowledge I could from Ms. Yum Yum, who ran the store with a sister and a few other friendly girls. I got a price from her, quite reluctantly, and then went on the town. I got a really good price from Nhu Trang - the owner came to see me personally. I didn't feel so confident there, although I had no reason not to. She certainly told me of some things to be wary of with other tailors, and then I went comparing some more. Another tailor seemed quite good and I'm somewhat convinced I could've gotten a great gray suit from. It gave me some confidence that after our chat and picking out some materials to price out, and when I was about to leave, she wanted to assure me of the quality and brought a suit jacket out. It was one she'd done for her husband, in gray, and - I quietly noticed - the same material that she'd picked out for me. As well, there was an Australian couple in the store who swore by her and said this was their fourth time here. And she offered, reluctantly, to match the price I'd gotten from the other tailor. I probably would've stayed there, truth be told, but for two things: 1) I really didn't think her black fabric was anywhere near as good as at Blue. 2) I couldn't remember the design for the black suit I liked - quite unique.
So back to Blue, where not only could she not match the price, but she realized she'd made a mistake in her math and couldn't give me the price she'd quoted. Perhaps a wiser man would've left at this point and gone to the tailor with a much better price who was either honest enough to pick me out a suit the same as her husband's or devious enough to let me fill in the blanks on my own. But Blue had the design, it had better material for the black and brown suits, it had people who I could communicate with a bit better, and she had the design for the black suit I wanted. I don't want to get an average suit, I want a nice, quality, tailored one. So I stayed with Blue and while it took a few days and fittings (the Aussies I'd met, who admittedly didn't look that savvy, said the other woman always got it right the first time), in the end everything turned out exactly as I'd hoped it would and I'm very excited to wear these clothes at home in a not-so-sweaty environment. And more importantly, I'm pretty sure the extra I paid was worth the extra attention to detail, the quality, and the experience.
Enough about suits and clothes, though. While my tailoring was never far from my mind the whole time and while I was in and out time and again throughout my stay, there is much much more to Hoi An than tailors. The old town is exceptional, authentic, and alive today as ever. Towards the end of the year, it is transformed and more specifically submerged as the water level rises 3m and motorbikes are kept in attics while boats become the primary mode of transport. Families move upstairs and the entire town bears only the vaguest resemblance to what it is. The famous Japanese An Hoi footbridge, rather than being a simple decorative piece or a backdrop to a really bad band, actually crosses water. Obviously I never had the opportunity to see it this way, but you can imagine the magic of such a place that people have been living in for many years, moving up and down as the river floods and ebbs.
The food of Hoi An also gives the city its charm. In addition to many places for great Vietnamese food, it has some delicious specialties that would probably be world famous were their recipes not closely guarded secrets. Cao Lao, for example, a delicious noodle dish that I call the Vietnamese Phad Thai. All I was able to find out about its creation is that water comes from a certain well, they take certain types of wood and leave it in the water around sunrise, mix in 'some ingredients' later in the day, strain the broth, heat it and then moisten the noodles which are mixed with some greens, pork, fried croutons of a sort, and enjoyed. Fried wonton, with a homemade sweet and sour. Special 'Quang' noodles. In addition to finding a great restaurant with cheap beer and delicious Cao Lao and a restaurant called Co Dam that Nathan discovered with amazing dishes the owner made us that don't even have a name I decided to take a cooking course here. I'd met a couple having some street food the night prior and joined their cooking course at Hong Phuc the next evening. We stuffed a fish with some fresh ingredients we chopped, diced, and sauteed, wrapped it in banana leaves and barbecued it. We shredded, wrapped, and booked our own spring rolls. We sliced, diced, and fried up some squid with lemon grass, garlic, and chili. And we brewed up our own sweet and sour sauce and smothered some fried wonton in it. Yes, Hoi An has some of the best and most unique food in Asia and I definitely took advantage.
Nearby are some ruins called Me Soon (spelled My Son) that are 1800 years old. Unfortunately, the Viet Cong took to hiding here during what they call the American War over here and naturally the Americans dropped bombs and leveled many of the ancient towers including the crown jewel, a once 24m high tower now 2-3m high. Some of the buildings were still intact, however, or listing into a bomb crater, and the red brick seemed to age the buildings all the more against a fresh blue sky and green landscape. We took the boat back, a mistake as there's little to see except a small village that is essentially a tourist trap. And the old town is filled with historical buildings and sites worth a visit. But if that's not what you're in the mood for, you can always head to the nearby beach, which is nice and hawker free compared to Nha Trang. I spent my last evening there and maybe stayed a little too late as it was getting pretty dark on the way home. But a local guy pulled up beside me and drove alongside or behind to light the way. And, eventually, pulled alongside again and basically pulled me home. Yes, it will be a hard place to leave, but tomorrow morning I'm off once more to Hue a few hours north.
Somewhere, five hours north of Saigon lies a quiet town tucked between giant sand dunes and an endless sandy coastline. Somewhere in that small stretch of green surrounded by blue and red, a young Canadian fellow by the name of Dean has disembarked from a bus and is speeding on the back of a motorbike towards a cheap hotel. He has arrived here rather randomly, after seeing a few pretty photos, and doesn’t have long in his time budget to stay. He is prepared to ignore this budget, should it prove necessary, as all good travelers must, but after finding cheap $5 accommodation on the beach at the Saigon Café, he has lunch, rents a motorbike for $4, and endeavours to explore the blue and red regions surrounding him.
The first stop is what he believes to be the white dunes. It looks rather unlikely – yes, the sand is white, but there’s scarcely more than a single set of prints going up the slope and a 1.5m retaining wall to scale. It’s hard to believe this is the place, but some locals assure him it is, and he trudges up. It later was revealed that no, the white dunes are twenty some kilometers away, but the view up here is probably far superior to what he might have seen there anyway. The rolling sand dunes are untouched and drop off into a blue sea littered with a hundred fishing boats. Small as ants, motorbikes silently crawl their way up the coastal road and the white waves disappear into the coastline in a peaceful rhythm.
On the way back from a drive into the countryside and the white dunes towards red, Dean’s bike coughs once and goes silent. Aside from the road arching up over a hill, there is no sign of civilization as he maneuvers the bike onto the shoulder and attempts to restart it fail. A young boy biking by stops to lend a hand to this hopelessly incompetent tourist and discovers that, contrary to the bike renter’s assurances, there is NOT enough gas to see everything there is to see in Mui Ne. The bike is without fuel, the sun is without mercy, and Dean is without a hat pushing the bike up the hill and making sounds he hopes are curses in Vietnamese – or, failing that, some language. Thankfully, it’s not more than a kilometre back to town and what goes up can roll down with minimal effort. The bike-turned-scooter is half rolled and half pedaled to a small restaurant where they see him coming and bring out a 1litre bottle of gasoline that they can sell at 25% more than the going rate. A pretty fair deal, when they know that he has no choice but to refuel.
A litre of fuel for the bike and a litre of water for Dean and he pays the 25,000 dong. The mother of the family running the restaurant nudges her 7-year old son and he ashamedly holds out his hand and says, “Mister, money?” There are a lot of things Dean would like to say about their corruption of their son and about work and money, but he finished his water, sets it down, and trudges up the red dunes. A young boy doggedly follows him up into the hot sun and the desert, ignoring protests that no, Dean would really rather not ride a crazy carpet down the sand dunes. They go slow, stop, and you end up full of sand with little to show for it, he knows, but the kid presses on. Thinking back to the other child sitting back and holding out his hand, it’s hard not to admire – if not feel pity for – this young boy working so doggedly for a bit of cash. So Dean gets to the top and pays for the ride, slowly slides down the giant dune and winds up at a standstill halfway down and covered in sand.
The final major stop is the Fairy Stream. The hour is now 4:30 and the sun will set in an hour or two, so this should allow just enough time to travel up to the waterfall at the stream end. More children attempt to follow and serve as ‘guides’ but give up eventually. Dean is glad for this, as he can quite capably walk up a stream on his own and the kids were just getting in his photos anyway. The stream is another example of colourful Mui Ne, walled as it is by green palms catching the late afternoon sun while the stream itself is mostly shaded by a massive wall of hardened red and white sand. At the end, he manages to find the waterfall and a way to the top but discovers there is little else to see and turns back as the entire stream is now covered in the hillside shadow. Back in town, there is very little by way of people as well, and so after a nice barbecue dinner of some of the fishermen’s bounty, he informs his guesthouse he will be leaving the next day and books a ticket for Dalat, a town high in Vietnam’s mountains.
After having paid for the ticket at a travel agent, the agent calls his guesthouse to inform him that there is not a 7:30 bus as promised but only a 1:00 bus. Quite a nice scam, because there is no way he’d book a bus in the middle of the afternoon for a short trip up the mountains (4 hours) losing an entire day. But an opportunity was provided to spend the next morning on the beach and exploring the blue side of Mui Ne. And at 1:00, a bus spirits him away to the next unscheduled stop on the itinerary, somewhere he knows nothing about but hopes will be worth the trek. It’s not exactly on the way or out of the way, but the short trip to Mui Ne turned out to be well worth the day and a half and he has hopes for more inadvertent adventure on the road ahead. And, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he hopes you will join him there.
Shianouk Ville, on the southern coast of Cambodia and near to the Vietnamese border was all of these things. The rainy season was definitely in swing, with lightning storms blowing across the water to soak the small resort town three times daily. I had hoped to get a little beach in, having been in city, town, or wilderness for the past two months traveling inland Asia, but instead, just relaxation and a respite from touring. The first two days of this were spent with a mild food poisoning from our food stop en route, and coincidentally, those were the only two days with fair beach-going weather. As for the ghosts, well, as a result of the inclement weather, there were not many travelers around to be found, and what few there were, at least in GST Guesthouse, seemed discouraged enough at the lack to take solace in HBO. But it was a quiet and relaxing time, I recharged my batteries and wreaked havoc upon my laptop’s. Eating was an outing and a way to pass the time, and I would sit at a beachside restaurant eating BBQ Baracuda or some equally delicious snack and watching the evening thunderstorm blow in from the sea. I took no photos; it was a camera vacation. I’d’ve loved to have gone to Otres Beach and spent the day, but there was no traveling; it was an inadvertent touring vacation too. And in sharp contrast to other locales, there are no stories; it was a blog vacation. Normal programming will return in Siem Reap.
I crossed the border to Thailand on foot in the baking sun with an Irish couple and a Dutch guy I’d shared a cab with. We had about 15 mins to catch a train at the station 1km away, so all of us hopped on motorbikes and got to the station and jumped on just in time. My destination for the night was to be somewhere in the Tarutao National Park, so I had 4 hours to Hat Yai where I would move from train to bus. During that time the train filled up and I definitely was not in my seat. A local girl, probably around 16, appeared to have the seat beside me, but she just put her bag down and went, ostensibly, to sit with her friends. She didn’t say anything to me, but the Thai sitting across with whom we’d been chatting said that. Still, I’ve lived in western society long enough to be paranoid of unattended baggage, even if I’m aware that it is indeed paranoia. Whatsmore, with it placed beside me I was doubly worried that there may be something in it that I wouldn’t want someone to think was mine. The girl was nowhere to be seen, and the Irish couple was getting quite worried indeed and it was adding to my own concern. At our next stop we were evicted from our spots and all separated to our assigned seats, and the girl still hadn’t collected her bag. I was happy not to have it sitting beside me, and I kept my eye open for her as I worked my way backwards but I probably wouldn’t have recognized her anyway. The Irish girl did, however, and she did get up as I walked past and walk forward. So I made it to Hat Yai with only fear of an incident to show for it. Silly, no?
By the time I got to Hat Yai I decided to just stay there the night. Progress in Asia is slow, you take steps as far as you can and be prepared to make due however far you get. This seemed a lively enough place and it had already been a long day of travel. I ran into a couple while I was looking for a hotel and made a dinner date with them and then found a hotel. Next on the agenda was a phone card and money changing, then figuring out exactly where in this National Park I was to go. Everyone seemed to be headed to Ko Lipe, and the name rung a bell somewhere in the recesses of my mind, so I booked a trip there the next day and went for dinner. At last, Thai food. We ate at a small stall, some very nice and spicy Tom Yam soup. It was, well, nice and spicy and full of tasty ingredients. I talked with the couple about Malaysia and things to see and do, and they told me of Ko Lipe, and we went our separate ways. I ran into a Calgarian a little later and we sat chatting for a couple more hours until I couldn’t hold my head up anymore. I’d still wanted to use the night to catch up on my blog, but I didn’t have enough energy left to turn my lock. Sleep came quickly and was terminated in a similar manner.
8:30 that morning I was on a mini-bus for the port of Pok Bar just outside Satun, in the southwestern corner of Thailand. 200 baht national park fee, 650 baht ferry ticket, 30 baht minibus ride, and 50 baht island transfer and I was there (cost in dollars about $30). I’d traveled with some people from the same hotel I’d stayed at, a couple Irish women and an English chap, and we met two Dutch girls on the ferry over. The group of us was dropped unceremoniously at the opposite end of the island from everything and trekked for 15 minutes across towards the Porn Resort. Yes, you read that correctly; I’m not sure of the Thai meaning, but rest assured it’s not the same as in English. I checked. However, there were some similarities. The hotel was seedy, the rooms Spartan and dilapidated, and for 300 baht per night, I was going to take my chances looking for something better. I convinced the Dutch girls to come with me and we made our way through the jungle to the south side of Ko Lipe, Pattaya Beach. Here, we stumbled on Daya Resort, with much, much nicer rooms for 200 baht. Sold. The girls wanted to continue looking for something nicer, but by my standards, it was great. Tiled floors, clean, decent washroom, fans, mosquito nets intact, and 100 baht cheaper than that wreck they’re calling Porn Resort.
I did walk with them for a way after checking in, and we went for dinner whilst they were still undecided somehow. I’d had enough and they continued to look around while I returned to Craig’s place in Porn to grab my bags I’d left there. Leaving with my stuff, I took a wrong path and ended up in the middle of the jungle, coming across this remote temple and having to ask two monks for directions, which were most definitely not in English. I did, eventually, make it back just in time for sunset, but with all my bags loading me down and half an hour of walking. This meant it was time for a beer and I ran into the two Irish ladies and sat with them for the evening. After two days of exhausting travel, I was unable to even think about diving like I’d wanted to, so I went to sleep with no plans for the following day. That meant I was free to wake up whenever (which was beautiful), go for lunch, and run into the Dutch girls who had stayed, after all, in Porn resort that night. They were traumatized by rats scurrying all over their room, however, and had promptly joined me that morning in Daya along with Craig. I discovered I’d left my snorkel behind in Malaysia (Kristoffer is now taking care of it), but Craig let me borrow his and I snorkeled around for just over an hour seeing little but clown fish.
Craig and I had dinner, fresh BBQ fish, having given up waiting for the Dutch girls to join us. It was delicious though expensive. The Dutch girls did come by later having likewise given up on us and, as a result of being up all night with the rats, were getting some much needed sleep tonight. Craig and I had a couple drinks at the bar then and had a good chat before calling it a night relatively early. The next day, April 13, was Thai New Year and a festival they call Songkran. Essentially, they bathe all their Buddha statues in water to cleanse the evils of the prior year and this has extended into what is essentially the world’s largest waterfight. Everywhere you go, people are armed with buckets, gallons, supersoakers, all waiting to ‘purify’ you. Trucks have their decks filled with younguns splashing other vehicles and pedestrians. Motorcycles are driven in pairs, one to man the watergun, the other to drive. Roadblocks are set up where you are not likely to pass without slowing considerably and getting soaked by the 15-20 people there. And sometimes, it’s not just water. It’s food colouring and flour as well, making a sticky, colourful paste. I wanted to be on the mainland to see this festival. So I was leaving as quickly as I’d come, zipping back on the speedboat. Tickets for this, by the way, I was able to get for 450 baht. Prices aren’t so fixed as they appear.
The next morning I grabbed a longtail boat to catch the speed boat. I was supposed to do so at 8:15 and was there at 8:20, but I wasn’t too worried – yet – because the speed boat left at 9:00. Then, we pushed off and I saw him tinkering with the motor. He appeared to be changing the fuel filter and five minutes later, as the tension was growing, he replaced it. We might just make it to the other side of the island to catch the boat, I thought. Then he tried to start it. And tried again. And again. Nothing. It kept stalling. Precious time was diminishing. He called to land – as we’d drifted slightly – for help but nothing seemed to come of it. Another boat was anchored near where we were floating and he managed to get us alongside it, and we jumped ship and were off. It turned out that, unlike the ferry, the boat was right off our own beach, so the trip was a short 5 minutes and I was there with plenty of time to spare. We sped off on the speed boat and I was thankful for the big engines as I was trying to catch the 11:00 bus to Krabi. I decided to go here as it would have a lot of activity for the festival. We made one stop at Ko Tarutao to pick up a group, and they wound up being 30 minutes late which meant, I was annoyed to discover, I wouldn’t be catching the 11:00 bus - but I did get the photo you see on the right. We made landfall at 11:10 and I was told there was also an 11:30 bus and then after that the next was at 1:00, so I grabbed a taxi of sorts and made it to where the bus picks up at 11:35. It didn’t matter anyway, there was no 11:30 bus, so I waited around until 1:00.
There was no real urgency other than I wanted to get there and participate. It was perhaps foolish to travel with all my belongings on a day when people were soaking each other, but I was confident my bag’s rain fly could fend off most of the attack. But when I did finally board the bus, at 1:30 as it turns out, I soon discovered that the aforementioned roadblocks were everywhere and the four hour trip would take somewhat longer. I made it to Krabi, eventually, and decided since I was this far, I might as well get to Ton Sai, a beach in Krabi that could only be reached by boat or hike. I grabbed a taxi for 250 baht to the pier and had to wait as the sun sank in the sky until we had 8 people before the boat would go. I began to despair that no 8 people would come at this hour, that I would be good and stuck here, and that I should’ve just stayed in Krabi town. But a family did come and we were off, and all the patience and delays paid off big time. For, as it turned out, we were sailing out amongst the massive limestone pillars in what would be one of the most beautiful sunsets I’d ever seen. We made it to Railay West, and I had to walk across to the east and catch another boat before I’d be in Ton Sai. This boat again was waiting for 8 people though there was another boat going right by that was full. They just didn’t want to take me or the other guy.
He was exhausted and yelling, and it got him nowhere. He stormed back onto the beach and I asked the guy why he wouldn’t drop us there when it would mean more money for him? I never did get a good answer, but he just said, “Okay, come” and we were off. At last I was in Ton Sai, I eventually found a place up the path some ways for 300 baht. It’s expensive traveling along, I’m reminded. And then I went to the beach bar after a so-so dinner for the New Year Party. This was good fun, they’d brought in a band from Bangkok that was pretty good for being reggae, and I met a bunch of Canadians there. I took the next day off, that is April 14, to decide what exactly I was going to do here (and when) and just have a look around. Climbing, it seemed, was everywhere, and I booked myself a day of climbing for the 15th and continued looking around. Kayaking, snorkels and dives, all sorts of things to do. I had a relaxing day and met two sisters from Victoria that night. I had a very nice chat with Mel in particular and we agreed to go kayaking the day after my climb.
The day of climbing was excellent. It started a little slow, I have to say, but before midday I and the other English girl who were students had both climbed 30m to a small cave for some nice shots of West Railay. We had lunch, she being finished her half day and me joining Mike, an Irish guy I could hardly understand, for the second half of the day. We did some really challenging climbs and I ‘fell’ for the first time on one of them. Then we clambered through the dark into a cave and climbed up and up in the cave to a beautiful view looking over East Railay and Ton Sai, then abseiled down to the forest floor. From here we did a couple more climbs. One was really challenging but in the end I made it to the top and got treated to a beautiful view, high enough up to see both sides of the peninsula, and it was all worth it. We were back in time for sunset but it seemed like a night when I wasn’t going to meet anybody and indeed it was. I sat watching a guy at One More Bar doing a pretty nice job playing acoustic guitar and harmonica with just a few locals, but that was about it. And I had, for dinner, my first Pad Thai in Thailand, but it wasn’t anything special, not surprising given the last time I’d eaten at that restaurant it was poor as well. I would try again.
On the topic of foods, I had had some beautiful green curry in Ko Lipe, and become somewhat addicted to Mango Sticky Rice (with coconut milk) here in Ton Sai. And I had a warm banana coconut milk almost-soup as a delectable dessert. I’d been recommended by an Israeli guy I’d met here in Ton Sai while having a BBQ chicken leg to try the papaya salad and I did so on the morning of April 16. That, however, wasn’t really anything to write home about. I ran into Mel and her brother Nate eating breakfast and they sat with me and we all had Thai pancakes as well. We were to go kayaking today but Nate wasn’t feeling great so we put it off another day. Instead, I thought I’d take the afternoon snorkel trip to the nearby islands (Chicken Island, etc). I went back to my bungalow to get my stuff and as I was walking back to the snorkel place I heard, “Hello, stranger!” from my left and turning, there were Carrie and Lori, friends from Saskatoon. I’d actually been expecting to run into them somewhere in the next few days, but as far as I knew they were still in Bangkok; I’d just emailed Carrie the night before with information on flying from Bangkok to Krabi.
So it was, you might say, a big surprise to have them walking down the pathway in the ‘resort’ I was staying at. I dropped the snorkel trip and instead we went down to the beach. The beach at Ton Sai isn’t anything special – in fact at low tide it’s pretty much a long shallow rock pool – so we went over to East Railay and then continued on to Phranang. We’d run into Mel and Nate again and they were doing the same thing, so the four of us set up shop on the beach together. It was a hot one, alright, and the water was hardly what you’d call refreshing at 30 degrees, but it was still nice to relax and hang around. We made our way back and split from Mel then went for BBQ fish at the Dream Valley restaurant, not worth the money, and then had drinks up at the Kasbah. Ismail, a guy I’d met when I was hanging out with Mel a few nights back, came up and said hello again and seemed quite enamoured with Lori. We hung out with him for the evening and tried our hand at tightrope walking before going home.
The next day we were up early, I had some more mango sticky rice, and the girls had Thai pancakes. The three of us rented a couple kayaks and snorkel gear for 1000 baht altogether and kayaked out to the islands. 8km, I’d heard, was supposed to take about an hour. Well, we reached the first island, a little clump in the sea thinking we were right around the corner from the others. Coming around the corner – and looking for somewhere to do some cliff jumping – we saw that wasn’t the case. The next island was quite some distance again. An hour later, we were pulling our kayaks onto the sands of Poda Island. Here is where some of the best snorkeling is meant to be and we set out to explore the underwater world. Unfortunately, even with five masks (I’d told him I didn’t think his masks were very watertight) most of the masks leaked at least somewhat, as did the snorkels. I had to breathe out sharply every breath to expel the water. Also, the mask I ended up with had a solid nose, so I couldn’t equalize properly, and it had a ‘nose vent’ for some reason which was letting in a bit of water too. The girls had similar problems or worse, though I’d tried to take the worst equipment for myself.
That done, we sailed around Poda island to Chicken Island, which was a much better experience. It is so named because there is a large vertical karst that looks like a long neck with a head atop it. We arrived at low tide to find a long thin strand of beach connecting it with Tum Island, which was beautiful. And, at last, we grabbed some lunch and energy from a restaurant there. The food was good if overpriced. We didn’t see the chicken head immediately, but after a short walk it came into view watching over the island like a hungry dinosaur. And then it was time to go back. The girls were sunburned and without adequate protection from the sun, it was a daunting 2 hours back to look at, we were all tired, and, well, it occurred to me that we might not have enough in us to get back. Of course we would make it happen, but that the thought crossed my mind at all was worrying. It was a tough slough back, complicated by some larger waves which, though pushing us along (thank goodness) were making the girls seasick. Slowly the beach receded behind us and even more slowly did Ton Sai grow in front of us. The last kilometre was the worst, it felt like we were getting nowhere and breaking every two to three minutes. Finally, we could see huts on the island, then boats, and now, at last, people. I think we burst into absurd laughter when we finally jumped out of the kayak onto land. We wouldn’t do that again anytime soon.
The next day we were meant to do some climbing, but we were all too tired – everywhere – to consider anything of the sort. The girls being sunburned limited options, too, and so we split. Sort of. We both wound up on the beach relaxing a couple hundred meters from each other though we didn’t discover this until the end of the day. I split with them to climb to the lagoon just before sunset (I was hoping to catch the tide up somewhat) and then met up with them for dinner back in Ton Sai at Mambo’s. Afterwards, of course, we went up to the Kasbah and had a great send off before we headed off to the island of Phi Phi the next morning. And we did indeed set off for Ko Phi Phi in what was to be an ill-fated journey. First of all, the weather deteriorated – not badly, but it was gray and overcast which was in stark contrast to the weather of the previous, well, month. The island was also really developed and this wasn’t exactly desirable compared with a place like Ton Sai. Finally, everyone talks about this being the most beautiful place on earth, and it is beautiful, but it’s really not all that much different than where we already were.
We found a place to stay the night and booked ourselves into a sunset snorkel cruise. Two snorkel stops turned into one. A stop along Monkey Beach turned into, well, no stop along a beach that had no monkeys on it. We didn’t cruise down a few canals because of the low tide, but we did finally stop and do a bit of snorkeling and it was pretty nice. Lion fish and everything just below the surface, and lots of needlenose fish too (they look like small swordfish). Then we got off and trekked across the smaller, uninhabited Phi Phi island to Maya Bay, THE Beach beach. The trek there was without camera but plenty of mosquitoes to make up for it. And our arrival at Maya Beach was cluttered with boats in the bay and it had none of the magical look we’d been expecting. I felt especially bad for Lori – whom I’d warned – because her expectations had been so high going into it. I mean, it’s not a horrible place, if you use your imagination to wipe the boats and ropes and signs of tourism gone mad from the scene. It was taxing on my imagination though, and I think mine is still pretty powerful. It did get a bit better as the day waned, but really, how was it going to top the beaches of Phranang and Railay near our home-base of Ton Sai. We sailed home in what was a remarkable sunset only because there was no sign whatsoever that the sun was up, down, or anywhere near a transition. It just slowly got darker. The land that orange forgot. We went to go out that night as well and, at 11 PM, everything was closed. We stopped for a smoothie and I was attacked by a cockroach looking to nest in my hair. Thus ended our stay in Phi Phi.
The next morning, I woke up feeling really sore all over, but I wanted to get up to the viewpoint before leaving the island that morning. I also checked the internet and discovered that Kristoffer was in Krabi so that made the decision for me between Krabi and Phuket. Hiking up to the top was arduous to say the least, though I couldn’t help feeling that I was sweating more than I should be. At the top, I just couldn’t cool down, however much I drank, but I did get a few nice photos from up there. Back down I went, and I tried to have a bagel for breakfast but it took all my energy and focus to stomach the entire thing, nevermind holding my head up. It was then that I realized I was still burning up and had a headache. Great. I was sick and I had a fever, pretty much the one sign that you’re in deep trouble in the tropics. Malaria, dengue, name a tropical disease and they all have one thing in common: fever. The boat ride back to Krabi (I missed the girls and didn’t get to say a proper ‘bye’) only served to confirm that I was sicker than a dog, and hauling my backpack off the boat and negotiating a ride into the city and a hotel was almost more than I could stand. But I did get myself into an air conditioned hotel, and I did get myself to a hospital, and, well, my friends, that story will have to continue next time. But rest assured I’m alive and, so far as I can tell, well, though I can (and will) tell you it was a miserable two weeks…
It was April Fool’s Day when we left Taman Negara, the dark beating heart of Malaysia and one of the world’s oldest rainforests. Coincidentally, it was the name of the book I was reading at the time, a book by Bryce Courtenay (authour of The Power of One, which I’d thoroughly enjoyed). This was not a work of fiction however, it was the story of Courtenay’s youngest son, Damon, and his life growing up with hemophilia. Hemophilia occurs in different degrees; Damon’s cases was ‘classic’ or full-blown, meaning he had no blood-clotting Factor VIII whatsoever and required on average three transfusions per week. It was an enlightening book, I’d always assumed it meant that cuts and scratches were the problem here. Really, it’s the fact that small capillaries burst all the time, especially in joints, almost randomly – and of course bruises, which are essentially internal bleeds, are no picnic either. As a result of one of these many, many life-saving transfusions containing HIV, his life is forever changed and, ultimately, ended. It sounds gloomy, and certainly it doesn’t conjure images of hand-holding and skipping in the park, but there is, in spite of it all, hope, love, and the struggle for life, however tragic a life it may have been, which all conspire to produce a life-affirming and heart-warming read. I don’t expect this blog to have any such affect, dear reader, but nevertheless, let’s get out of the dark brooding forest to the sunny, warm, east Malaysian coast.
Kristoffer and I grabbed the 9:30 AM bus out of the jungle to the town of Jerantut. Thus we’d escaped the jungle. Not very epic, now, is it? In Jerantut, we discovered there was no bus out to the east coast, or Kuantan, our next transfer point, until 1:00 that afternoon. See, while my original plan and most itineraries travel up through the rainforest on the jungle rail, the fact was that I had done the best section of that already and also wanted to get off the tourist trail a bit to, hopefully, some hidden east coast gems. So we waited, or rather, Kris did while I spent a bunch of time on the internet getting FrankBlack.Net up to date. A new podcast, a new album, some singles, a news release, and my battery was soon depleted. We grabbed lunch, which was pretty good actually (I had a chicken noodle soup and the broth was terrific) and hopped back on the bus for Kuantan. We were trying to make it to Marang, up the east coast halfway to the back-on-the-trail destination of the Perhentian islands. It looked nice on the map and was nearby to an island a local had recommended to us, Pulau (Island) Kapas.
Unfortunately our arrival in Kuantan was just a little too late to catch the last bus up to Marang. We might have made it, but I had a craving for substantial quantities of beef and, for some reason, a root beer float, and there was an A&W laying in wait for us on arrival. By the time we walked to the bus station it was 20 minutes after the last bus had left. We quite liked Kuantan in its way, and weren’t too upset to stay here. We’d passed a pretty mosque on the way from the national to the local bus station, we’d found the people friendly and, for a big city especially, surprisingly excited to chat with westerners. Our excitement dipped somewhat when we found our Lonely Planet recommended hotel, a not-really-so-cheap dive that smelled faintly of urine and could’ve used a Lucille Ball style washing machine in every room. Maybe two. Still, it was the only place around for miles so we took our room and got exploring anywhere else.
We had a beer at a Chinese restaurant, found out where a disco was, and, heading in that general direction, stumbled across a bar. Here, we were hustled pretty quickly. A couple girls outside, certainly of no interest, were flagging us in and we were looking for another place to have a drink more lively than a Chinese restaurant. We thought that one beer here couldn’t hurt and soon we had a bucket in front of us. Fine. A few beers wouldn’t hurt either. The waitress poured our beer and then hers. Fine. A small glass of beer won’t hurt. They stood by us and pretended to be interested, for which I was both uncomfortable and grateful. First of all, we weren’t remotely interested. They were basically prostitutes in dress and action. Uncomfortable. Secondly, it was all an act calculated to make some other demographic, such as the guy sitting at a table near ours, continue to drink and patronize. For this I was grateful as it eased the discomfort.
We found our way out of there very quickly and found the disco which had a pricey cover and was dead. We also checked out the nearby swing club, equally dull. Our filthy bed awaited. First thing the next morning, we were out of Kuantan. I found an entry about Cherating that struck my interest and we made our way there. It was a quiet town, almost looking deserted perhaps because of the time of year. The beach was pretty nice though, and I had some fantastic roti canai (flat bread and curry sauce). We’d thought to stay but, while quiet and devoid of tourists, the town had nothing more to offer than solitude. I felt sure we could do better. We had lunch and read on the beach for a spell then headed up on the 2:00 bus to Marang. It took just about three hours and we stopped in the market for some delicious satay crab and fish. There were no boats left going to the island of Kapas that evening so we tried to catch a ride on a laundry skiff to no avail. It did, however, net us a ride from a local heading up in that direction though we paid full price (15 RM) for it.
And suddenly, we were in paradise. Pulau Kapas, stretching out before us as we left the Malaysian coast was exciting before we made landfall. On arrival we negotiated a dorm bed for 15 RM per night at the Captain’s Longhouse, right on the beach. Dinner with the captain and his crew was around 9:00 and cost 10 RM. Our beds were equipped with mosquito nets (which we’d discover to be essential), the place was clean, and our host was very hospitable. And, did I mention, we were his only guests? The island is very very quiet at this time of year, as they’ve only been out of monsoon season for 2 weeks. And both Kristoffer and I love it. We explored the island a bit before it got dark and had a drink on the beach as the stars came out. We joined the captain and some other locals for a delicious dinner and it felt very much like being a guest at his home, dining with family friends such as the dive shop crew, the chef, and some helpers, more than going to a restaurant. Dinner was fried whole fish, rice, curry, veggies, and is probably the most home-cooked thing I’ve eaten since I don’t know when. The whole fish in particular, which I’m not usually a fan of, was amazing and I went through a half-ocean worth.
We were up early the next morning, had breakfast (more roti canai, disappointing compared with my last exposure to this dish) and sat on the beach reading and waiting for the tide to come in to do some snorkeling. The captain took me for a tour and to meet the others on the island and I discovered another bar on the island with some great board games, particularly Settlers, which I’ve always wanted to try. Kris and I snorkeled part of the north side of the island though the sun was very strong and we cut it a bit short, then went back and played some Settlers until around 6 when the mosquitoes came out. He won every time, but I quite like the game. We went back and had dinner with the captain again, then returned hoping to find some company.
There were some other Danes and Dutch around, but they were, for want of another word, complete rejects. When we cracked open Settlers while they ate they made fun of us for playing it as a two-player game as though we were deaf or spoke no English. When I interrupted to explain that they were having dinner and we’d be quite happy to have them join us afterwards, they were dumbfounded and one of them recovered enough to say they’d played the game to death. Too bad, we’d been looking forward to playing the game properly, as it’s meant to be played with at least three players. We did invite them another time and still no. Eventually, as we played our fourth game, one of the girls came up and quite abruptly asked how many more games we were going to play, as though we’d been hogging it all night. Again, would you like to join us was a swing and a miss. Three strikes and we were out. They would not, they’d just been waiting all night (approximately one hour) for us to finish. OK, I understood. They wanted to play amongst themselves and didn’t want us in the game. Sure, we had it first, sure, we’d invited them to join, but now she was coming up and demanding that we stop so they can play and no, we weren’t invited. And how dare we be so rude as to play their game!? The last person this bitchy I’d met was a Swedish girl named Hannah that I worked with in Perth. But at least she had the excuse of being the only short, dumpy brunette in a country of beautiful tall blondes (who were mostly nice, I might add). Kristoffer still didn’t quite get it and asked if we could join them. Of course not. We could play chess. And we did; yet again I lost.
April 4 and our third day on Pulau Kapas brought the rain. Not torrential, just enough to discourage heavy exploration. Snorkeling would still be no problem, after all the water temperature is 30 on the surface and 28 not far below. It’s almost too warm. The sun came out soon anyway, and we made our way to the southern side of the island, hoping for some shark and turtle sightings. The visibility was pretty poor but it was a nice walk and we did spot some eels and the usual plentitude of fish. Back to the lodge, back for a game of Settlers which - finally - I won, and back for our goodbye dinner. Captain Sharrif Abbas and his staff went all out. We had sweet and sour and fried fish (both great), chap chai veggies, steamed veggies, rice, two different curries, and it was easily the best meal I've had in a long time. We stayed up late chatting with the captain before finally going to sleep.
The next morning we caught the 9:30 boat back to civilization, specifically Marang. We were hoping to catch a boat up river to a small fishing village, but with only two of us the cost was 100 RM to get there. Nope, we'll pass, thanks. So up to Kuala Terengganu we went on a public bus, packed like sardines, where we were greeted by a friendly local who 'loves tourists'. What he loves is getting money for giving them rides, it only took a couple minutes to get there, but that said he was happy enough to point us in the right direction and admit it was too close to worry about a car. One McDonalds sundae later (I said before, it's hot!) and we checked into our hostel. This town is famed for its cultural wares, arts, and foods. Kristoffer and I split up as my internet requirements were much steeper than his after several days in isolation. But I did get a bit of exploring done before we reunited and trekked to the south end of town for the food markets. It was a little late by the time we got there and somethings weren't available and others quite quiet. When there's nobody eating it can be hard to guess which places are good. We took a chance and failed. Horrible food. We didn't come all that way to have horrible food, though, so we found another place and tried again. Bingo! The food was great (though I was stuffed) and the waiter sat with us and taught us a bunch of Bahasa. Way to salvage the night!
Another day, another island. The following morning we boarded the bus to Kuala Besut and from there grabbed a ferry to Pulau Perhentian Kecil (literally, small Perhentian Island). We didn’t quite literally get a ferry to the island, however, much to our anger. Instead, after an unannounced park fee, a departure that was 30 minutes late, and a trip time that took 1.5 hours instead of the 30 minutes it was supposed to (meaning that we would’ve made it there faster with the cheaper slow boat) we arrived in the middle of the sea. From here, again completely unannounced, we had to pay for a water taxi to take us to the mainland. Now, when you buy a ticket for any other form of transport, you get taken to the place you paid to go. Otherwise, what did I pay for? In Malaysia, and I’d soon discover Thailand as well, they take you most of the way and somewhere that could only in the vaguest sense be described as your destination. Imagine boarding a plane and flying over the destination city and being told you had to pay $2 million for a parachute to actually GET to the city. Quite what you would otherwise do is beyond anyone. Jump? Sit stubbornly on the plane as it returned to where you started? Thankfully for Malaysian air travelers, it is impossible to pick up new passengers without landing.
I should mention I almost didn’t pay except that it occurred to me that my departure would require the water taxi all over again. Heaven forbid I get trapped in paradise! And it was a paradise. We had to walk the whole of Long Beach to find accommodation of a budget-nature but our last stop was a success. We stayed at a place called Rock Garden (known to locals as Rock Bottom for its price and probably the shanty hut accommodation as well) for 10 Ringgit per night each. It was a shanty hut, but it had a view to more than offset that, perched as it was up the hill. This also afforded a nice breeze, all too important in a room with limited hours of electricity and even then only to turn on a small light. Not by switch, mind, not in this establishment. To activate the light in Rock Garden, you got on the bed and screwed in the bulb. Or you got your quite-tall friend to do so. Still, the view! The view! Sitting on our balcony and reading was a thing of beauty.
We had dinner at a café called Daniel’s, which is sandwiched between two other lesser cafés, and wondered where everybody was. The Perhentians were hard and fast on the Malaysian backpacker circuit and there should be plenty of people here to hang out with. A couple girls did sit at a nearby table and after their dinner and ours, we asked to join them. So there was some other company to be had on the island, just not the amount we expected. We sat around the fire at a nearby bar and drank a few brew before retiring. I’d booked a dive for first thing in the morning, even before Kristoffer started his classes for his diving cert. It was to be my first wreck dive, called the Vietnamese Wreck, which went down when ferrying Vietnamese refugees. The visibility was poor but the dive was pretty cool in spite of the fact that I decided to join another group by accident going into the cavernous hull.
That afternoon I dove another wreck, one much more famous. It is a wrecked sugar ship, and while the circumstances surrounding its sinking are foggy at best, the water surrounding the ship was anything but. We had great visibility and saw schools of barracudas and all manner of creature. You could see the wreck from the surface and we descended the 24m to the large screw sitting idly since that fateful day in 2000. Coming down on the wreck I felt as though I was watching a documentary or something. The wreck sat there, rust red on a dark blue backdrop and as we descended we cleared the ridge created where the hull meets the deck in a largely intact railing and looked straight down the deck into the deeper blue below, as though doing a flyby. This dive, as you probably guessed, was excellent.
When we returned to land, I met up with Kristoffer who’d just done his first day learning to dive. He was pretty excited already and I suppose I was reminded of how lucky we were to be able to do what we were doing. I waited at Daniel’s where I met the owner, Amin, and chatted with him for some time before Kristoffer returned. Amin was telling me about his younger days bartending in Kuala Lumpur and how he still makes the best Long Island Iced Tea. Unfortunately, he can’t sell alcohol at his restaurant as the land is owned by the government, so I never did get to verify this. He also told me that even if he wanted to open a bar, because he’s a muslim, he would not be allowed ownership by the government. Nevermind that his interpretation of things are different from the official muslim stance of the nation, nevermind that he is supposed to be able to practice any religion freely, if he’s muslim, the laws for him are the old ones. Were he to have been born any other religion, however, no problem at all. An interesting double standard to say the least.
Amin whipped us up a BBQ that was delicious and really looked after us now that we knew each other a bit. I had squid and king fish, Kris had shark, and it was all delicious. The cost was basically $5 and we got drink, rice, veggies, and fresh catch from that day. You can’t beat that! I took a break from diving the next morning and went on a snorkel trip instead. 40 RM ($12) for an all day boat trip to six sites and a stop in a fishermans’ village for lunch. We had a good crew going out and saw some sharks, barracuda, blowfish, clown fish, and turtles. One poor turtle was unfortunately chased around the sea by 9 snorkellers for 10 minutes, a scene that must have looked hilarious from the air but decidedly less so from below. I made friends with two English girls on the boat, Sophie and Sara, and Kristoffer and I met them for dinner along with a rather aloof and unusual San Francisco native named Noah. And again, we stuck with our choice of Amin. Apparently Kristoffer had shown up in the morning with only 10 minutes to eat and asked for something quick. 2 minutes later, Amin was back with some rice and chicken that must have been for someone else, wrapped in foil and ready to go. And again, the food was excellent – in honour of all the barracuda around, I decided to try it and I must report it is quite a beautiful fish.
The five of us sat around at the nearby beach bar until Noah finally disappeared and then the four of us got along famously and had a great night chatting and watching fire dancing and looking up at the stars. They’re quite clear here, incidentally, and finally, finally, I saw the Big Dipper. It has been a while. It really was a special feeling when I looked opposite and saw the southern cross at the same time. What a feeling, to see both at once. I truly am at the equator, at the centre of the world, and for some reason I felt larger than life when I should have felt very small and insignificant. Orion was hunting around between the two constellations, ever hunting, and perhaps I felt something like that. We watched the sunrise (it was a late night, I told you) and I definitely slept in until about noon. I did nothing today but relax around the beach. And eat. I had lunch at Amin’s and he brought me what he considers his favourite shake, something he asked me not to divulge, essentially chocolate-banana with a secret twist or two, without my even asking. I should also mention that every newcomer to this island inevitably argues the merits of the various shakes and their superiorities. Mars, Snickers, or M&Ms? It turned out to be Mars, but Amin’s is a close second.
We did have dinner elsewhere my final night, a restaurant up on the hill with a nice view. We were stuck in the middle and a movie was on (300 – it still amazes me that such a small number of men could change the course of the world forever), so no view but for some Brits masquerading as Greeks. On top of that, the food was expensive and not especially great. We went down to the beach bar afterwards and had a couple drinks, Kristoffer and I, and swung by the English girls to say bye to them too. I had been traveling a long time with Kristoffer, and now again I was traveling solo. I had one more dive booked before I caught the noon ferry back to shore to do first, however. The kind people at Matahari dives had actually rearranged their dive schedule to accommodate me since I’d been trying to get to the most famous dive in the area, Temple of the Sea. That’s how people are here, very helpful and friendly. Although the girl that made it happen, really, was a Canadian I’m proud to say.
So it was that I was on a boat at 9AM racing for Temple. We saw any number of things there, more barracuda, sea pillows, fish feeding on other fish, nudi branches, and we had great visibility. I was also impressed with my air supply. There were two of us with Hugo, our dive master, and the other guy went up pretty early while I waited at the bottom. Hugo and I spent another 20 minutes down there. I signalled that I was down to 50 bar as we were nearing about 8m, so we swam around at 5m for our safety stop and then just kept swimming. I was fine with it. At 5m, even if I ran out of air, I could do a straight ascent without a problem, assuming I didn’t want to grab Hugo’s octopus. 40 bar, Hugo asked if I wanted to go up. I waved him off and he laughed, or bubbled I guess, underwater, and we continued to watch big fish devour small until 30 bar when finally I thought, okay, we should ascend. We were the first two in the water and the last out, which is definitely a first for me, and I was smiling ear to ear at this and also all the things we’d seen underwater.
I got back to land and ran to Daniel’s for a quick brunch and to say bye and thanks to Amin. I had some Mee Goreng (fried noodles and veggies) and ran back, as it was ten minutes to 12. I quickly packed up my sleeping bag, which was laying in the sun to kill off any bed bugs that may have made it a home and other things, said bye to everyone at the dive shop, and ran to the beach to find I’d missed the boat. Amin came down from his restaurant next door seeing me all laden up and convinced the guy to speed me over to the big island to catch it before it went for the mainland. So it was that me and a Frenchman who, in a hurry though we were and with a much greater distance to go, was insisting he should still only pay the regular price. I told him we had further to go, no time to do it in, and to get in or catch the 4 o’clock, so he jumped in. I think he didn’t understand the situation at the time. The driver was asking us to pay him so I grabbed my wallet and out flew my ferry ticket. We circled back quickly, time eating away, and I managed to pluck it from the surface just in time. Back around again and towards the big island. The ferry was there and other boats were just finishing dropping off their passengers, but they must’ve seen us and waited.
Whew. We made it to the mainland. Talk about a busy morning. From there, I shared a taxi with a Dutch guy and two Irish backpackers to the border of Thailand. Our cabbie was pretty funny and interesting and the trip went really quickly. Share taxis are great in that they cost the same as a bus but get you there in 1/3 of the time. We crossed the very hot border without issue and grabbed four motorbikes to take us to the train station. With 10 minutes to spare, we boarded the train north to Hat Yai. Every step of the way, it was like the trip was pre-ordained to maximize efficiency and reduce waiting. We were now in Thailand, speeding north. At some point, a young girl, whom I thought was meant to be where I was sitting put her bag beside me. Then she walked down the aisle behind me. The Thai man across explained she was going to sit with her friends. Meanwhile, I had a bag that wasn’t mine beside me and when I looked back, she was nowhere in sight. This made me nervous, and with good reason. The Thai border is where most of the country’s muslims live, many of whom want independence, and already a few bombs have gone off. She seemed innocent enough, but who knows. It could be drugs or something else I wouldn’t want to have look to be mine. Drug dealers, by the way, are shot on sight in this country. But this story will continue next time. Take care until then!
After a very long two days climbing Mount Bromo and crossing half the island of Java (pronounced Jawa by the locals, incidentally), I found myself waking up after a much-needed sleep in the city of Yogyakarta (or Joeg-jah for short). Thanks to a tour operator, I’d found a place just off Gang (Alley) 2 in Sosro called Lotus Guesthouse that I would never have found on my own for a good and reasonable 35000 ($3.50) per night. There were a lot of tourists in for Nyepi not to mention escaping the madness of Jakarta, and I’d been unable to find anything below six digits. But that’s how it works here, everyone on the street wants to help you do whatever you’re doing, and then when you’re looking for a tour or to rent a car or buy tickets or… they hope you’ll go to them. Certainly, I’d have a look, after all he’d earned it. I was comparing tour options and prices for the two local landmarks, Borobudur and Prambanan, when I came across another operator with a large poster from Kaliurang. The poster was a small village with the peak of the Merepi volcano looming over it and I was entranced. I booked a tour for the three for 60,000, checked out a batik gallery (and bought my first souvenir of Asia) and was asleep again.
I awoke to a knocking at my door – apparently, I was expecting to be on the tour an hour later than the actual time of the trip. So I threw my stuff together and, since the guide was early, we were still at the hotel for the two Malaysian girls also on the trip before 7:30. Our first stop was Borobudur, one of the largest Buddhist monuments in the world and constructed around 800 AD. It is a sort of concentric square at bottom with six levels, topped with three levels of concentric circle and one giant stupa atop. One the bottom levels are panel telling stories and teachings of Buddha decorated with over 400 statues (432 to be precise). On the top circular levels are many, many stupas (bell/dome shaped shrines) with Buddha inside them, I believe 72 in total. Crowning the monument is one giant stupa which, apparently was supposed to have a giant Buddha inside or atop it, but after sculpting it they couldn’t work out how to get it up there. It was impressive both in its scale and detail.
On display, in addition to this incredible monument, was a Canadian guy from Saskatoon, walking around and trying to mind his own business. I first noticed a group of girls (about 15 of them) walking a not-as-discreet-as-they’d-imagined distance behind me and giggling. Disconcerting. I turned the corner, stopped, and turned to greet them, then took a giant step towards them just as they rounded the corner. The poor girl in the lead almost shrieked and took a few panicked steps back then I laughed and they laughed and I turned and continued to admire the shrine thinking I’d sorted whatever it was out. Finally one of the girls came up to me and asked me for a photo with them. This happened again and again with young kids and even teenagers on field trips from rural villages coming and asking for photos and, on occasion, wanting to practice their English, apparently their school had given them some questions to ask us about Borobudur. I probably had my photo taken about 35 times, was interviewed in English twice, was asked to take photos of about 60 people (in groups, thankfully, not all individually), and had two toddlers come up and kiss my hand. It should’ve been annoying but I was too busy feeling magnanimous to mind.
Our next stop was Kaliurang, the village on the volcano, but it had started to rain a bit as we arrived and the volcano was nothing more than a black shape on the horizon. Whatsmore, we didn’t go to the village but instead to a lookout, which I was pretty choked about. We marched on eastward, after a much needed lunch stop to clear my headache – I’d been having minor headaches pretty much everyday since starting my anti-malaria doxycyclin pills and today was the worst – we were at Prambanan. This is a Hindu temple, or rather, collection of temples, and at least in terms of scale was more impressive than Borobudur. Located in the centre is the temple to Shiva, looming almost 50 metres over the valley and surrounded by smaller but still imposing temples to other Hindu gods. A thunderstorm was brewing in the clouds and made the whole scene all the more intense. Aside from these temples, which were restricted due to a recent earthquake having made them structurally unsound, there are smaller ones about 1km down a path which our guide recommended we check out. And wouldn’t you know it, we (me and the Malaysians) were at the farthest point from the van when the storm broke. We waited and were turned down a chance to hop on the little tourist train and it eventually abated slightly. We made it about 500m before it really broke out again and we were quite on the wet side. It was past the time we were supposed to meet our guide and we braved the downpour and returned to the van soaked to the core.
The next day I went to the sultan’s palace, the kraton, which was less impressive than I’d expected. It’s more of a community within the city where they live a bit more traditionally, and I went and learned about some of the Hindu gods and saw some leather puppets being made – they’re called wayang, which actually means mirror, and the puppets are intended to reflect on your soul. I also checked out the water palace, the sultan’s private pool(s) of olde. He had two pools, one for all his ladies and one for himself. There was also a tower above from which he could perv on them or at least watch and decide which one to take back to his private pool. And I suppose which to make into a wife. I spent that day wandering the streets of Yogya and the whole of the next day as well, feeling worse and worse from those pills and getting quite irritable. I snapped at one of the hordes of people trying to hustle me on the street where normally I find it a bit amusing or at least ignorable. I told him I HATE batik (which I don’t), that most of the people like him are selling fakes (which they are), and that I just want to walk down the street in peace. That was when I decided I couldn’t keep taking these pills. Grumpy, headaches, occasional dizziness and on that day, fever; If the symptoms got a bit worse I’d basically have the same symptoms as someone with malaria. No more doxy.
As I was still ahead of schedule, even with my extra day in Yogya, I needed to find somewhere else between here and Jakarta. I’d circled Batu Karas as sounding interesting back when I’d been reading excitedly at home and also Pangandaran. The former is a small village on the beach with three guest houses, the latter a city on a good surf beach. I thought I’d head to P first and maybe take a day trip out to BK if time warranted, and boarded a train on the 12th of March (Wednesday) for Banjar. Well, I waited for a train anyway. It was supposed to come to platform 3 at 9:30. While waiting, I met a Canadian couple from Toronto. 9:30 came and there was a train on platform 2 and I went to grab a snack thinking our train would be here any minute. Conversationally, they asked which train I was on and I discovered that the train on platform two was, in fact, my train and that of the Canadians as well, who were going to the same place as me. I double and triple checked quickly – the train was about to leave any second – called for the Canadians to join me and hopped on the train. They just made it.
I was more alert when it came time to disembark and watched for signs saying Banjar. Again, I saved the Torontonians. This paid itself off almost immediately as we were able to split a car to Batu Karas, checking out Pangandaran en route. I was torn about which place to go but thought I might as well take the car ride all the way to BK and then if I didn’t like it just come back the next day. But while Pangandaran seemed okay, a decent beach, good waves, but in a city, Batu Karas was a great little village on a perfect beach, quiet, clean, and exactly what the doctor ordered after the hustle of Yogya. The beach was volcanic, in a little cove, and had what have to be the best learn-to-surf waves I’ve seen. It was to become my favourite spot in Indonesia. Not only was it great, but it felt like a decisive step from the tourist trail. There are three places to stay in the town, most of which were occupied by Indonesians, a few Malaysians and Japanese, two Swiss, one German, an Australian couple, and now, three Canadians. That’s it to the whole town. When I went for lunch or dinner, I had a tab at the restaurant. Likewise to the little beach bar at the Australian-owned hotel.
I rented a surf board and surfed. It took a while to get my timing right and then a while more to remember how to get up, but with Tol (the Canadian’s) help, it did come back to me. In fact, by the fourth day – I loved it so much I stayed longer than intended – I was having a great time, getting up on 1.5m waves and able to maneuver my board enough to keep ahead of the wave the whole 700m to shore. THAT was a great feeling, and I did it three times (in addition to getting up on some 30 times) in the last two hours of my last day, as the sunset behind our bungalows on the beach. On that same day, I woke up and had a chat for about 1.5 hours with the Australian lady (her husband was surfing) next door. I went and had a great lunch and then two English from Pangandaran showed up for the day and we sat drinking beer while they had their lunch for a couple hours. Then my surf. After which, the Australian couple brought me dinner from a slightly bigger town nearby and I sat with them and had a great conversation for three hours. I walked to pay my tab at the restaurant afterwards then Paul, the Australian hotelier, invited me to watch the traditional dance that was going on at his bar that night. Truly one of the best days I’ve had since leaving Australia.
The only drawback to the whole Batu Karas experience was that my room, at only 40,000 a night and quite sparkling clean to the eye, appears to have been infested with bed bugs. Yes. I had avoided them in Europe. I dodged them several times in Australia, most notably Perth. And here, on this uncharted beach in the middle of the Pacific, the bedbug mob had found me and riddled me with holes. The first day I was convinced they were from little jellys and what the Australian guy, Russ, called “sea lice” that give a little sting in the water. The second day I didn’t swim, and on the third day they were still there and worse. Of course, by then I already had them, so what’s one more night? Plus it was the weekend, and the scant accommodation in the town was all booked anyway. All I can say about bedbugs is they itch like crazy, apparently can NOT be seen when you look at the stitching of the sheets, and I hate them. Anyway, it was time to leave my little paradise and make my way to Jakarta. I hopped on the back of a motorbike, backpack and all, as this is the only way out of the town. We took the scenic route across a very precarious bamboo bridge, and got to Cijulang, where I got a bus to Banjar. It stopped anywhere and everywhere that someone might want to get on or off, but we eventually got there. I’m pretty sure I got overcharged. I saw an old man in front of me pay 11,000 for his ticket to Banjar and, despite my many protests (at one point, the old man was ‘asked’ how much he paid to go to Banjar and he showed twenty-five) I had to pay more than double that. Oh well. From Banjar, a rickshaw to the train station whereupon I learned there wasn’t a train to Jakarta until 9 that night. So I took one to Bandung thinking there’d be connections to grab from there.
There were but en route I’d had another idea. Stay in Bandung that night, and hire a car to take me to Jakarta the next day via Pucack Pass and the Taman safari. This would essentially save me the cost of the train fare plus I’d see it during the day and I’d get to look around Bandung, too. I haggled and haggled and it seemed it was going to be very pricey but I finally managed to get the price down to 300,000, so I found a hotel and wandered the streets. I walked up to the famed Jeans Street, where every store deals in denim and has various heroes as its mascots, doubtless unlicensed. I actually bought a pair of jeans after sending mine home because without the anti-malaria pills I was going to need more long sleeve and pants to combat the mosquitoes. They were a bit pricey at almost $20 but seemed of good quality compared to the $5 pairs I was seeing. Then I walked down to Jalan Braga, grabbing a few skewers of sate on the way, for dinner, and then home to By Moritz (my hotel) where I chatted with a German backpacker about Malaysia.
The next day at 9AM, I was to meet my driver outside the train station but he was nowhere to be found. That said, there were other drivers some of which seemed to know my itinerary al
