Some Photos from last couple of days in KL

Just a few pics from last couple of days including the famous Petaling Street in Chinatown and the Batu Caves 10km or so south of KL, where there are a variety of bright, dare I say gaudy, Hindu shrines up in and around the limestone caves and cliffs.

Lake Toba

Berestagi up in the Karo Highlands wasn’t special, pretty much a one street town with a War Memorial at one end and a Cabbage Memorial at the other (really), but I would go back just for the attraction of these accessible volcanoes. I had arranged my journey to Lake Toba with the local tourist information centre, which was really an agency for its own tours. I decided to combine it with a couple of sightseeing opportunities, which could easily be accommodated on the way down to the ferry port of Parapat.

The night before I travelled the agent ran after me in the street to ask if it was okay if I let another couple come with me in the car. I had no problem with this, particularly as it would substantially reduce my costs; originally exorbitant for the distance I was going. Needless to say the couple were from the Netherlands.

The drive to Parapat took us through a richly diverse agricultural land with coffee and tobacco growing in fields adjacent to potatoes, tomatoes, oranges and cabbages. Drying cloves and other spices were laid out on large rectangular sheets in the gardens and driveways. As we passed through various villages they all seemed to have some celebration or event on, and the kids not attending these were practicing their marching and raising the national flag in readiness for the National Day celebrations, which were to take place some three days later. It was a busy and vibrant Saturday morning.

We drove into Merek, a traditional Batak village 10km or so south of Berestagi, to find the town and its people resplendent at a wedding, and those not there were readying themselves for the subsequent festivities. Virtually the entire village were there. Invitations must be a nightmare with the complexity of relationships in the clans here. You can have several fathers in addition to your paternal one, and these can even be younger than you. Misaddress an invitation and you probably risk starting a blood feud or a clan war.

In the village we get out to walk around the traditional longhouses and get a chance to go in to one of them. These longhouses are very different to the Kelabit ones in Borneo. I would have called them Tall-houses myself, as while perspective is difficult, they certainly look taller than they are long. These outrageously high roofs are there to accommodate the smoke from the cooking rather than choke the inhabitants. The architects have been slow to appreciate the use of chimney flues; or I dare say negligent.

Rather than the 33 families that were in the Bario longhouse there were just 8 families in the house we visited, but the floor area they had was still tiny in comparison, and there was no equivalent separate communal area. Indeed the whole house would really be considered a communal area. There are no walls between the living space, with the only dividers between family areas comprising the cooking areas of which each family had one each. The only formal separate areas were curtains separating the sleeping quarters from the living/cooking areas. Heaven knows what happens here if you fall out with your neighbours in this cramped living space.

Two things I liked about the place was that cobwebs were left in place untouched, as these act as natural mosquito nets (who’d have thunk it!?) and the place was left black from the cooking fires, as the soot covered timbers prevent termites (to borrow a famous advertising phrase, ‘Pure Genius’). So mum, next time you see my house bear in mind that I have no need to cover myself with Deet or burn mosquito coils and don’t worry about the house falling down following an aggressive termite incursion. If I had any house cleaning products at home I would be throwing them out on my return.

The kids in the house and the village were not fazed by us visitors and cameras and if anything played up to it. There was alarge scale marble game going on outside the longhouse, which one of the Dutch women got involved. Marbles seem to be a universal game, very much like Soccer (you can see I’ve been away).

Leaving the village to the post wedding festivities we headed for the Sisoso Piso falls. The waterfall was very impressive emanating from an underground stream several metres below the lip of the sheer cliff. The narrow falls spill into a small plunge pool and the water then pootles off much more sedately south, the hundred metres or so to Lake Toba. The views of the falls and the lake vied for the best view, but like the 2005 Euro cup final, it was a high scoring draw – though the Dutch couple seemed singularly unimpressed by either and were more interested in scoring a packet of Chitato’s and a bottle of Sprite (unfortunately while Malaysia has the lovely and ubiquitous ‘100 plus’ the Indonesian equivalent is ‘Pocari Sweat’, which tastes pretty much like it sounds – avoid!).

Following this visual pit-stop we continued our journey south and called in at ‘the Kings Palace’. Unfortunately I failed to jot down the name of the place, but we had now passed out of the Karo Batak region into another Batak clan region, where even the language is different (so pretty much like going along the East Lancs from Fazakerley to Salford really). There had been kings here from the 17th Century, though to 1947. It wasn’t clear what happened then, but I suspect it involved blood-shed. The kings’ massive residence housed himself, his guards and various wives and children. The adjoining property was full of prospective wives and concubines at his beck and call. I suspect that the guy had little time for politics and chit-chat and probably missed out on hearing any buzz on the upcoming movement toward Republicanism. The massive wooden buildings were an impressive construction feat using massive timbers from the surrounding forest. Kudos to the architects, engineers and the brute force and ability of the construction team – especially to take the weight of all of the king’s retinue.

Other than one ‘panorama’ stop above the lake (again the ladies weren’t interested) it was pretty much straight on to Parapat along the jungle road, which was now only occasionally interspersed with coffee plantations. We arrived at the port in time to catch the Saturday market melee, which was every bit as chaotic as you may expect in south-east Asia, which made the vehicle movement for the last few hundred metres sporadic and tortuously slow. The ladies got off to wander around the market for the half hour before the ferry, while I drove off with the guys to find an ATM, having been unable to locate one in Berestagi which would actively welcome my card. Luckily the first ATM we got to, around the other side of town, was Andy friendly and gave me my requested 1.2million rupiah. Yes, 1.2 million the last of the big spenders. Well, not really, that equates to about £85, with the current exchange rate of 14,125 rupiah to the pound. They are currently discussing devaluing the currency by knocking some zero’s off. Don’t debate it; just do it (to borrow another advertising slogan – perhaps I should consider sponsorship for this blog?).

Avoiding the market on the way back we got back in time for me to catch the same ferry as my earlier Dutch companions. The ferry had some more Dutch on board of course and a couple of Scandinavians and one American (who presumably was lost), but the majority of the passengers were locals going to or from work or the market.

The trip across to Tuk Tuk, which is a small peninsular on Samosir island, took about thirty minutes. After stopping at the main ferry terminal, read ‘tiny crumbling concrete jetty’, the boat makes request stops at several of the hotels private jetties, including the Hotel Carolina which I had booked via email the day before. In the travellers bible (LP latest edition), the hotel is described as the ‘swankiest in town’, but then qualifies it by saying this term is ‘relative’. Still, it proves to be in a stunning location and has been designed to make the most of its lake aspect. My ‘deluxe’ room has twin beds, one for me and one to spread all my gear on, an average bathroom with nose height shower (the Indonesians are short), a fridge for my beers, and a lovely veranda to sit back and watch the world go slowly by. For the £10 a night it was hard to complain, though I met a German/Canadian who loved the place but wouldn’t stay any more since hiking up the price by 30%. Get a life, just think how much of a bargain it was before and move on.

To give a little background Lake Toba is a massive crater lake from what must have been one of the worlds’ great volcanoes. It is the biggest and highest freshwater lake in south-east Asia, and Samosir Island, which sits inside the lake, is the size of Singapore (circa 45km long). It is not in fact an island with an isthmus joining the mainland on the western side of the island, roughly 180 degrees around from Tuk Tuk. Incidentally, along with bikes (not too many), cars (a few), motorbikes (not many), and scooters (everywhere) the one thing you won’t see here is Tuk Tuks; strange but true.

The altitude of Lake Toba is such that it is relatively cool for the tropics and very much ‘Andy friendly’ (I do seem to have spent at least half my trip around the equator at a thousand metres or so). If the term ‘laid back’ had yet to be invented some cunning linguist sat back here for a few weeks, with a fridge full of Bintang and the odd bottle of Arak, would no doubt have come up with the term, or something equally evocative. Failing that with the said vibe he could have been lazy and just said it was ‘relaxed’. It is very much the place to bring a library and sit next to an appropriately stocked fridge while kicking back with your feet on the veranda rail. Alternatively, if you are that way inclined and have enough time, you could always get some people and tunes together and fry up some of the locally legal (for some reason) magic mushrooms.

The locals, just like the LP bible says, do wander around with guitars strumming away and those without are just as likely just to burst out into song at any given time; quite refreshing (as they all seem to be able to sing, and have not yet been infected terminally with Euro-pop or the musical cancer that is modern R&B).

Along with Bario, this place is on my shortlist of places to come back too (along with a library of course).

I hired a bike on one day (yes, a pedal one!) to get out to see a few of the local sights including the King’s Tomb (a different one) and the Stone Chairs. The latter place was used 3-400 years ago to ‘try’ and convict various felons, usually from adjoining tribes, where the elders would decide how guilty they were before cutting the poor blokes skin in preparation for rubbing in chilli and garlic – tenderises the meat dontcha know – and then chopping off their hat holder. And yep, they did often eat their victims, presumably with some nasi goreng and a banana lassy (or a durian CenDOL) to wash it down with.

Incidentally women were never tried for a crime as they were seen to have been too busy with all their chores to have had time to commit a one! The devious women of Sumatra have obviously not boasted to the men about their multi-tasking abilities; so they could literally get away with murder. Clever.

I quickly mastered the bike, like they say you do never forget how. In case you haven’t tried it what you do is walk up the hill with said bike, then climb on to it and freewheel down the other side, and repeat - until you are where you want to be, or at a bar, or back at where you started. Other than remembering this correct sequence (freewheeling up-hill just doesn’t work from a standing start folks) my main problem here was signposts, just like Bario, there aren’t any. So I managed to go about 300m south passed the tomb, and then I went a kilometre north passed the turn-off for the chilli and garlic stained chairs. Still, this created opportunities to legitimately stop and ask directions from a cold drink joint, where it would be rude not to stop for a coke or a Bintang and chat to the locals. By sheer coincidence the drink would take almost the same time as it took me to regain my composure and get my breath back prior to my return the saddle.

One thing you can’t get over while pedalling or walking around the place is how many cafes, restaurants, hotels and shops there are here; with no-one in them. The place has apparently fallen of the tourist map (apart from in Holland, where everyone has failed to get the memo that Indonesia is shut). It is amazing how all these places can stay open with no visitors. If you do stop for a drink in a place you feel guilty not buying anything else. I got guilted into buying a sandwich in one place and the chicken and avocado on homemade bread was gorgeous, and did not feel any guilt about being surrounded by the brothers and sisters, which were pecking around my feet. An avocado tree 20 metres away held the biggest avocados I had ever seen too (ooh, Matron!).

The Carolina itself seemed to have a few westerners, including the Dutch couple from Berestagi, but mostly housed holidaying locals. Unfortunately they seemed only to come for a day or two at the most and they didn’t seem to eat at restaurants. Once more Dutch arrive in Tuk Tuk (or the rest of the world gets the mysteriously missing second memo that Indonesia has re-opened for business) then there are plenty of eating and drinking (and mushrooming) options waiting here.

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From here I travelled further south (in fact my first time in to the southern hemisphere) to Bukittinggi by the only available method – a 15 hour overnight coach, leaving Parapat at 4pm and arriving at 9am. Not sure yet if I want to get into that journey or destination as it is still burned red into my brain (and purple on to my bruised arse after 15 hours on a thinly cushioned seat completely unsuitable for the journey over the uneven and unendingly winding jungle road).

This was very much the homeward leg, with just a short but terrifying drive the hour and a half south to Padang airport and KL to follow. Four days later it would be back to dear old Blighty; football at a decent time and dark none-fizzy and tasty beers (at predictable prices*).


* You may have heard about the Big Mac Index, where countries prices for the delicacy are quoted in an attempt to gauge local costs. Well, given that I eat less Big Macs than I drink pints I propose an Andy Index, which would just give the price of local beers - this would be much more useful as a barometer of costs for understanding how expensive a country visit will be to me and most people I know (can’t think of anyone I know who regularly eats Big Macs).

Thanks to the twin joys of Islam and high alcohol taxation (and blatant profiteering in some places (see Singapore blog)) beer prices in all these countries are not particularly cheap anywhere with prices ranging from approximately £1.50 a pint in Borneo to a gigantic £7.50 in Singapore (even in KL you can find yourself paying £5.80 for a pint of Tiger outside of Happy Hour).

Poland and Romania from my visits earlier this year are still easily winning on the Andy Index; and of course have better beers.

Anyway roll on Thursday and my £2.60 a pint will be spent in the Dizzy watching Liverpool beat Trabzonspor; hopefully.

Sibayak

Gunung, or simply, ‘Mount’ Sibayak stands at just under 2100m and is one of two volcanoes above the town of Berastagi in the Karo Highlands to the south of Medan, where I was traveling from. The other volcano is Gunung Sinabung, which is another 400m higher. The volcanoes are the main attraction for most tourists coming to Berastagi, including me. It is a long time since I completed my geology degree and even longer since I was a kid fascinated by the books showing the power and visual attraction of these mountains, but I will always take a chance to visit them.

I didn’t notice until someone mentioned to me the following day that I had chosen to walk up Sibayak on Friday 13th, but not being superstitious it wouldn’t have affected my day had I known, touch wood.

Everyone I met had said just one thing, ‘Leave early’. I never actually asked why but I just assume that this is to get there before the afternoon clouds and rain drop over the mountain to rid you of a decent view of the crater and the views back over the town. So I duly set my alarm for 7.15am thinking that 8 or 8.30 is early enough for anyone, and must be what they meant by early.

At 7.15 I opened my eyes to darkness, but to be fair they were effective curtains. However on drawing them back I discovered it was indeed still dark, but with a streaky appearance and it was also somewhat louder than any weather should ever be. It was sheeting down. I decided a little too easily that another hour in bed was the decision of a wise man. Really, it was the judgement of a lazy one.

I eventually surfaced for breakfast at which point I chastised myself, whilst consuming my cold egg and barely toasted bread. In the UK I wouldn’t have put off a walk for rain, so why here? I knew I would be kicking myself later if the sun burst over the mountain at 11 then rained come the afternoon. No matter though, decision made, no rewind; and in any case the extra hour was quite welcome.

Leaving the hotel at 10am my second decision of the day was to walk all the way from my hotel rather than catch an opelet (minbus) up to the entrance to the mountain road. My thought process for this, if there was any, escapes me but it did add about three miles or so to my walk.

As ever though walking around gets you closer to the people and the streets (or fields) than being in a vehicle, so it was a chance to take a good look and get a feel for the area. The highlands here benefit from the rich soils and temperate climate thanks to the volcano and the elevation. It is very much the market garden for Sumatra and exports fruit, veg and livestock to Malaysia and Singapore. Some of the fields have a nice English feel to them, being planted with tomatoes, potatoes, spring onion and carrots, but these are juxtaposed with orchards of orange and fields of coffee and chilli, so not quite Ormskirk.

Within these fields or on plots immediately adjacent to houses were small burial plots evidently for individual families. These tended to have just two or three above ground burials which were surrounded by brick walls and variously painted or covered in glazed tiles. They are all Christian burials with some having large catholic images of Jesus or his mum, others don’t have anything but a simple cross (I expect these are probably the less showy protestants then). Some of these plots are remarkably kitsch, and I saw one which had a full sized painted statue of one of the occupants next to his coffin (I assume), he was resplendent in a neat grey suit and a rather eerie smile. While the area is home to the Bataks, who are largely Christian, at night with the curtains closed it doesn’t sound it with all the competing loudspeakers of the various small mosques dotted around the town – not sure if it was going on longer with it being the start of Ramadan or not, but it was an unholy racket (I know, sorry not PC).

Getting back to the burial plots I assume that this is a throwback to the culture of the Batak, rather than because the churches don’t have the real estate for cemeteries. The people here were of course animist prior to Christians coming here with the tidings that the silly sausages had been praying to the wrong gods for generations. While they are well and truly Christian now with both catholic and protestant churches aplenty the people do hedge their bets and still keep animist symbols such as water buffalo horns or sculptured heads of them on the top of the house, to guard over them. If there are serious concerns they will talk to their pastor or priest then go and have a word with their local shaman too. As long as one of them delivers then it is no doubt worth that extra bit of effort.

Umm, I was going for a walk before I transgressed wasn’t I….. so, once I had passed out through the north west edge of town and the fields I took a left up to the registration office for the walk up Sibayak. Here you sign an entrance book, so they can match a name to the body or something. Well, not really but they do not tire of telling you that people have died or gone missing for days on the mountain here, to some extent this is designed to get you to hire a local guide. Mind you I say that a little lightly, if you are going up any route other than the road up (which I was taking) then a guide probably is essential. As well as filling in the book you pay the princely sum of 1500 rupiah entrance fee (all of 11p).

A couple left up the road as I signed in, and I saw from the book that they are from the Netherlands. I am told later that up to 80% of the tourists in Sumatra are Dutch, while it seems a tad high, I have met an awful lot over here and it is certainly in excess of 50%. Indonesia is a former Dutch colony, and I am not sure but there may be more Dutch here now than when it was a colony.

After parting with a couple of ropey 1000 rupiah notes I start on up the tarmac road, with the couple in sight ahead of me; for a while at least. I soon begin to take breathers, masked as water or photo stops – not quite ‘head in hand, what am I doing here’ stops. The Dutch couple from then on are glimpsed infrequently ahead of me on the occasional long straights.

Walking on my own seems easier than walking accompanied – for I am not feeling like I am slowing anyone down or bothered that I am panting like an old dog in the summer sun within 5 minutes of walking up a shallow incline. I suppose both of those mean I am not worried about embarrassment. Still you need to motivate yourself to continue, while your other self is saying ‘look you’ve given it a go, no shame in stopping now’, or ‘who’s to know?’. On Sibayak though the motivation was that it was an active volcano, and ended the walk 40 minutes shy of the smoking vents, crater lake and sulphur deposits would be a poor second, and as Shanks said, ‘second is nowhere’.

The worst thing about this particular walk is that there are far too many ‘downs’ on the way up the mountain. As far as I am concerned there should be no downs in a hill walk until coming back from the top, any earlier dips can only mean steeper climbs later and even worse the niggling knowledge that on the way back down the mountain there were going to be some ‘ups’ to negotiate. It is patently wrong and it drew a few curses from me whenever I turned a corner to see a steep slope downhill on the outward leg.

Anyway I persevered and despite declining distances between ‘photo’ stops I got closer to the top. At one point I met an English girl coming down by herself and asked how far, and she indicated about an hour. This I felt was not the best of news, as I had thought it would be about 40mins. But I got on with it and it was only a couple more turns before it was the end of the road, at a ridiculously large car park, where the road ends. Here you have to scramble up a 5m white cliff of ash to reach the path above and the last leg of the climb. The path evidently used to comprise concrete steps all the way to the top, but now comprises occasional patches of concrete and some good water filled holes – all the more fun to negotiate. Two more stops for ‘photos and water’ and I was within sight of the steaming vents at the top of Sibayak and shortly after the distinctive bad egg smell of the hydrogen sulphide wrinkled my nose. The climb here was both more gentle and easier because the end was finally in sight.

As the guidebook says, it is everything you want and expect in a volcano, with numerous vents on all sides busily steaming away and the yellow stains of the sulphur deposits, there is even a small but perfectly formed crater lake. The only thing missing is lava, but to be fair if you were seeing lava on a strato volcano like this then facing the walk back would be the least of your worries.

As I sat above the crater lake a few guys and gals from Medan were setting up a camp in a hurry as the clouds came down and the rain began. Thanks to my lie in I had timed my walk to perfection. Fifteen minutes of clear viewing and then time to put away the camera. I then saw the Dutch couple for the first time in an hour and a half making their way down. On my descent I caught up with them and we had a good chin wag about the usual – where you going, where you been, what’s been best, where to avoid, etc. They turned off left at the junction to go to the hot springs on the other side of the mountain, while I continued on the return leg, to face the known ups and downs.

The rain which had been off and on all through the walk turned to a new setting: torrential and constant. Despite my hardy poncho I was soaked through and resigned to it; I think the water must have wicked up my sodden trousers! The walk had taken five hours door to door, and when I got back to the hotel bedraggled, very much in the style of a drowned rat, I was in dire need of a warm shower. Needless to say after ten minutes of staring at the ceiling and recovering on my lovely bed I staggered in to the bathroom to find that there was no warm water for a shower. But if that was the worst that Friday 13th could bring me, well then life is great!

Singapore - August 5th to 8th

It is only a 60 minute flight from Borneo, but this could be thousands of miles away. There are temples here but these are mostly constructed with steel and glass and dedicated by the followers of Money. The laid back nature and general green-ness of Kuching and Sarawak is in stark contrast to the clean, authoritarian, money-making glamour of the city/island/country that is Singapore.

In the centre, around the Central Business District (CBD) and the rejuvenated quays (read: shops, restaurants, bars) it is attractive; in a new, disinfected, clinical un-littered way (I am sure my mum would appreciate that part of it), however after even just a couple of days here it is a little unsettling, partly because of this.
It is a ‘1984’ society, and I will definitely be posting this after I have left this place. Conformity at all costs, even perhaps the ultimate one. A couple of weeks ago a British freelance journalist was arrested here after simply writing an article on the use of the death penalty here. Not sure what has happened to him since (sorry, that means I am not sure, as I haven’t checked the news; I am not suggesting that he has been disappeared or anything – it’s not Chile or the USA after all).

Even Little India and the Chinatown(s) here are clean and un-littered, if still mad busy and cluttered. The signage here ‘advertising’ the fines are fun, if a little intimidating: $500 for drinking or eating on the train or platform, $1000 for smoking; $500 for stepping over the yellow line on the station; $1000 for riding your bike in an underpass, etc. The number of closed-circuit cameras at the train (MRT) stations are incredible, that said sadly probably not dissimilar to England. Policeman are noticeable, if only by their absence. One suspects that there are plenty about, but that they are asked not to wear their uniforms unless for a special occasion.

Talking of special occasions, I have timed my visit perfectly to miss several big events. On Monday it is the National Day, celebrating 45 years of Singapore’s existence. There are flags and new stages, and even stadia, everywhere in readiness for the event. The ubiquitous posters extol ‘Live Our Dreams, Lift Our Flag’ or even ‘Live Our Dreams, Lift Our Productivity’…. if that doesn’t make you think of 1984, then you haven’t read it. There is no ‘I’ in Singapore. How this squares with the massive financial centre here and the money that has built this place…. err okay, it just doesn’t.

The inaugural Youth Olympic Games then start a few days later, which is big news here, and then the Singapore Grand Prix is only a couple of weeks away too. So I am leaving before it all gets too gooey on the TV (it is already too sugary to watch in a (you guessed it) 1984 Newspeak way). I suspect that there is never any criticism on the TV here. Or indeed any news that hasn’t been rubber stamped first. Cue: big false smile.

I stayed in an area called Geylang. I had read the guidebooks and ‘TripAdvisor’ and knew what to expect. Okay in the day, whilst a little lively and sleazy in the night time. Not the end of the world to get a hotel you can afford. To be honest, not as bad as I thought it may be, just a couple of times you get asked ‘Do you want a girl?’, and at the end of the day just say ‘No’ (or ‘yes’ if you are inclined). There is no danger associated with the area. Prostitution is illegal here, but it is one of the few activities which doesn’t have much associated signage and a fine associated with it. The hotel next to mine proudly displayed its room rates as $45 a night, $10 an hour, $15 for two. Though perhaps I am reading the wrong thing into this and there is just a local need for emergency napping.

One good thing about the place is the appetite for beer, including local good ones. Yes!, there are local breweries that don’t just make Heineken, Carlsberg, or Guinness. Proper ales, stouts and pilsners. It is just a shame about the prices. The prices are heavily influenced by taxes of course, but also by the money in the place. The bars on the Boat Quay are mostly horrendously dear, backing on to the CBD. But you can get a bargain if you are happy to drink Tsingtao or Chiang in a restaurant. The price of a beer can vary from $2 to $15. To complicate things further some places don’t give their prices with the taxes included. So you can get a ‘++’ (or ‘plus plus’) on top of your bill, which adds 10% then 7% to your bill! Be very careful! Or maybe just shrug and hand them your credit card. Incidentally on Boat Quay there is a ‘London Pub’, which charges silly money for pint but which was always packed with ex-pats when I walked straight passed which purported to sell ‘Draught Old Speckled Hen’ and adjacent to this was Harry’s Bar, which apparently was a favourite hang-out of Nick Leeson before he took down Baring’s Bank. On reflection, that should have been seen as an emergency flare with respect to banking activities shouldn’t it?

I found a place called the RedDot, which was advertised as a brew-pub, though of course didn’t brew any beer in house. That said, definitely worth a visit and I tried five of their eight beers, all of which were eminently drinkable if a tad on the expensive side of stupid. The biggest problem with the place if you looking downstream of the Singapore River and inland is that next door is the Manchester United Café. How many people are they alienating as potential customers?
Like Borneo, England is big over here. You see more locals wearing England shirts than you ever do in the UK. Of course, Liverpool, Man Utd, Chelski and Arsenal are popular too. Didn’t see any Aston Villa or Everton shirts.

Up there with the temples to Money making are the cathedrals of Shopping. You can virtually cross parts of the city in air conditioned frigidity through mall after mall. Sure they sell the same stuff next door? I popped to an IT mall called the Funan Digital City just between St Andrews Cathedral (a real one, not a mall) and the Singapore River. After a couple of hours checking out the deals I plumbed for a netbook with a 2year extended warranty. Hate having to buy a PC thing but wanted the ability to do stuff on the hoof with pictures, internet and writing. So a dirty job done. Four hours later I was back in the place as the power pack didn’t work. Grrr hate PC’s.

An incredible sight at the moment in the city is the Marina Park development. It comprises three hotel towers, which are topped by an apparent cruise liner, called the Skypark. I went down there, but decided not to go up to the Skypark in the end – it was $20 and you had to walk around and get out. There was a ‘no loitering’ condition, which meant no sitting down AND the cafes, bars and restaurants were not yet open. So I went off to the adjoining shopping mall (where else?), which was another crazy place with a water feature down the centre of it, which had gondoliers taking customers up and down the mall. Trafford Centre, eat your heart out.

A positive side effects of being a minted city is that you can do things that can’t be done in the average place, such as liberally sprinkle top sculptures around so amongst others I got to see a great Salvador Dali and Henry Moore while I was here (Newton and the Lovers respectively).

On my last afternoon after walking from the Marina Park I found the not to be missed Brewerkz microbrewery on Robertson Quay. Great beer with an interesting price structure - as the cost goes up as the day goes on from as little as $4.50 a pint between 11-3pm, rising progressively up to $15 a pint between 8-11pm. Drink early and run. Finished my Iain Banks novel ‘Transition’ and passed it on to a guy at the next table called Buzz (my second Buzz this holiday, with Toy Story 3 in Dubai!). He had to be American, and was from Chicago way; he was working as an art teacher in Singapore and had done for 13 years. Hope he enjoys the book, I found it a good read, but didn’t want to carry the weight around (I left a Terry Pratchett with an English teacher in Kuching for the same reason).

After a quick squizz at the Raffles Hotel I popped into an adjacent bar called Lot, Stock and Barrel and started writing this up on my new netbook. I then went back to Geylang to pick up my stored luggage and to get a bite to eat at a restaurant called ‘Liverpool’, before heading to Changi airport for my flight to Sumatra and my first visit to Indonesia.

Bario and the Kelabit Highlands - July 30th - August 3rd

I traveled to Bario, the capital of the Kelabit Highlands, pretty much by accident, or at least unplanned. I had originally intended to go to Mulu national park for the caves and jungle walks but flight and accommodation was proving difficult to book so I decided instead to go to the highlands. In any case I had been doing quite a bit of jungle and just seen some caves at Niah. It turned out to be a fortuitous choice.

Bario is the nominal capital of the Kelabit people, who are one of the smallest minorities in Borneo at approximately 5500 people. Up to 800 people live in Bario which is situated on a plateau some 1000m or so above sea level in the north east of Sarawak close to the Indonesian border. There are Christian churches everywhere, and several were under construction while I was there - not that any more seemed needed. While you may expect Christianity to have been brought in by the British or Dutch during their tenancies of the island, it was in fact only brought to the Kelabit in the 1950s by Australian missionaries. The relative recent arrival of the religion may explain some of this church building zeal.

As your geography teacher probably told you temperature goes down by 1C roughly for every 90m of elevation. So being some 1km up then it is about 11C cooler than down at Miri. So about 24C instead of 35C. This provides most welcome respite.

Bario is only pleasantly accessed by a short 45 minute hop in a plane from Miri. The alternative is by road (largely logging roads), which if you are lucky may take as little as 12hours of nail biting, bone crunching, brain numbing, drudgery mixed with terro. Just why would you?

The flight is great in a little 18 seater Twin Otter. The view of the Borneo forests are breathtaking (and unfortunately the views of the logging and palm oil plantations near Miri) if the clouds aren't too low. The skiddy bouncy landing at the tiny airfield seems very old school, and getting of the plane and picking up your baggage 3 minutes later is a joy. While I waited for those strenuous 3 minutes I was approached by Stephen Baya, a Kelabit artist who runs a gallery come homestay in Bario, who asked me if I had anywhere to stay and if not to consider his place. After all of minute I said "Why not?", another fortuitous call. I had to sign in an arrivals book (really) and re-confirm my flight back on the spot. It's very much paper and pen here rather than ethernet and WLAN.

I was taken by Stephen and his Danish wife, Tine, to their longhouse home/gallery/homestay - the Jungle Blues Dream - and made to feel welcome straight away with a lunch served within 20minutes of getting there. The longhouse was quite beautiful with Stephen's bright painting adorning the rooms of the gallery and around the seating area for food. The four guest rooms also had painted murals, and I awoke each day to a green tree of life replete with local fauna.

Over the next few days I went on several walks around the area, the longest of which was 10 miles to the salt spring, passed Pa Umar to the south east of Bario. Unfortunately the clay road has been somewhat widened taking swathes out of the jungle. This made viewing the pitcher plants and orchids known to be along here problematic, requiring much clambering about over the makeshift drainage channels and piled up sands, clays and vegetation before even getting to the forest. That said I did persevere and was rewarded with finding some pitcher plants and some amazing insects (you will have to wait for the photos as the USB is not working in this Cyber Cafe).

The salt spring was a well outside of a small shed at the bottom of a steep slippery trail. It was akin to hell on earth (even more so than the Trafford Centre or Runcorn), with the poor family working the salt by burning wood fires constantly beneath vats of bubbling salty water. The salty steam and heat was too much for a mere mortal as I to endure for long - especially after the last tortuous kilometre up and down the slopes and across streams and mud and through thick vegetation (when I went 'off-piste' - so I took leave by the well for a well earned drink. Judging by the place and the path too it, it was not a commonly visited site, despite being mentioned in guide books and in advertising on Bario. The butterflies in the open area around here were varied and I saw a couple of what I think were Rajah Brook Birdwing butterflies. I hadnt walked ten miles for a long time, let alone in these conditions and I returned back to the Jungle Blues Dream heavy legged.

The walk up to a Penan settlement was quite easy in comparison and a lot shorter, starting from the paddy fields behind the Bario Asal longhouse, taking you through a buffalo field and up in to the forest along side a large stream. The Penan settlement unfortunately was deserted bar a couple of chickens when I got there, so presumably they were out hunting and gathering. The Penan are a nomadic people who live of the jungle and use such homesteads at certain times of the year, including when some of their children go to the local schools (to varying degrees of success - a little like the Romany, they have problems fitting in with their very different way and outlook on life). The buildings were constructed of wood, rattan, palms and anything else they could lay their hands on, including zinc roofing and plastic. The two chickens were disinterested in me, though the flies here were a little persistent with me.

While in Bario I had to take the opportunity to visit a longhouse. And the Bario Asal longhouse, which houses some 33 families, is within the town. The longhouse is the traditional way of living for most of the tribes of Borneo though it is dying out slowly as money and status comes in to the people. It comprises a single long building (ummm, hence the name) with a long communal area running the full length of one side, the living quarters in the centre and the cooking and other communal 'break out' areas at the other side. Walking along the main communal area the right hand side wall was covered in both recent and old photographs, which it turned out related to the people behind the nearest doors. Alongside photographs of young degree graduates were faded black and whites of couples or family groups. Many of the photographs showed the elongated ear lobes, which draped down well passed the shoulder blades of the individuals. As I walked through the kitchen areas and saw several of the older generation, both male and female, with the elongated ears.

While in the longhouse I came across an Indian guy known as Slim. I thought his English was very good, which turned out not to be too surprising as he was an ornithologist from Merthy Tydfil. He had been working in Borneo many years ago and was eventually adopted by one of the families who lived in the longhouse some 25 years ago. He was pleasantly surprised to meet a scouser (okay, sandgrounder) off the beaten track.

The food at the JBD was never less than lovely and was all locally sourced, from the famous Bario rice to the wild boar, barking deer, and fish, all served with bamboo shoots, jungle ferns, banana etc. Stephen and Tine took time to explain the food and the history of the area and ways of the Kelabit. Even better Stephen entertained with a guitar on a couple of nights too (I did my best to show I had forgotten most the songs I ever knew).

It is currently the dry season, though these things are relative here - it is the rain forest after all - but it is being unseasonably wet at the moment, making the roads a muddy nightmare to negotiate by foot. While the transport of choice may be a 4x4 most people travel by scooter with wellington boots, a good sense of balance and hopefully good fortune to get round and through the ponds, sticky mess, holes and general unknowns in the 'road'. Last year was the other end of the spectrum with 5 months without rain, indeed at one point there were plans in hand to import water to the area. Yes, bringing water to the rain forest. It wasn't needed in the end, but badly affected the harvests in the area.

Stephen encourages visitors to use any artistic streak they may have by writing or drawing something on a wooden board, which he then puts on display in the (s)eating area. I was invited to do so, and not being a great artist, I awayed to my room and I went for the writing option, attempting a little poem (really). While not being a great poem, it does neatly encapsulate my thoughts on my stay in the home of Stephen and Tine, and of the Kelabits:

A Twin Otter brought me, with no preconception,
I left four days later, with a great affection,
For a town called Bario, the Kelabit home;
Surrounded by hills, me with a license to roam.

The food was incredible, the welcome sublime,
At my Jungle Blues Dream home, I wished for more time.
Walks, mud, music, friendship; I'll remember it all,
And the colourful sight of the art on the wall.

(with apologies to anyone of an artistic bent)