6 September 2010
Arrived in Seattle a bit spotty and surreal. After traversing the Light Rail Link into China Town we made it the HI Seattle American Hotel. We dropped our bags at the hostel and set out in the skin-soaking drizzle to find somewhere to eat. Ben banned me from wearing my bright pink scarf which after walking the same few streets a couple of times (populated in way similar to the Wire) was probably a good idea. Quite wet and a little more unsure of our ability to locate anywhere open to eat, we decided on a dinner from the local supermarket. Finding every meal option included a range of fried meat ingredients, we opted for two blueberry yoghurts, an orange and a small can of tinned pears- consumed in the safety of our hostel room. This supplemented by our snaffled gin and tonic from the plane (drunk out of the yoghurt pots) finished night one of our travels.
8 September 2010
We set off Tuesday morning from Seattle on the Amtrak service known as the Coast Starlight. The train is a double-decker beast stretching for what seems like miles. We found our cabin, or ‘roomette’, and quickly settled in, aided by small bottles of complementary champagne. You could think the following 23 hour journey towards San Francisco would drag- you would be wrong. Between getting wired on freely-available coffee, signing-up for dining-car slots with the zealous attendant and hanging out with fellow passengers in the viewing lounge, the time flew by! Scenery highlights included Puget Sound, just South of Seattle, and atmospheric glimpses of the Cascade Mountains through the misty weather. Mealtimes were a social affair, so we enjoyed meeting a whole variety of characters. Bedtime was particularly exciting in view of the transformer-like conversion of our roomette into a pair of very cozy bunks- Al risked the top one, whilst I stretched out luxuriously in the bottom for 9 straight hours. Best night’s sleep in a long while. We woke early for a hearty breakfast and multiple coffee refills, before arriving, slightly saddened, at our destination in Emeryville, across the bay from SF, sandwiched between Oakland and Berkeley. Our mood was rapidly lifted though as we were greeted by Sam and La Rae- a friendly couple Al met on a different Amtrak journey some years ago, also our kind hosts for the next week.
10 September 2010
Returning to Emeryville was filled with many memories for me as I stayed here with Han nearly 10 years ago. Sam immediately put us to work in one of his three community gardens. Our first job was to pick hops for his home brew. Picking hops was quite an intoxicating experience: our hands were covered with the perfume of beer, our arms littered with ladybirds whilst humming birds flashed above our heads, all this was accomplished perching unsteadily on plastic crates. Wandering out from the garden down to the nearby lakeside we made the tourist mistake of pausing by a fence which appeared to enclose a couple of squat-old-man herons. The herons were completely uninterested in our presence however a downpour of hundreds of scraggy looking pigeons was not quite the wildlife experience we were aiming for. Exiting the area at speed we negotiated a route back to the garden through more plagues of birds, this time geese who in impressive squadrons cropped the grass and laid massive piles of avian shit.A
Our second day in Emeryville begun with a visit to Sam’s other gardens. Having sampled Sam’s incredible home-brewed pale ale and La Rae’s tasty home cooking the previous evening, we were happy to be put to work there: first on machete-wielding compost preparing duties, and later on picking a variety of the fruit and vegetable bounty. Later in the day we drove with Sam to Berkeley, past the Golden Gate Fields race course (immortalised in the Rancid song GGF) to a land-filled headland overlooking the bay called the Albany Bulb. This is a wild area of land used by many to walk their dogs and jog. Venturing further however, it becomes an anarchic post-apocalyptic world worthy of the Mad Max set, with a variety of artists building guerrilla-sculptures out of drift wood, rubbish and other found objects. Many people have also set-up home here, building makeshift abodes amongst the rubble and wilderness.
In the evening, Alice and I set off on BART into downtown San Francisco to watch a theatre piece called Real Americans: a one man show in which Dan Hoyle takes on a multitude of characters. He expresses their conflicting views and highlights the growing chasm between Obama Nation and Palin Country in the process. We finished the night off with a night cap in a dark bohemian bar and a make-believe political debate before heading back to Emeryville on BART.B
11 September 2010
On Friday, Al and I set off into San Francisco for the day. We exited BART near the Marina and made straight for the marketplace inside the Ferry Building, picking up a variety of tasty deli treats for our lunch, including pickled chillies, marinated artichokes and bocancini. After a short while negotiating public transport maps, we boarded a bus due for the University. From here we walked a couple of blocks to Golden Gate Park, where we enjoyed picnicking as a variety of school groups arrived for baseball practise in the nearby recreation ground. Our bellies satisfyingly full, we headed for the Academy of Science museum, where, despite being drawn in by the large image of a sabretooth tiger skeleton, we decided the entry fee was too steep ($30 each!). A little further on, we wandered round the De Young fine art museum, though mainly to access the observation tour and its spectacular panoramic views of the city.
From here, I suggested we take a short walk to meet-up with Chris and Steffie, old friends from university. Alice now shudders when I suggest ‘small walks’ as it invariably becomes the exact opposite. This was no exception: we trekked up into Buena Vista Park, again commanding stunning views over the Golden Gate Bridge and the advancing fog bank, and onto Castro to head Southwards for several miles. We walked through the hub of the SF gay district, which offers a one-stop-shopping opportunity for organic veg, international cheeses and specialised leather bondage gear (Alice commented that she couldn’t even begin to image what some of the kit was for…not that we were looking). We trudged up large hills to discover larger hills behind them (our map, alas, showed no contour lines). We eventually met up with them a little behind schedule and a little exhausted, to enjoy an evening catching-up and socialising at a bar in the Mission district, complete with burlesque dancing in the back room. We concluded the night back at their flat, where I proved, hands down, that it was possible to be worse at computer games than Steffie. In the morning, Chris and Steffie kindly treated us to brunch outside a querky café to set us up for our return to Emeryville…Al’s had a liquid brunch of orange juice as the previous night’s margaritas were not sitting so well. In the evening, we took Sam and La Rae to their favourite Mexican fast food jaunt. Both Al and I had the daily special of a crab taco covered in spicy green sauce (made with miniature green tomatoes called tomatillos) along with some crispy fried fish and fresh salsa. My god, I have never tasted anything like it. A friend of Sam and La Rae’s had some spare tickets for an open air musical up in the hills above Oakland, which he kindly offered us. The setting was spectacular, especially as we arrived just as the sun was setting over the Bay. The show was Paint Your Wagon, appropriately about the Gold Rush…it was both fun and an interesting All-American experience. I have been waking up with a variety of the songs stuck in my head every morning since then…I was born under a wand’rin star. B.
16 September 2010
Sunday, and we set off for Yosemite. Our drive took us through the burnt gold of the Sierra Nevada and the orchard plains of California. We passed through acres of almond trees, cherries, vines and forests of towering wind farms. With food never far from our minds, we pulled into a small town and laid out a sumptuous picnic prepared by La Rae – quinoea and chickpeas with harissa, coconut curry with black eyed beans and roast summer vegetable pasta, finished with sour cherry and chocolate brownies. A few hours later and we arrived at Blackberry in Oakhurst, our cabin for the next three days. Blackberry sat in a grove of pines and not surprisingly a tangle of blackberry bushes (which we attempted to harvest unsuccessfully a few days later). Settling into cabin life, Ben and I cooked a dinner of courgette and parmesan fritters with salsa followed by spaghetti putanesca and shortly after collapsed in bed surrounded by choruses of cicadas.
In the morning we drove to Glacier Point to begin our 9 mile trek down into the heart of Yosemite Valley. Looking out from Glacier Point is strangely unreal. The scale and beauty of the landscape appears painted and the void it surrounds more massive than someone more used to the the Peak District can easily comprehend. Our walk took us through butter-scotch sented sugar pines, which I unknowingly identified saying to Ben I thought someone was eating pastries behind us on the track. We narrowly missed seeing a bear and her cubs (which a couple in front of us gleefully informed us) – I blame the large group of middle aged men behind us, who guffawed their way down the mountain eliminating any hope of surprising even semi tame wildlife in our path. Three waterfalls marked significant points in our walk, each over 100m high. The first Illilouette Fall, formed our lunch stop where we perched sandwich in hand (Al included) atop a large glacial boulder mid river. After this we climbed through another pine forest – Ben storming ahead, Al lagging behind – to our second, Nevada Fall. Whilst we’d seen few other walkers on the route until then, we were suddenly surrounded by family groups, sun hardened hikers, backpackers and many more, all congregating at the water’s edge. Sidestepping the masses (and smugly overtaking quite a few) we began to descend towards Vernal Fall. At this point the leadership order of our pair altered, with Ben, aided by his walking poles, transforming into a geriatric spider and moving to the rear of our duo for the more acute declines. Our feet swollen and aching at around the 8 mile mark, we detoured to the side of the river near Emerald Pool to slice up an orange (aided by the ever handy Swiss Army knife). The water was quite incredible a still, deep, almost hypnotic green with the temptation to just paddle in and swim. Luckily we resisted as about 10m further down the path a large danger sign appeared. The pool swiftly fell over the 100m plus drop of Vernal Fall crashing with the intensity of a jet engine (as audibly identified by Ben) onto the rocks below. We met Sam and La Rae at the valley bottom, and shattered but happy ended the night with a tasty pizza and cooling alcoholic beverage….A
Our second day in Yosemite saw us visit Mariposa Grove, home to a stunning array of giant sequoias. Cousins of the giant redwoods found in the coastal areas of California, these are some of the largest trees, and indeed living organisms. in the world. King amongst these is Grizzly Giant, standing proud at around 100m high, 10m in circumference and 1800 years old. Sam and I went for a steep walk to the Upper Grove, a chance to admire the awe inspiring specimens found up there, and ate our packed lunch whilst being sized-up by a pair of mean looking ravens. We met Al and La Rae on our way back down, who had opted for the more casual miniature train ride round the groves. We then spent some well deserved chill-time back at Blackberry cabin, supping cool ales whilst sat on the deck.
We packed-up our cabin the following morning, and drove back to Yosemite Valley, this time pausing to admire El Capitan, the world’s largest granite monolith- personally it’s the kind of thing that inspires me to write a phat techno track! From here we headed north to Hetch Hetchy, a large reservoir created by a controversial dam in the 1920s, the primary water source for San Francisco. We walked round part of the man-made lake, then beaten by the heat, turned back to the safety of the air-conditioned car and drove back to Emeryville for some take-away Persian fare.B.
20 September 2010
We flew from San Francisco to LA on Thursday to catch our Air Pacific flight to Fiji’s capital Nadi (said Nandi). LAX is obviously designed to reflect LA itself- it’s vast, sprawling and completely pedestrian unfriendly. We eventually boarded our jumbo jet, and, much to my delight, were herded upstairs to our seats. As a little boy, the upstairs deck of a 747 always represented some kind of strange promised land, so it was nice to fulfil that childhood fantasy. Though we had not been upgraded, we got a set of 3 seats to ourselves and therefore managed to get some decent rest on the flight.
Arriving in Nadi at some ungodly hour of the morning, we headed to the loos to change into our tropical island-hopping tourist gear, and awaited a coach to the marina. Here we boarded the Awesome Adventures’ (cringe) catamaran and headed out to the Yasawa Islands to the North West of the main island. The scenery that unfolded over the next 4 hours was both delightful and a little surreal: volcanic island after volcanic island unfurled before our eyes, each with spotless white sandy beaches and peacock-blue water. We arrived at Nacula Island, to the very North of the chain, and boarded a water taxi through an unbelievable turquoise lagoon to the Oarsman Lodge, our home for the next 4 nights. B.
Our accommodation was a little wooden two man bure or cabin in the Oarsman grounds. At first we were slightly unsure of our choice, mainly due to the crowds of parasite wasps that congregated above the entrance chewing off bites of wood from the roof. However, manfully we overcame this insect intrusion, and became quite charmed with our little home. The breezy bure has vented windows on three sides opening to views of coconut palms, tropical gardens and the aquamarine lagoon. Jetlag finally found us during the main course of our dinner around 7pm, and shattered we collapsed to bed for 11hours straight sleep. A.
For our first full day on Nacula, we decided to head up the sizeable hills behind our lodge for some panoramic views of the island: our lagoon to the west, a large sand bar jutting out into the ocean to the east, and northwards a swampy and inhospitable area. A couple of small swift-like birds with blue feathers on their heads began to follow us at this point, riding the strong winds and hovering strangely a few meters from our heads. Having reached our first summit, we followed the ridge along to further higher summits, eventually loosing any sign of a path. Feeling intrepid, we thought we’d make our way down this side of the hills towards a new patch of unspoilt beach. We rapidly regretted our choice of route, finding ourselves surrounded by tall shrubs on steep, unsteady ground. 20 minutes later, sweaty and scratched, we found another path and made our way back towards our lodge, with Al spotting a beast of a spider hanging in its web from a branch above our heads: she stealthily captured the moment on camera, my face frozen in disgust. B.
In the afternoon we tried our hand at snorkelling, walking straight into the water from our lodge. I had some issues at first in finding the right sized mask (due to my stupidly small head), however once I had determined that I was no longer drowning we set off. We saw angel fish, parrot fish and a school of large mouthed and heftily sized silver fish (unrecognisable to either of us). Day two at Oarsman and whilst we avoided the 5.45am sunrise hike we did opt for the morning boat trip to some nearby caves Sawailau. This experience was not quite what we expected. Unlike all other visitors to the caves we were unaware that swimming to reach the caves was obligatory. Climbing some steps to the mouth of the cave our guide informed us that this was the point to strip off, and plunge into the deep black water. This was quite a challenge as neither Ben or I are too good with the following: cold water, dark water or deep water. With no real option we plunged our pasty bodies into the depths and having only just recovered from this, we were instructed to keep treading water until we reached the underwater entrance to a second set of caves. Luckily we were at low tide so a few millimetres of air were visible between the two spaces however this still meant a short underwater swim. Again thinking we’d mastered the toughest bit of the experience we came up out of the water into total darkness with smooth cave sides and no obvious handholds or ledges. This, followed by a barely torch-lit swim to the back of the cave (still in very cold, very deep water), was one of the most frightening experiences I have voluntarily partook in as a supposedly sane adult. This does not bode well for the caves in Borneo! A
Our third day in Fiji was a chilled one. I guess Fiji Time is getting the better of us now. The morning was spent walking a mile or so down the beach, scrambling over some rocks, towards the sand bar. We gazed longingly at the crystal clear waters surrounding it for a good while before checking out some wildlife in the rock pools on the way back. Staring at areas of the beach for while would eventually reveal it teeming with life, in the form of hundreds of small hermit crabs moving their chosen shells fractionally every few seconds. Picking one up would lead to a frenzied but harmless, pincer-driven attack to the fingers. We also discovered brittle stars sheltering under rocks, and a little later, a series of dark extending slug-like sea-leeches (not a technical term). This time is was Alice’s turn to recoil in disgust. The afternoon saw us develop our snorkelling skills in the coral reefs around our lodge, discovering a pair of defensive clown fish along the way.B
23 September 2010
Dusk is my favourite time at Oarsman Lodge. We got in the habit of grabbing a Vonu Fijian beer at the start of happy hour (far better than Fiji Gold we discovered), and playing a few round of Yahtzee dice as the sun set. A group of men from the local village would turn up around now and begin strumming out gentle lulling songs on guitars (quite fittingly, out of tune), singing along with melancholic harmonies. Over the next hour, we would then watch as the sky slowly turned to night through a range of orange and purple hues, the evening star rising gently as other guests emerge for dinner.
We then moved on to Octopus Resort, further South in the Yasawas, on the spectacular island of Waya. Word on the grape vine was favourable for this place, and discovering our bure confirmed this- it seemed luxurious with its outdoor shower and polished wooden floor. Heading out for dinner however was a bit of a disappointment: the vibe was very resorty, with conspicuous Western managers parading about, and wealthy families with precocious children making up the majority of guest numbers…the whole set to a soundtrack of cheesy smoochy house music. The Kava welcoming ceremony left us a little spaced out (kava is made by mixing ground root from the pepper tree with water and is drank in vast quantities by local men. It tastes muddily medicinal and numbs the mouth slightly. It is alleged to be mildly intoxicating, a fact we can now confirm), so we went to bed early. Our first morning at Octopus was again one of disappointment, this time when our enquiries about island walks were rebutted with instructions to stay firmly on the small patch of beach owned by the resort in view of the surrounding private land. We eventually discovered we could get around this by hiring a guide from the local village to take us up one of the various peaks found on Waya. A friendly young man called Bo led us that afternoon up past his village to Nakoukou, a 600 or so meter peak, the third highest on the island. The scramble up was hot and sweaty but well worth it as we climbed above the forest and onto the craggy granite summit for stunning views over the entire archipelago. Thankfully the weather turned cloudy with a smattering of rain, helping cool us off for the slippery decent.
Al and I realised at this stage how much Oarsman had begun to feel like home, with it’s relaxed atmosphere and warm staff. It seems Oarsman is a real jewel in the Yasawas: it is owned by the local village and run by the ever-smiling Onnie, who rules over the place like a true matriarch. This was clearly felt by many others, as we heard rumours of people testing out new resorts and packing their bags to return after one night. On our second night at Octopus, we encountered three friendly American girls we had met at Oarsman, leading to a long conversation over dinner, each line seemingly segued with “At Oarsman…”. B.
1 October 2010
After the tropical heat of Fiji we flew into Auckland and the cooler clime of a New Zealand spring day. We were met by Bob, an old Cambridge friend of my Mum and Dad’s, who had kindly offered his rainforest cabin to us for our first week. Our transport was an ancient Nissan Sunny hire car, with whom we had a tempestuous relationship due to the automatic gear control, crappy windscreen wipers, lack of rear windscreen wiper and useless sat nav (on which no roads built after 2007 existed).
We followed Bob out to Helensville where we met his wife Heather, her son and Trouble (their shaggy and very friendly dog – although being brought up a Mathers I was wary of Trouble‘s canine ways). Our first night at Bob’s ended as all good evenings should ,with wine, conversation and fine cheeses. The next morning we travelled further north to the coastal town of Mangawhai Heads, close to Bob’s cabin at Maranui. We stocked up at 4 Square (which from our northern travels seems to be the Spar of NZ) and then set off after Bob up a small, winding road to the cabin. Bob and 17 other partners purchased the land at Maranui to conserve the fragile forest habitat, with each partner having the right to construct a small, low-impact house hidden within the dense forest.
Bob’s cabin is at the very end of the road and has a incredible terrace with unique, uninterrupted views across a perfect rainforest valley – no other sign of human habitation exists. Bob settled us in, took us on us first tour of the bush, and then left us to our own devices. The cabin has limited electricity (from solar power) so we set about preparing for dusk. I have a small pyromaniac streak so took over the laying and lighting of the fire whilst Ben split his first log (images abound!). Whilst we may have managed these manual tasks, we displayed prominent town dweller tendencies the next day! Setting out for a short afternoon stroll in the forest, we quickly got a little disorientated, re-found our bearings but then fell down a bank. None of these rookie mistakes would have impressed the possum catcher and other Maranui resident who had called by earlier to warn us not to be tempted by the cyanide strips they were attaching to the trees.
After two nights with only each other and a variety of unseen birds and insects for company, we decided to explore a little further north. Aboard ‘Sunny’ we drove to the Kauri Coast on the western shore. The kauri trees are pretty incredible and easily rival giant redwoods and sequoias for impact – squat when mature, they have a grey, wise old man presence as they sprout epiphytes like hair from their crinkles and crevasses. We particularly took to the second largest kauri in NZ – Te Matua Ngahere (Father of the Forest) – as stout a tree as we’ll ever see! After the kauris we drove on to the Bay of Islands. A small brown furry bundle hopped across our path en route, our first and so far only sighting of New Zealand’s national bird, the Kiwi. The coast we drove to reach this tourist honey pot was actually more spectacular in our view, but having breakfast at our very comfortable motel with a panorama of the bay was pretty impressive too. Declining the idea of boat trips through the world renown Hole in the Rock (mainly on a financial basis), we opted for the free and easy option of yet another walk, this time to the Hutura Falls. Although we had been warned by the very helpful lady in the Tourist Information hut that the walk was far longer than advertised in the guide, by sensibly parking well away from the actual start of the walk we gave ourselves a quick 11km challenge before lunch. The highpoint of the walk (whilst not the waterfall itself) was the boardwalk that crossed a muddy mangrove swamp, complete with large fish swimming between the mangrove roots and missing handrails.
Not satisfied with our morning explorations on land, we decided to take to the water by kayak. I am not known to be the most sporting of individuals but as fate would have it I have a background in kayaking…a Grade 2 Star badge achieved when Han and I undertook a most rare pastime for us – an organised summer holiday activity. After having been patronised and ripped off a little by the kayak company owner, Ben and I stripped to our swimming gear (which I supplemented – on the advise of the kayak owner – with a most unbecoming bright purple, bulbous plastic jacket). And then we were off! Whilst the waters surrounding the Yasawas in Fiji had been warm, shallow and crystal clear, the same could not be said for our current kayaking location. Cold and murky with a bit of a wind, we paddled erratically around the nearest island, before Ben – having had quite enough of the unpredictable aquatic environment, and not mastering my ‘left-right’ calls to synchronised motion – insisted we head back to shore. Having used only 35mins of our paid for hour the kayak owner had made his money with ease, but that was enough ocean for us. A.
We returned to the Maranui cabin for a final night. The weather was closing in upon arrival, transforming the isolated forest track into a scene from Gorillas in the Mist. We retaliated by splitting more wood (me), building the mother of all fires (Al), and cozying round some high-brow DVD action (Shallow Hal) on the portable player we stumbled across on the cabin shelves. With a minor case of cabin fever setting in, we set-off the following morning for the civilised shores of Auckland, New Zealand’s largest city. Only vaguely aided by our sat nav, we reached the YMCA safely to find out they had given our room away. We luckily found what was probably a far far nicer room round the corner at City Lodge. The afternoon was spent navigating our way on foot to the Auckland Domain park and the city’s main museum. We witnessed an incredible display of a full-size Mauri ancestral house, and a slightly ram-shackle natural history display (I pushed children and toddlers aside to gaze admiringly at the display on sharks, whilst Al fixated the sun fish model). Tired, we then retired to our lodgings to spend the evening devouring a falafel kebab (tasty but missing a decent dollop of chilli sauce), catching up on laundry and preparing ourselves for the forthcoming campervan escapades. B.
7 October 2010
We picked up our small campervan (appropriately from Happy Campers), and after a lengthy run-through of it’s various functions and gadgets, we hit the open road. Well, we drove to the closest supermarket and stocked-up on all the essentials for the modern day (happy) camper. With our tiny pantry full to the brim with anchovies, olives, beer and Cajun seasoning, we then navigated to Waitomo for the first night‘s stop-over. Our choice of venue was a Top 10 holiday park, seemingly a national institution, which rapidly lived-up to it’s grand reputation. We spent the evening settling in and unpacking, whilst enjoying a sip or two of a lovely New Zealand beer (Hop Rocker) and cooking pasta putanesca in our primitive but quite functional kitchen. We unfolded our festival-style chairs and table to enjoy the last rays of spring sunshine whilst eating. Having then checked out the park’s very slick facilities (unfortunately the hot tub was in use though), we turned our camper’s seating area into a snug little bed for a comfortable but chilly night’s kip.
The following morning we headed for the Waitomo Caves, a series of cavernous formations formed by water in the surrounding limestone hills over millions of years. In view of the glorious crisp spring weather, we started off with a very pretty little walk through the Ruakuri Scenic Reserve, following a path through (yet more) bush. A little further, it took us through a natural limestone tunnel, or very small cave I guess, and onto an impressive overview of a variety of cave entrances. We then decided to bite the bullet and cough up for the guided tour of the Glowworm Cave. This luminescent spectacles are formed by the larvae of the fungus gnat, a mosquito-like creature, which weave a sticky line of snotty silk to capture food, attracted by their small glowing behinds. The trip took us on a brief walk through some stunning stalactite and stalagmite formations in several large chambers. The highlight though had to be the boat ride in complete darkness and silence through caverns densely populated by the glowworms. In the disorientation of the dark, the small lights formed by the insects created an intriguing array of three-dimensional formations reminiscent of distant galaxies.
After a spot of lunch, we drove on to Taupo for our second night at a Top 10 through a landscape of gentle green rolling hills that must surely have been used to shoot the Shire scenes in Lord of the Rings. We headed for another cozy night’s sleep after a dinner of pasta and pesto, this time armed with additional layers of clothing and woolly hats to starve off the cold. We awoke refreshed to another beautiful crisp morning and decided to take a gander to Hukka Falls, along the Waikato River. We followed the beautiful clear peppermint-coloured waters to an area where its width is suddenly reduced by about two thirds, resulting in some incredible roaring rapids and a concluding fall. On the way back, we risked a brief dip in one of the neighbouring thermal pools, which turned out to be almost unbearably hot.
Our campervan journey then took us along the spectacular Lake Taupo and it’s Geneva-like mountainous backdrop. We slowly approached Tongariro National Park and it’s three iconic volcanic peaks, Mt Ngauruhoe (2287m), Mt Ontario (1967m) and Mt Ruapehu (highest peak on North Island at 2797m). Rather appropriately, the former starred in Lord of the Rings as Mt Doom. We settled in a non-Top 10, and therefore slightly shabbier, holiday park called Discovery Lodge, and slow-cooked a bolognaise in anticipation, and slight trepidation, of the next day’s activities. B.
7 October 2010
We awoke at the crack of dawn the following morning and chucked down a hefty portion of porridge in preparation for the Tongariro Alpine Crossing, a 19.4km walk starting at 1100m, climbing up to 1900, and finishing at 700. We were excited at the prospect of undertaking what is alleged to be the finest one-day walk in NZ, but also a little apprehensive about the challenge awaiting us. We set off walking at 8am, alongside a fair few other people, but thankfully not the bus loads that arrive during the summer months. It was in a way reassuring that though by no means the most prepared of our fellow trampers, we were far better equipped than many. Under an almost blinding sunshine, the walk took us up a bleak volcanic valley to the side of Mt Ngauruhoe and onto a brief plateau. A sign here casually warned us to look out for pyroclastic flows if the volcano was to erupt! Promptly, we shifted ourselves onto the long flat crisp snowy stretch of the South Crater, and onto a long uphill trudge to our walk’s summit, overlooking the incredible Red Crater and dramatic views of the surroundings, particularly Mt Taranaki. A throat-tickling aroma of sulphur then accompanied us down a slippery scree slope (eggy skiing) past a series of frozen volcanic crater-lakes. One of these was just beginning to thaw, allowing a glimpse at the beautiful emerald blue waters concealed under the blanket of ice. The following hour took us to Ketetahi Hut, first up another ridge and then along a thin snowy track following the contour of the icy slopes of Mt Tongariro- my wobbliest and least favourite part of the crossing. To a backdrop of Lake Taupo, a treat of cold leftover spaghetti bolognaise for lunch spurred us on for the last third of the walk, downwards past a stunning steaming vent and eventually past the vegetation line into the ubiquitous bush (again). We were lucky to have been the only passengers in our minibus to and from the crossing, so with one miraculous bar of mobile phone signal we were able to call the driver to pick us up ahead of schedule, thus avoiding the long wait other walkers clearly had to endure.
Safely back at our campervan, we turned more left over bolognaise into a pile of hearty spicy chilli. While this simmered, we headed to the bar for a congratulatory drink in the lounge, where we were surprised to be accompanied by some kids from a local youth group who were having some kind of do at our lodge. Engaging us in conversation, one lad cheerily enquired our origins, only to respond to our answer of “the UK” with “How come your English is so good then?”. Our spirits lifted, our stomachs full and legs weary, we crashed in bed a few hours later for an extremely satisfying night’s sleep. B.
8 October 2010
In the morning, awaking to strange pains in our behinds and hips (resulting from yesterday’s noble efforts on the volcano), we downed another bowl of porridge (which I am beginning to consider a ‘super food’) and set off on our 4.5 hour drive to Wellington. We arrived into Wellington, NZ’s capital, by way of a stunning drive skirting the harbour and were struck by the cosmopolitan grace of the city. It may have been just two weeks in rural NZ, but the urban view took a little getting used too. After the most minor of wrong turns (entirely my fault) we pulled up in Nicole and Andy’s road. It was really lovely to see Nicole again, now the other side of the world (last time in London). After heartfelt hugs, and processing of the first batch of laundry, we climbed Mount Victoria, behind Andy and Nicole’s house, to breathtaking 360 degree views of the city. Our first day in Wellington finished with a sumptuous dinner (prepared by Nicole) of spiced pumpkin soup, griddled ciabatta, roasted asparagus and salad, washed down with good NZ sauvignon blanc – perfect! The next day, fuelled by caffeine, we set off after Nicole on a bracing one day tour of the city. Whilst the tour was brilliant and comprehensive (taking in the harbour, Wellington museum, the cable car, botanical gardens and Cuba district), I regretfully had been a little too excited at the prospect of clean clothes and had relinquished everything warm I owned to the laundry. Therefore the shorts, T-shirt and flip flops which I now modelled, did not do justice to the ‘4 seasons in one day’ weather we experienced. In the evening, we met Andy for ale sampling at the Mac Brewery followed by dinner at St Johns, a lovingly renovated art deco ambulance depot. To balance the refined evening, I plumped for ending the night watching ‘Jersey Shore’ a tacky and totally addictive 45minutes – trash never tasted so good! A.
11 October 2010
And then our time in the North Island was over. We caught the early morning Interisland ferry from Wellington to Picton (at the northerly tip of the South Island). From there we drove the scenic but very windy and unevenly surfaced road to Richmond (just south of Nelson). Whilst the weather was glorious for our drive, arriving in Richmond it took a turn for the worse and we found ourselves confined to our campervan. Several moments of stress then ensued as we tried to park in our powered site – mainly as a result of my need for the campervan to be parallel with the picnic bench and at a right angle to the side of the bay – somehow these small details become important. After Ben had on the 6th attempt (and after a break for tea) achieved an acceptable parking position, we settled in for the night. The next day took us to Saint Arnaud through the beautiful and misty Nelson Lakes National Park. We declined a walk due to the freezing fog, but pottered out to the edge of Lake Rotoiti, where before us, snow fell on the peaks and under us large eels swam around the boardwalk. Driving east we entered the sunlight Malborough wine valley. Vineyards bursting into lime buds edged the roads, and to either side steep-sloped mountains protected the grapes from the elements. Basking in our brief time in the sun, we pulled into the Montana vineyard and sampled a few select whites and then continued on our way down the coast. Once more the weather closed in – hail hitting the windscreen and lighting striking the sea to our left – however as we approached Kaikoura the clouds began to lift again and we saw families of sleek fat seals hauled up on the rocks. Our day finished in Kaikoura cooking the tastiest prawn-spinach curry I have yet to make and toasted Turkish garlic bread – we whale watch tomorrow! A.
A short 15minute walk along the stunning Kaikoura beachfront took us to the Whale Watch headquarters. The weather having cleared from our arrival the previous afternoon, we were treated to a glorious view of the Kaikoura range to our West, freshly capped with a thin veil of snow. After a short video safety presentation, we were herded onto a bus to the Southern marina and boarded our ship. A choppy ride took us out to sea over the oceanic shelf, where the water drops from 80m depth to a canyon over a kilometer deep. Cold and warm currents meet here, resulting in a particularly rich upswelling of krill and phytoplankton, the basis of a food chain culminating in sharks and, more relevant to us, the sperm whale. After a fair wait on the ship’s deck, the fresh air just about curing our growing sense of sea-sickness (and the captain poking his hydrophone in the water, probably just to build the anticipation), a behemoth of a lone sperm whale appeared on the surface of the water ahead of us. The beast laid calmly there for a number of minutes, allegedly resting and re-oxygenating it’s blood, before returning to hunt in the abyss. With a majestic wave of it’s huge tail, it dove back down leaving us all feeling exhilarated. As if that weren’t enough, the captain sailed past a vast and playful pod of Husky dolphins on the way back to shore. Our trip concluded with a brief pause where an array of large sea birds, in particular some quarrelling albatross, were swarming over a fisherman’s leftovers. Finally a Hecter dolphin, a rare and shy species only found off the New Zealand coast, made a fleeting appearance before we landed back at the marina.
In the afternoon, we drove out to the very tip of the peninsula on which sits Kaikoura. In the brief bout of blue sky, we wandered along the rocky outcrops left exposed by the tide, and round the shore to another large basking seal colony. Finding the onwards path prohibited to protect nesting sea birds, we scrambled up a steep grassy verge to the top of the cliffs, and headed back to our campervan to drive to the safety of our Top 10, this time to cook up smoked salmon pasta with asparagus (the joys of getting here in spring!).
Awaking early the next morning, we battled the howling winds and driving rain that had set in the previous evening and packed up the Happy Camper to head to the South Island’s Western coast. The journey over the Kaikoura Range took us up over 1000m and briefly into the snow line. We paused for strong flat white coffees and sugary treats in the popular spa town of Hanmer Springs, with it’s distinct Twin Peaks feel, and pushed on through the weather towards the Lewis Pass. At this point, the elements calmed a little and we got our first spectacular glimpses of the Southern Alps as a backdrop to raging spring rivers. The sun took over completely as the road drew up against the sprawling Grey River, to take us to Greymouth and, yes, the local Top 10. After much deliberation, we parked up to begin simmering a lentil curry as we enjoyed the warming afternoon sun and the stunning pebbly beach. B.
20 October 2010
Following our night at Greymouth, we drove Southwards for 175km, through a variety of quaint historical gold mining settlements, to the township of Franz Josef and its glacier. The town surprised us with its subtropical vibe and surrounding dense ferny bush, juxtaposed with the incredible backdrop of 3000+ meter peaks (Mt Cook and Mt Tasman). Gladly accompanied by bright blue skies and glorious sunshine, we parked the van up the glacier view road and its slightly excessive speed bumps: the first one we passed sent all our belongings flying onto the floor of our camper (I was driving). From there, we enjoyed a walk up the scree covered valley to a viewing point 10 or so meters from the glacier‘s terminal. Keen for more glacial action, we check into the Franz Josef Top10 and discussed our onward options over another batch of pasta putanesca. It was decided to stay put for an extra night and attempt a walk up Mt Fox for apparently splendid views of the Fox Glacier, 25km to the South. We set off keenly the following morning, our enthusiasm doubled after the lady from the local information point confirmed our choice of walk by telling us it was her favourite in the area. After a few failed attempts at locating the start of the walk, we eventually found the small sign on the road‘s edge and set off. We entered thick bush immediately and begun climbing. It quickly became apparent that this not a walk per se but a scramble. After almost 2hrs in the dense foliage with not so much of a glimmer of a view and with only tree roots and creepers for support up the steep muddy slopes, I developed a definite case of bush madness (symptoms include irrational fear of dark crevasses under overhanging tree roots). With no real indication of our progress up the aforementioned mount, and time ticking on, we eventually made the difficult decision to turn back and slip our way back down, our knees and thighs complaining more with every step. We celebrated our safe return to the comfort of the Top10 with a cold beer, a dip in the hot bubbling spa and a vegetable stir fry.
The next morning, we set off Southwards for a 290km road trip to Wanaka, the weather still impeccable. Not to be defeated by the Mt Fox debacle, we parked up and wandered up the tame flat path towards the Fox Glacier: a harsher and in many ways more spectacular sibling of the neighbouring Franz Josef version, augmented by sublime blue glacial pools. Following a flat white coffee in the neighbouring village, we set off driving through more bush, accompanied by the now ever-present snowy Southern Alps. Bruce Bay surprised us on the way with the sudden appearance of a menacing bank of sea fog, working it’s way inland obliterating everything in its wake. We were next drawn in by a layby just North of the town of Haast, advertising a place called Ship Creek. This turned out to be a real little gem, one of our favourite places thus far: a clear rust-coloured creek (stained by the nearby swamps the sign said) works its way to the sea past a vast stretch of sand and pebbled beach, to meet the spray of the Tasman Sea surf adjacent to a series of statuesque limestone outcrops. We lingered here for a good hour, eating our leftover stir fry by the waters of the creek and combing the beach. Our drive then took us inland along the Haast River valley, edged by increasingly awesome craggy peaks. Much to our delight, the usual dense bush surrounding us suddenly gave way to a sparse and far more Alpine scenery around Makarora. Shortly after, the road drew up along the lakes of Wanaka and Hawea and their beautiful reflections of the Southern Alps. Our progress slowed by frequent pauses to gasp and the scenery and attempt to somehow capture it on camera, we eventually reached Wanaka and its cute little terraced Top 10. We supped our cold beers overlooking the view, and knocked up a simple avocado and fettuccini dish for dinner. B.
The next morning we drove further south to Te Anau and Fiordland. When we arrived at Te Anau the weather was beautiful, hot with a deep blue sky. Unfortunately this did not distract either of us from camper fever, which had begun to set in at Wanaka. The simplicity of compact living (in a space not much larger than an average estate car) had given way to a serious case of big-camper-envy. Whilst our van is small (and therefore relatively easy to park and drive), in order to eat, sleep, wash, dress, cook etc. the interior space has to be routinely adjusted, resulting in a number of small scale campervan injuries – bruising to legs (me) and bump on the head (Ben). Whilst we manfully decided to persevere sleeping in the van, we agreed to give ourselves the following night off from cooking and find somewhere to eat in the town centre (a great luxury at this point!).
At the ungodly hour of 6am the following day we got up and had breakfast, before being picked by Fiordland Wilderness Experience to have a second attempt at kayaking, this time on Milford Sound. Whilst kayaking at the Bay of Islands had not been Ben’s favourite experience of the trip so far, both the Rough Guide and Lonely Planet recommended sea kayaking as the best way to see the monumental cliffs and fjords of Milford. A two-hour drive took us through mountains wrapped in mist and vast beech valleys until we reached Deep Basin Pool. Our instructors Sim and Don, laid out a mountain of safety gear and clothing, including bright purple unisex spray decks attached by way of braces and woollen leggings for both ladies and men, we kitted up. Now a little overheated and resembling large multicoloured fruits, there followed a very detailed safety briefing (with very detailed attention from the sand fly population of the bay) before we squeezed ourselves into our double kayak (Ben steering at the back and me navigating at the front). On this, our second attempt in a double kayak, we were slightly more harmonious when paddling and it was an amazing way to see the fjords (unfortunately photos of this are a little delayed as having to rely on disposable camera – did not want to risk SLR). The scale of the environment was deceptive in its immensity, with Mitre Peak rising approximately 1600m from the water above us and the Bowen Falls crashing 162m to our right. After about an hour on the water the wind became stronger (and our paddling less enthused due to Ben‘s paddle blisters and my cold feet). We rafted together and kayak sailed (the sail comprised paddles for masts and material held in place by the front paddlers in our kayak group) further up the fjord to a beach for lunch. The rest of the kayaking was spend on a calmer stretch of the Arthur River further inland, where we saw (from a distance) a leopard seal and a couple of blue penguins.
Arriving back to Te Anau the wind was stronger, pulling off tree branches at the side of the road and littering our camper with leaves. Too tired to do our usual reorganisation of camper space, we headed to the Fiordland cinema to watch a film of Fiordland, inventively titled Fiordland. A dialogue-less documentary of 30mins it flew the audience (from helicopter perspective) round the mind-boggling landscapes of the National Park, and then it was dinner time! Selecting a standard looking Italian restaurant recommended by our kayak tour guide we ordered antipasti and a large vegetarian pizza – both of which were huge, therefore satisfied but somewhat defeated we boxed up our leftovers (ever economy conscious) and made the windy walk back to the camper. A.
After a long night’s sleep dreaming about the kilometre-high cliffs of Milford Sound, we awoke to a grey rainy morning. With military precision, we packed up the camper ready for the road and set off Northwards back to Wanaka, apparently chasing the bad weather. We arrived there in good time and thought we’d treat ourselves to an afternoon’s chilling in the back of good ol’ Happy Camper whilst reducing the ultimate comfort food, pasta and sauce. The next morning was glorious, so we decided to stay put for an extra night and hire mountain bikes from the Top10. Just as we got decked out in our mock-cycling gear, shorts and sunglasses, a large grey cloud blew over the mountains behind us and promptly began to snow on us! Not to be put off, we set off on the path that contours the shore of Lake Wanaka and into town. The snow having ceased, and Spring back on our side, we stopped to apply sun screen whilst sipping a flat white coffee on a café terrace near the lakefront. We then followed the track round on our bikes, basking in the balmy-peppered-with-occasional-snowflake weather and absorbing the incredible views of the lake and the rugged mountains of Mt Aspiring National Park. We lunched on leftovers from the previous night and then made our way back to our holiday park, with only a very very minor uphill detour (I was on map reading duties). Having realised we’d biked about 20km (not bad considering last time either of us had rode a bike it probably had stabilisers on…I tell a lie, I did some mountain biking on 8th grade field trip), our thighs once again knackered and our bums sore, we settled in for the evening with a glass of red wine and a veggie chilli with spicy potato wedges.
The next day we headed Northwards towards Lake Tekapo and it’s infamous blue waters. The weather on the way was distinctly minging, with icy lashings of rain and blustering wind threatening to swerve our Vander camp, as Al now knows it, off into the right lane. Reaching our supposed destination at lunch time, we cowered from the elements whilst consuming our leftovers for lunch. The lake seemed impossibly blue in the bad weather, the Southern Alps all but disappeared behind a thick layer of grey cloud. In view of this, and with the feeling that our New Zealand escapades were evidently winding up, we made the decision to drive on to a small town called Fairlie, significantly closer to our end destination of Christchurch. We took it easy there, going for a quick drink at a local restaurant set in an old library building, and using the Top10’s kitchen to cook another simple pasta and avocado dish, this time with no risk of injury from the jutting angles of the camper. The next morning, we drove onto to Christchurch to dump Happy Camper off unceremoniously at the warehouse, and get a lift to a corporate airport hotel for an afternoon and evening of apparently endless luxury (a last minute change of venue after a city center hostel lost it’s appeal after 18 nights in vandercamp). And so our incredible month of Kiwi explorations concludes. B.
23 October 2010
We arrived in Perth on Thursday evening after a brief transfer in Sydney. My childhood friend Matt met us at the airport and drove us in his pickup truck to his lovely new house in Fremantle, where we were welcomed by his wife Monika. In view of the jetlag, we went to bed early after a tasty dinner of dew fish. We woke to a hot bright sunny day and drove bikes down through Fremantle to the marina. Though cutting it a little fine, we just about caught a speedy 20minute ferry ride out to Rottnest Island. The island is named after the Dutch for rats’ nest in view of the island’s large population of a strange little marsupial which has kangaroo legs, a wombat’s behind, the face of a koala, and, obviously, the tale of a rat: the quokka.
Rotto, as it’s locally known with affection, has only very limited vehicles on it and cycling appears to be the transport of choice for most visitors. We spent the day riding around the island on our bikes, checking out a variety of incredible sandy beaches, each surrounded with a unique selection of raggedy limestone ledges. We found a lovely little rocky outcrop, scattered with graffiti-carvings of visitors’ names. Here, Matt and I risked the brisk waters, squeezing into wetsuit vests to keep warm, and briefly checking out the underwater life with snorkels. In the evening, we settled into the simple but charming little bungalow which was to be our home for the night. We rested our tired legs on the balcony overlooking the beach, sampling some local beers and watching the sunset. The moment was made all the more magical by a group of passing whales, a mile or so out to sea, their presence betrayed by huge water spurts on the surface of the ocean. Monika then joined us just in time for dinner as she had been hard at work doing an exam that afternoon. After savouring the roast garlic and prawn pasta dish we had made, Matt, Mon and I headed to the local pub for a night cap (Al had sleepily retired to bed at this point, still a little jetlagged and weary from the biking). The route was in places overrun with quokkas, preferring to come out after sunset. A few friendly furry faces even appeared to accompany us on the pub’s terrace as we sipped our pints and stared out at the lights of Perth across the water.
The next morning, we packed up our stuff and cycled to a pristine little beach, appropriately named Little Armstrong Bay. We spent a good few hours there, Matt and I snorkelling some more and Alice exploring the surrounding rocks intrepidly, armed as always with her camera. After lunch of sushi from the local grocery store, we ventured round the rocks to one side of the beach, walking round to find a quite divine little rocky cove and sandy beach. We sat here by the ocean for a good while, enjoying the incredible setting and pondering over the crystal clear water as some colourful crabs and sizeable black lizards poked out from the rocks. And then, all too soon, it was time to take a choppy ferry ride back to the mainland. Back at Matt and Mon’s, we chilled for a while, before some of their friends came round and we jointly cooked up a massive pot of spicy lentil curry. Plans were then afoot to head out into Fremantle for a spot of standup comedy and few drinks. Unfortunately, Al and I were still jetlagged and little worn out from the long day in the sun, so had to had to decline the night’s activities. We curled up on the couch and caught a rerun of Jaws on the telly, both of us falling asleep before the captain Quint is devoured by the plastic shark.
On Sunday, Matt drove us out to King’s Park and it’s panoramic views of Perth. We then met Matt’s friend, conveniently also called Matt, who kindly took us all out on his boat. After a windy and splashy exit from the harbour, we navigated the Swan River to a sheltered spot to enjoy the late afternoon sun along with a couple of cold Coronas. Here, we were visited by a couple of beady-eyed black swans (after which the river is named) and later, a large shoal of jellyfish surrounded the boat. All desperate for a pee, we returned to shore and picked-up some Aussie fish and chips from a local take away. Back at Matt and Mon’s we settled in for a relaxed Sunday evening, entertaining ourselves by hurling abuse at what turned out to be possibly the worse film any of us had seen in a good long while (Something’s Gotta Give…truly awful!). Sad to leave, Matt drove us to the airport the following morning for our flight to Singapore. B.
1 November 2010
On Monday we flew into a humid Singapore where we would stay for three days with Mark and Jo (friends from Sheffield and London). Struggling against the heat with our two-rucksacks-a-piece travelling set up, we cautiously boarded a local bus and after asking the driver to let us know when we’d reached our stop, manhandled our bags into the bus and sat down. Unfortunately the driver neglected to inform us when we’d reached our destination, so we sailed another mile or so down Marine Parade until Ben realised our mistake and we eventually managed to stop the bus. Our travel fatigue was somewhat intensified as we retraced our steps back along the not altogether pedestrian friendly road, and up over a many stepped fly over until we finally made it to Mark and Jo’s chic and very comfortable apartment. After a quick shower to ‘de-clam’ we headed out together to a nearby hawkers centre to devour delicious spring rolls, wonton noodles, noodle soup and beautiful spiced greens washed down with cool mugs of beer. It was lovely to see Mark and Jo again, and although they had very hectic work schedules they made us incredibly welcome and equipped us with a beautiful room, guidebooks, a phone and access to their apartment block swimming pool (which was incredible after days spent pounding the Singapore streets).
On our first full day in Singapore we risked the bus system once more and travelled into the city centre to the river mouth. Here we picked up a bum boat: a revamped version of a traditional Chinese trading vessel, painted with a striking eye design for good luck. Our boat took us on a short tour of the Singapore riverside old and new – the shiny CBD, the trading quays, esplanade and many bars and restaurants. Whilst the recorded commentary veered somewhat into the slick and smug (’and here is yet another place where you might want to share a drink with ex pats and locals!’) the experience was made by the refined composure of the ancient boat captain, who, sitting cross-legged, manoeuvred the boat unhurriedly with one hand whilst sipping tea through a straw with the other. Our lunch stop that day was one in honour of Ben’s first trip to Singapore with his family when he was eleven. At this tender age Ben was still a somewhat selective eater however his family had enjoyed the delights of Singapore cuisine including chilli crab at Newton Market. To recreate this culinary moment (with Ben as a participant this time around) we took the MRT to Newton Circus and ordered chilli crab accompanied by oyster greens and fresh lime juice. The meal was truly delicious, with Ben complemented by the store owner for not only extracting every last bit of crab but also finishing the sea of sweet chilli gravy which surrounded the beast. In the evening we joined Mark and Jo in Little India to take in another side of the city. The area was preparing for Deepavali so walking through it at night we got the best of a glittering light display. The indoor markets in this area also glowed with hanging beads and flowers of golds, reds, pinks and greens. The evening ended with another great meal, this time Indian with highlights of a creamy black lentil dall and spicy mixed vegetable kebabs.
Our final day in Singapore and on many recommendations we headed to the botanical gardens and orchid collection. The gardens were lush and green away from the somewhat hectic city streets, and the orchids appeared like many coloured peacocks exploding in every colour, shape and size (including a quite twisted and menacing looking number apparently bred to commemorate a visit by Margaret Thatcher). Although I took my usual time to photograph many of the flowers I was easily outdone by the gangs of fanatical suited business men, who crouched, jumped and peered in a variety of amusing postures to get their perfect shot. On our last Singapore evening, Ben and I cooked up an olive and basil pasta (a theme appears) with salad for Mark and Jo, shared a lovely evening and prepared to head to Borneo. A.
4 November 2010
A short plane ride with Air Asia took us into Kuching where, enveloped in an even thicker blanket of humidity to Singapore, we shared a teksi, or taxi, to our accommodation at Basaga House Hotel. Once settled into our simple but lovely room in a building by the hotel‘s pool, we set out on foot to the city centre, a surprisingly pedestrian-unfriendly 25minute walk involving leaps over open drains and dashes across busy roads. We headed straight for the Sarawak National Park offices in a stunning building refurbished from the old law courts, a chance to confirm our stay at Bako National Park. After a short wander past the main bazaar and food market, we decided to splash out on a taxi back to Basaga. A little exhausted from the heat, humidity and traffic, we reclined in our room and freshened up in our incredible outdoor shower. We spent the evening on the veranda outside Basaga’s colonial white main house, which sits rather splendidly over a shallow carp-inhabited pool, enjoying the reasonably priced food and a drink.
We set off the following morning back into Kuching city centre, following a slightly more straight forward route in order to avoid the worse of the busy roads and dodgy drains. The Sarawak Museum was our first port of call, a series of buildings incorporating a variety of subjects. Unfortunately, the natural history section on local insects I remembered so vividly from my childhood visit was shut for renovations, but we nevertheless enjoyed the other displays. Seeking a coffee as a mid-morning beverage, we eventually settled on a far more appropriate fresh lime juice from an elegant establishment also occupying the old law courts. Refreshed, we headed for the city’s gloriously muddy Sarawak River and followed the pleasant waterfront promenade which fronts the city. From here, we found a great little Chinese vegetarian restaurant for lunch, as recommended by the Rough Guide, where we enjoyed an extensive and incredibly cheap buffet lunch. The end of the afternoon was spent back at Basaga, enjoying the cool air of our room. In the evening, we again settled for the comfort of the hotel veranda, bustling with locals going for Friday night food and drink.
The next day, we booked a minivan service in the afternoon to take us out to Semmengok Rehabilitation Centre, a 45 minute drive outside Kuching. The park is a sanctuary for 27 orangutans that have been orphaned, injured or illegally kept as pets. Here, they are encouraged to gain independence with the eventual goal to be set free in the wild. We arrived at 3pm, the second designated feeding time of the day (we decided 8am was far too early), in this case also the allotted hour for the heavens to open. Thankfully, our driver lent us an umbrella to keep us sheltered whilst we followed the path through the forest. We arrived to find a dozen or so other visitors eagerly watching a wooden platform 15m away covered with an array of ripe tropical fruit. Almost immediately, the upper branches of surrounding trees began to quiver as the first few orange apes emerged. In turn they approached the platform and greedily gathered up as many bunches of bananas and slices of watermelon as they could hold in their hands, mouths and feet, climbing back up towards the canopy to cheekily devour them. Eventually, some of them begun settling on the platform to feed, displaying the incredible ability to peel bananas with their lips, and somersaulting around playfully. A little while later, the park rangers hushed the visitors down as a large brooding presence was felt on the very same path we had engaged a few moments earlier. The park’s dominant male, Richie, came bruising nonchalantly towards the feeding ground, casually swaying his 140kg as the other younger orangutans fled into the surrounding forest. Like a wizard in a hairy orange cape, Richie commanded the platform for the remaining time, scoffing whatever fruit he could cram into his voluminous pot belly, and gazing back unimpressed at us mesmerised gawking tourists. Eventually, Richie climbed up a tree trunk with admirable elegance, leaving a few cute fuzzy infant apes to sneakily grab at leftovers.
Al and I boarded the minivan, which dropped us back in Kuching by the Saturday night / Sunday morning markets. A little dazed, we wandered past the variety of bustling stalls and onto to find a Southern Indian restaurant called LL Banana Leaf. Here we feasted on a delicious vegetarian thali laid out, rather appropriately, on a banana leaf, accompanied by a dosa. We then headed back to Basaga for a night cap in fear and trepidation of our jungle-based adventures.
Our last morning at Basaga was one of frenzied packing for our trip to Bako National Park. Unfortunately, in researching necessary items for the trip, we stumbled across a series of appalling reviews for the food and accommodation there. A little concerned, we set off for Kuching city centre, craftily leaving one large rucksack filled with belongings not fit for the jungle at trusty Basaga, to be collected upon return. After one last large feeding for lunch, we eventually located the bus heading for the national park, with Alice very stealthily grabbing the last two available seats with extra leg room for our bags. A reassuringly short 45min journey later, we were dropped off at the boat terminal, where we boarded a small motor boat. By luck, we were able to share this with the same German girl with whom we had hired a taxi at Kuching airport a few days earlier. From a jetty complete with crocodile warnings, the boat took us out of the mouth of the Batang Salak River and into the furling waves of the South China Sea. We reached 25 minutes later a wild and sprawling beach where we wadded out awkwardly with our bags, our boat drivers waving us off cheeringly and pointing towards a thick matted clump of trees a few hundred meters away. The sheer wilderness of the place, it’s expanse of wet sand, towering raggedy limestone cliffs and dense jungle was somewhat intimidating…truly a lost world. I was mildly reassured as corrugated iron roofs eventually emerged from the thick foliage as we walked along the vast beach and approached the park office to check into our accommodation. Wielding our room key in my shaky right hand like some kind of primitive weapon, we walked round the side of the sole eatery, the dreaded Keranga Café, then past a shabby enclosure smelling rather potently of manure (we soon discovered this was the home of a family of large-tusked and beady-eyed Bearded Pigs) , onto a boardwalk leading through the forest to the variety of hut-based lodgings to our home for the coming days, the gloriously named Semi Detached Chalet 2 Room 1. We breathed a slight sigh of relief when we discovered our room to be very basic, a little shabby and in drastic need of maintenance (me thinks the last touch of paint may have been at the park’s creation in 1957), but overall functional and, most important of all, well sealed from the encroachment of jungle fauna. After a cold shower, a vague unpack and hanging-up the mosquito net, we set our sights on the Keranga Café for an early evening tipple (we bought a bottle of vodka at the dutyfree on the way to Kuching) and later, to brave dinner. Despite the strange funk exuding from the kitchen, we filled our plates from the available buffet, sticking to the simplest possible dishes for safety. Our stomachs warmed by the vodka and canned lime juice, the grub went down ok, with the stench from the pig enclosure only mildly affecting the experience. We set off back for our room, Alice staring carefully at the ground after hearing about the wealth of poisonous snakes in the park, and tried to settle down for a night’s rest under the protective field of the mosquito net. Unfortunately, we both tossed and turned the night away in our cotton mummies, listening out warily for excessive signs of life above the rickety drone of the fan above our heads and the fizzy cacophony of the forests’ insect population. B.
We woke to a warm, cloudless morning and made our way back to café for breakfast. The funk which surrounded the kitchen was ever present. Manfully we entered the canteen and selected bread (to toast) and an accompaniment of melon slices and fresh orange. The coffee was cloyingly sweet for a savoury toothed individual such as myself (being made with condensed milk) but this proved to be a good choice as it provided ample fuel for the first few kilometres of our walk. We decided to try the Teluk Pandan Besar and Teluk Pandan Kecil trails, together totalling approximately 7km. After a quick potter out on the spectacular beach where we’d arrived, the trail followed a boardwalk over mangrove swamps. Between the spear like roots of the mangroves we caught sight of two large monitor lizards, numerous mud skippers and armies of brightly coloured crabs. Leaving the water behind, the trail climbed steeply through tropical jungle (dipterocarp) where we got a little too close for comfort with marching columns of ants that crisscrossed the path. Higher up the jungle gave way to sparser, shorter forest (kerangas). Here I got pretty excited (in a way that my landscape ecology tutors might have never predicted) over the appearance of elegant pitcher plants. These carnivorous species appeared in multiple forms hugging the ground in dumpy clusters and hanging in vines from other shrubs. In recording my enthusiasm, I limited myself to what I considered the photographic bare minimum as the sun was hot and Ben was losing interest in each new discovery I made. Eventually the trail brought us out onto the top of a dramatic pock marked rock outcrop with views down onto our first beach, Teluk Pandan Besar. The small golden inlet was clothed in deep green jungle, beyond which we glimpsed the sea stack, the ‘poster boy’ of Bako propaganda. A steep ladder lined trail took us down off the rocks onto the beach where we made the most of the shade from a gouged limestone column before continuing onto our second trail. The beach at Teluk Pandan Kecil was no less dramatic although due to near vertical cliffs was inaccessible, bar views from above. Suddenly feeling weary and realising we had not eaten since our meagre breakfast that morning we headed back to camp and our chalet. On route we watched a family of proboscis monkeys hunch over their dinner of plucked leaves and fruits in the branches above. Our timing was perfect, shortly after closing the chalet door the rains began and hammered around us for the remainder of the afternoon. Come early evening stomachs somewhat shrunken yet with no real hunger for the café fare, we dragged ourselves out of our room to inspect the evening buffet. The mix of sour, fried, slightly rancid and pig excrement tinged air that prevailed around the café had now reached a critical level with me. Whilst Ben stoically settled down to his egg fried rice and greens, I found it difficult to do little more than push boiled rice around my plate. My eating experience at the café was then brought to a premature end when looking up I saw a large rat jump off the top of the canned drinks fridge down onto the table where the rice sat and run yet onwards onto the main buffet. I ate no more. Our dinner companion, Anne (with whom we had travelled to Bako) was also having digestive issues and revealed she had brought a camping stove which she kindly offered to us for use the next day. Following this, Ben and I watched as a further number of rats ran across the veranda and into the kitchen. We quickly took Anne up on her offer.
The next morning after downing a further reduced breakfast of sweet coffee and segmented oranges we set off on our second day of walking. This time we opted for the Lintang Trail (5.8km) supplemented by the short Tanjung Sapi Trail (800m). Tanjung Sapi took us steeply up from the National Park HQ beach through humid jungle to a lookout point. From here we glimpsed back up the river to the Kuching mainland and across to the peninsula of Gunung Santubong. After a quick glug from our water bottle and a energy fix from an apple Mentos we clamoured down the track to begin the Lingtang Trail. This walk took us through some exquisite forest with buttress trees, ferns and glossy palms. The humidity was quite overpowering with both our t shirts and trousers drenched in sweat before we’d reached the 2km mark. However our fixation on this was distracted by the epic drilling sound of the jungle cicadas. Like a horror soundtrack for anyone with a fear of dentists, the undulating buzz and then high pitched scream of these unseen insects started to take a toll on our famished nerves around the 4km mark. Luckily we then left the jungle behind to walk the breezy plateau before descending down towards our accommodation. At ‘200m to camp’ the first large drops of rain refreshed us. At the ‘100m to camp’ sign we were drenched. Running the last boardwalk back to our chalet we stripped off our clothes over and hung them out on the terrace in a vague hope they would dry. The rain continued solidly until the early evening once more when it gave way to the most beautiful sunset across the beach. Gold and red merged into violet and then deep blue, silhouetted against which a troop of macaques walked in line searching for shellfish and crabs at the water’s edge. After a chalet dinner of instant noodles and debating the possibility of a night walk (which we declined – neither of us felt up to seeing the local pythons, vipers and spiders before bed) we settled down to watch a Blue Planet on the laptop (many thanks Matt!).
Our last morning at Bako and with some relief we packed up our belongings. However as our boat sped back to the mainland, the view of the shrinking peninsula was as starkly beautiful as any we have seen or might hope to. We returned to Kuching, and feeling in need of a night of comfort we headed to the security of Basaga and our familiar Room Number 9. A.
14 November 2010
Having returned from Bako prematurely, we rapidly came to the conclusion that it would be ridiculous not to enjoy a few more nights at Basaga, with it’s lovely grounds and reasonable rates. Giddy with the thought of staying put, we set off back into Kuching for a spot of shopping. In the Chinatown district, we sampled some authentic Sarawak-grown coffee from a cozy little stall named Black Bean, and with our eyes jittering from the double shots in our iced lattés, we then sought some lunch. From a small stall playing 2 Unlimited and random Euro trance hits, we both ordered a traditional Malay laksa, a dish of vermicelli noodles, bean sprouts, sliced omelette and prawns served in a steaming broth of fermented prawn paste, spices and coconut milk, the whole accompanied by the pleasant hum of black pepper, lime and a chilli sauce (sambal belacan). As now customary, we washed this down with a large mug of fresh lime juice. We then walked back to Basaga in the sweltering heat and cooled ourselves off with a dip in the pool. Once again, we spent the evening lounging on the cushion-strewn couches on the veranda, sipping a G&T (purely for keeping mosquitoes at bay, clearly) and watching geckos cavort on the hotel’s white walls.
Feeling the need to get out of Kuching, we planned a visit to Wind Cave the following day. We set off in the morning for our now daily trudge into the city centre, and located with surprising ease a slightly rickety bus due for Bau, a market town 40km to the South West of Kuching. After an hour’s drive through sprawling urban and industrial landscapes, we eventually reached some jungle, and further on Bau’s bus station. Here we joined a second very rickety bus for a half hour sweaty wait for the driver, surrounded by teenagers in school uniforms smoking cigarettes in a variety of put-on styles and poses. Finally, we set off, a little fresh air thankfully reaching us from the open windows. A short drive later, we were dropped off and walked the short distance to our destination. After checking out the main cave entrance, we quickly realised our little wind-up head torches would not be sufficient to guide us through the kilometre of completely unlit passage ways. Luckily we were able to hire a decent torch from the little Sarawak National Parks kiosk at the entrance. With droplets of water, we presumed, falling on our heads and the musty odour of the cool dank air filling our nostrils, we entered the dark chasm facing us hesitantly, the slippery boardwalk beneath our feet rapidly disappearing into the all-consuming gloom. It took us round a variety of cave passage ways, with some brief viewing platforms allowing us flashing glimpses of fruit bats launching themselves from the ceiling and intriguing rock formations. Eventually, the path rounded a corner and I panicked a little as the light from the cave’s entrance behind us disappeared, with no glow yet apparent from the daylight at the other end of the cave’s passage. Alice marched on cooly as I repeated a comforting mantra of ‘oh my god’ trying to keep a hold of my nerves. Somewhere along this portion of the cave, the dangling fruit bats gave way to a population of small neat insect bats, their little heads looking down at us in confusion as we illuminated them briefly with our torch. Reaching the cave’s exit, we followed the path along the banks of the muddy Sungai Sarawak Kanan (one of the Sarawak River’s two main tributaries), which the photocopied notes we received upon entering the caves claimed made the “perfect place to swim and cool off after visiting the caves”: not a chance! A few hundred metres on we rejoined the cave’s third passage which looped us back round to the start. Beginning to acclimatise to the atmosphere of the cave and the dark, we briefly reentered the main entrance to attempt to capture the space on camera. We then rejoined the main road, miraculously arriving just as a bus drew up. Back in Bau, we were again lucky to immediately board the ricketiest of buses due for Kuching.
No surprise, we spent the evening lounging at Basaga, our new found home from home. Disaster struck a little later, when two thirds of the way through a game of Yahtzee, a dice from one of my throws escaped the confines of the table top, falling through the gaps in the veranda’s wooden floor slats and into the carp pool below. We awkwardly concluded the game with the remaining four dice, with the Yahtzee gods demonstrating their wrath as I finished with quite possibly the worst score ever, 114.
We sadly moved out of Basaga the following morning and into the Grand Continental, a large hotel part of a Malaysian chain we had booked a cheap couple of nights at in view of our original return date from Bako. The hotel’s shabby exterior was not reflected in our very large and comfortable room, albeit with spaceship-like air conditioning and lighting controls inbuilt to the bedside table, and a dated bathroom both remnants from the 70s. Wandering into Kuching a little later, we very randomly bumped into Mark and Jo, who were on a well deserved weekend break from their work schedules in Singapore. After a quick drink, we left them to their planned activities and arranged to meet for dinner. We reconvened later in the afternoon for a pleasant few drinks at a small stylish bar called Havana, and then a Chinese meal at a Life Café, a new restaurant in China town we had seen being refurbished a few days earlier. The setting was atmospheric, with our table placed in a small alleyway lit by small red lanterns, and the overwhelming clatter of a tropical downpour on the corrugated iron roof. Unfortunately, the kitchen was clearly struggling with it’s unexpected popularity. As a result we did not have time for another drink afterwards as Mark and Jo had to head back to their amazing sounding lodge a short drive from Kuching, it was nevertheless lovely to unexpectedly encounter friendly faces so far from home. B.
Our last day in Kuching was a lazy one. We made the most of our corporate accommodation i.e. multiple courses at breakfast, a terrible ‘80’s Sly Stallone trucker movie and long refreshing showers. In the evening seeking carbohydrate comfort and a little bit of home, we headed to a lovely Italian restaurant for a very tasty meal of roast, marinated garlic with hot bread, a fresh vegetable fix (insalata mista with charred oyster mushrooms, courgettes and aubergine) and wood fired pizza (Sicilian). Wandering back along the waterfront we scouted the edge of a local festival. Craning my neck to glimpse the glittering dancers who adorned the stage, an embarrassing moment occurred. The only other westerner in the audience was a tall German guy who stood a short distance in front of us chatting with a local man. The man appeared somewhat confused as pointing back, he gestured to me and repeatedly asked if I was the guy’s girlfriend. This was made more confusing when the German man’s girlfriend did arrive who then appeared to be a rather statuesque blonde lady with long flowing hair. A bit of a strange incident for all concerned!
Monday saw us fly further northeast to the oil industry haven of Miri. Our 48hrs here had the sole function of travel admin, booking our journey into Gunung Mulu national park, our travel onwards by long distance bus to Kota Kinabalu, postage and the obligatory laundry processing. We were glad we lingered no longer in Miri as the city did not have the charm, accessibility or friendliness of Kuching. The pavements were nonexistent (accompanied by the usual open drains) and the complete pedestrian disregard shown by most drivers caused us repeated stress when attempting to cross the many roads. The locals seemed amused by us and on some occasions a little unfriendly. Saying this, our first meal at the Apollo Seafood centre was delicious – a whole steamed red mullet with ginger, soy and spring onion accompanied by boiled rice and garlic bok choi. Our second evening back at Apollo, this time for Hong Kong steamed prawns, pak choi and Szechuan tofu, proved equally as wonderful as the first, definitely the best reason to visit Miri! Returning to the Park Hotel, we made the most of our download collection (Breaking Bad, Blue Planet and Black Books) and awaited the morning and Mulu. A.
We set off on Wednesday to Gunung Mulu national park, a world heritage site famous for it’s huge network of caves, hidden in the depths of the rainforest. Unfortunately, during our 48hrs in Miri we were unable to arrange to travel there by boat, an adventurous 10hr trip which would have involved four separate stages. Despite our best attempts at some pre-emptive research, it transpired that the first of these boats only operated on certain days and did not fit in with our fairly tight schedule. Instead, we had to fall back on an MAS Wings flight in a small propeller plane from Miri to Mulu’s tiny airstrip. Not quite the romantic view I was eagerly anticipating of a languid approach by longboat, it must be said, however the views of the rainforest backed by the towering peaks of Gunung Mulu and Gunung Api from the plane window were incredible. Having arrived at a surprisingly developed little airport, I was glad to see the majority of passengers board a bus to the Royal Mulu resort, a 5 star hotel for those wishing to experience the rainforest in luxury. For a moment we felt a little adventurous as we headed for the national park HQ on a swaying wooden walkway over the river to book into our accommodation. Our room in a small longhouse caught us off guard however, with it’s stylish dark wood floors, smart wicker reading lights and hot shower. Maybe not so intrepid after all!
Upon check in, the day by day itinerary for our stay was roughly scribbled out in pencil on the back of a park map by one of the guides. Our arrival afternoon had the initials FAL next to it, standing, we discovered, for free and lazy. And chilled it was as we unpacked, showered and got dolled-up for the evening in our vast blue ponchos (to protect us from the tropical deluge outside), our head torches and the tantalising spray of toxic DEET-based insect repellent. Looking our best, we headed to the Wild Mulu Café for dinner in the pitch blackness, cringing a little as we recalled the food at Bako. Though the basic set up turned out to be quite similar, the smell was appetising, and all food was clearly cooked to order in an open and bustling kitchen. Not a whiff of pig shit in sight! We ordered dall and roti bread, upon recommendation, and it was very tasty indeed, with lots of aromatic spices and the throat-tingling kick of Sarawak pepper. The outdoor seating area was also lovely, with no shoes allowed, and pleasant atmospheric lighting. Strangely, the soundtrack seemed to vary between country music and some ultimate ballads compilation (trudging through the jungle a few days later with the Celine Dion Titanic song stuck in my head was a little unfair though I thought).
Our first morning and after a cracking breakfast of homemade muesli accompanied by a small plate of tropical fruits from Wild Mulu, we discovered that the all night rain had partially flooded the surrounding area. The park HQ is well prepared for this, with raised boardwalks and all accommodation set on stilts, however it did mean our planned activity was cancelled in view of high water levels in the caves. A frantic reshuffling of bookings resulted in us joining a tour of the park’s canopy walk, a rope and wood-based construction that takes you on a 600m tour through the rainforest trees 30m above ground, sided by soaring limestone cliffs. It was an interesting and actually very calming experience, pottering quietly through the variety of flora and fauna found at these dizzying heights. Everyone’s highlight was undoubtedly the sight of a pair of large rhinoceros hornbills flying off into the distance. Sadly I missed it, gawking stupidly in the wrong direction at the crucial moment. The most obvious wild life around the park though has to be the butterflies, which come in all shapes, colours and sizes, with some reaching the size of small birds.
We were then only too glad to return to the café for lunch, with Al ordering a hefty bowl of veggie laksa, and myself a pile of local greens stir fried with garlic and rice. The afternoon was an opportunity to join the same guide, Roland, for a tour of Lang Cave and the park’s crowning glory, Deer Cave. On the way, he craftily pointed out a variety of insect life lurking alongside the boardwalk, notably a series of different stick insects and very large millipedes. A 4km walk later, we reached Lang Cave, a small passage filled with incredible formations, some of which resembling huge shining jellyfish. From here Deer Cave was a short distance away. The cliffs surrounding the entrance started to suggest a sense of the cave’s vast scale, but it was only on breeching it’s threshold that it’s real size became apparent. It is, for the record, the second largest cave passage in the world (apparently recently overtaken by some place in Vietnam), with a height of 150m and a width of 120. With the heavy rainfall, the cave’s roof leaked with hundreds of columns of water, which in turn glowed in the low afternoon sunlight. Peering up in amazement also divulged mysterious dark patches on the ceiling, as if a black hole had sucked all light and matter away leaving a sinister void. A rising high pitched shrill revealed these were the vast colonies of bats which inhabit Deer Cave, almost 3 million of them in total. We followed the darkening boardwalk and glanced back at the variety of dazzling views as light and rock interacted. From the cave’s iconic “Abraham Lincoln” profile, to contorted rock formations which could possibly have emerged from the twisted mind of some malicious gothic architect. We eventually climbed a dark stairwell up the infamous guano mountain, as featured in Planet Earth, crawling with a variety of creeping invertebrates feeding off the ammonia-rich bat dung. From here, we glanced longingly onto Deer Cave’s exit, where a secluded and impossibly green valley called the Garden of Eden has sprouted as a result of a collapse of the passage thousands of years ago. Retracing our steps, we realised the notorious Bat Exodus had begun, an almost daily ritual by which the winged mammals leave Deer Cave in huge hordes at dusk to spend the night feeding on insects. Hurrying to the cave’s mouth, we were rewarded with an incredible sight. Waves of bats thousands strong were massing into swirling clouds, each individual shimmering in the evening light against the gloom of the cave. A bat hawk, as we were told they are known locally, dove into one group, perhaps grabbing it’s dinner. We rushed onto the bat observatory, actually a glorified series of benches, to crank our necks up at the sky as innumerable bats flew out and smaller groups of swiftlets reentered the safety of the cave for the night. Almost an hour later, our necks a little sore, we wandered back through the rainforest towards park HQ as dusk fell. The jungle seemed to come to life, as the surrounding squawking, clicking and buzzing of wildlife intensified. By the time we concluded our walk, it was fully dark, and our crappy windup torches seemed a dull comparison for the fireflies’ luminescent trails. A little encroached by the night‘s various inhabitants, I was only too glad to reach our longhouse room to freshen up and head back to Wild Mulu for another great meal. B.
Waking to a sunny morning, and after a delicious breakfast of pancakes and fresh fruit, we moseyed over to the park office to enquire after our activity options for the day. We were told that the water level in the rivers and caves had now dropped so we would be able to join the Garden of Eden and Valley walk (cancelled from the previous day), marked down in the park offices records as ‘adventure caving’. Our group comprised ourselves and five other very friendly English people led by two Penang guides Eugene and Eric. We collected our tasty lunches of vegetable egg fried rice, water and local bananas from the café (belying all statistics our group was 100% vegetarian). Retracing our steps back along the 4km boardwalk through the jungle we reached the bat observatory and entrance to Deer Cave. The high, bright light of the morning sun dramatically altered the character of the cave, removing some of its mysticism (captured by the soft, golden light of the previous evening). In its place the awe inspiring scale and cut faces of the chasm walls were accentuated, giving the experience an ominous grandeur. Moving deeper into the cave the smell of bat guano was intensely acrid as we trooped pass the first large mountain of excrement. We left the boardwalk quite suddenly to follow Eugene down to the river, running deep at the base of the cave. Here Ben and I discovered a major flaw in our preparation. Our wind up head torches, purchased with such an occasion in mind proved poor to completely ineffective. To obtain any decent beam of light they required continuous winding (removed from the head) whilst attempting to scale large algae and guano covered boulders, repeatedly traverse the fast flowing river and squeeze through small dark spaces. Our guides pushed on at quite a pace, however the trek from the depths of the cave out towards the emerald lit Garden of Eden took considerable time and mental energy, all accompanied by the fishing reel motions and acoustics of incessant torch winding. Reaching the Garden of Eden glittering diamond droplets fell from the curved roof, curtaining vivid palms and other lush tropical jewels. After a couple of minutes to catch our breath we tramped further up river, by now completely oblivious to our soaked and filthy clothing. Climbing up a river bank Eric warned us about the presence of leeches on the route ahead. Both guides were dressed similarly in T Shirts, cycling shorts, plastic bowling shoes (which did not absorb water) and white socks pulled up high. Though at first a seemingly strange combination, it became quickly apparent that their choice of outfits was ideally suited to the environment. Climbing through the jungle they were able to easily spot any leeches that became attached and flick them away in an unconcerned manner. The rest of us were not so calm as our hi-tech, high price walking boots were now squelching, heavy and water logged (bar Ben who had sensibly opted for the bowling shoes), and our zip off multi-pocketed walking trousers gave the little blood sucking critters the perfect landscape in which to hide. Sweaty but prematurely relieved that we had seemingly escaped a leech attack we began our descent through the jungle to a waterfall for lunch. I felt a sudden sharp jab to my thigh and rolling up my trouser leg was rewarded to see a leech squirming into the flesh above my knee. After a couple of moments of static shock and disgust I managed to break off a twig and send the offender flying into the nearby foliage. Ben however had yet to be attacked. The waterfall spot, selected by the guides for lunch, was cooling and seemingly critter free, so we settled in and spooned down our rice and fried egg whilst watching the guides somersault and dive into the nearby pools. Just before leaving I noticed Ben had a somewhat large pink-red stain on the leg of his trousers, not recalling having eaten anything of this colour I suggested Ben unzip at the knee to inspect. He was greeted by the sight of bloody leg and happy leech with another about to join the feast in the hem of his trousers, a third worm-like specimen had also located itself in Ben‘s shoe. A little fraught communication later, Ben was once more leech free and we set off on the return trek. Now mid afternoon the light had begun to fade a little and the first drops of rain fell as we re-entered the cave. Ben felt another spike of pain at this point and quickly found his fourth leech of the day settling in on his stomach. This was however a small issue compared with the fate of a fellow walker/caver in the group ahead of us, who letting out a shrill yell, slipped, fell and cracked his head off a smooth hard boulder. All guides from both tours attended his first aid and after 20 or so minutes he was able to continue, accessorised by a large somewhat bloody bandage. Taking the way back a little slower than the outward journey, and without injury, our group reached Deer Cave entrance, from where Ben and I peeled off back to park HQ. Returning tired, wet and very grubby to our longhouse, I suggested to Ben we strip off our clothes on the deck to allow them to dry outside. At this point Ben discovered a further two leeches on his trousers and squeezing out off his soaked T Shirt revealed bloody lower back and another very fat leech, this brought Ben’s total number of leeches to seven, by far the highest of our group! Our last tasty meal at the café washed down with Tiger Beer was accompanied by a dramatic tropical thunder storm which lit up the jungle in front of us, but kindly omitted to soak us to the skin. In the morning we caught the return flight to Miri leaving the beautiful cloud forest behind. A.
28 November 2010
We had decided a long while back to book a brief stint of proper luxury at some point in our travels, and the Miri Marriot was to be the venue of choice. After the leech fest that was the Garden of Eden, it felt only too apt to enjoy some 5 star comfort. The following three nights were spent principally luxuriating in our room and swimming in the ridiculous and mostly unused pool. The advance deal we had booked included a variety of drink and food vouchers, and setting our minds as to how best make use of these to avoid incurring any additional costs became our focus. It transpired we could extend breakfast for about an hour, returning to the lavish buffet repeatedly and eventually snaffling a few bites to stash away in our minibar fridge for later consumption. Mid afternoon we would order a fresh fruit smoothie whilst sat round the pool (= 1 daily soft drink voucher), which with the complementary bowl of peanuts made up a relatively nutritious lunch of sorts. Around 6pm, or the beginning of happy hour, we would head back to the pool bar for aperitifs to a backdrop of the South China Sea at sunset (= 1 50 Ringit food/drink voucher). From here, we would conspicuously cross the road in front of the hotel, our borrowed Marriot umbrella in tow, to a local seafood restaurant. The food, whilst not quite on a par with Apollo Seafood Centre, was memorable and incredible value. We would then return to the posh main Marriot bar for a night cap (= 1 alcoholic drink voucher) and finally head to our room to catch some trashy Discovery Channel survival program.
Well rested, we set off three days later to Miri’s Pujut Corner interchange to board our Borneo Express bus due for Kota Kinabalu. Lounging in the comfortable seats, we watched Sarawak, Brunei and Sabah crawl past for the next 10hrs, occasionally glancing over to the bus’ TV screen for a glimpse of whatever film was playing. It was interesting to absorb the variety of wood and corrugated iron roof abodes in the Malaysian parts, from simple shacks to more traditional looking long houses on stilts. In Brunei, the oil derived wealth was apparent, with smoother roads and sizeable crisp villas the norm. The entertainment was broken up by music by an Iban popstar of sorts. After hearing his album in it’s entirety at considerable volume, we were later treated to the DVD version, and a little further on the musical karaoke alternative, and so on ad nauseum. The principal attraction of the journey had to be the incessant immigration stops, ten in total. Each border saw the whole bus disembark, queue for customs, and then board again as we left Sarawak, entered Brunei, left Brunei, entered Sarawak, left Sarawak, entered Brunei, left Brunei, entered Sarawak, left Sarawak and finally entered Sabah!
We drew into Kota Kinabalu’s city centre in the evening and walked a ridiculous and round about route to our Cititel Express hotel, a little dazed by the long journey. Upon check in, a moment of stress ensued during which the receptionist insisted we provided a print out of our confirmation, claiming our reference number and passports were not enough. After frantically paying for immediate wi-fi access and whipping out our netbook, he suddenly and rather annoyingly seemed uninterested in it and proceeded with our check-in irrespective. We rapidly calmed ourselves when we discovered a minute but rather neatly laid out room and bathroom. From here, we once again risked our lives crossing a speeding dual carriage way, this time to visit a South Indian restaurant called Jothy’s Banana Leaf for a cracking veggie spread and roti bread. B
We spent the next morning battling crowds and piped RnB in confusing shopping centres in order to purchase head torches and snacks for our Kinabalu climb. Seeking refuge we returned to Jothy’s for lunch and once refreshed by another delicious meal accompanied by sumptuous lassies (mine was salt and Ben’s fresh mango) we were picked by mini bus and transported to our next accommodation closer to the mountain. Tuaran Beach Resort was upmarket and comfortable if a little outdated. Patronised by Saga tour packages there was a big emphasis on providing Western-style comfort, typified by the choice of food (pizza, pasta and steaks) and music (covers of ‘80s ballads sung by a local band). At 8am the next morning we drove the winding Snake Road up to Kinabalu National Park HQ. Here we were met by our chirpy guide Duhisin and provided with permits and a somewhat dubious packed lunch (white bread Dairylee slice sandwiches with the crusts cut off, a bright green and brown sponge cake and two hard boiled eggs). The climb began at around 1800m, quite an altitude, and was accompanied from the start by a persistent downpour. Our first 3km took us through lush jungle vegetation populated by many varieties of pitcher plants and orchids. At the time I was somewhat oblivious to this as quickly it became more strenuous to breathe as we pushed on up the mountain trail steps and slopes. To my envy, Ben and Duhisin bounded up the mountainside in front of me, as both were aided by impressive calves. Duhisin in particular was incredibly light on his feet with over 500 Kinabalu climbs and descents under his belt. However both of my companions’ efforts were easily eclipsed by that of the mountain porters. Often in their teens the porters carried huge and sometimes fragile loads of food and supplies to Laban Ratan, the halfway point accommodation and café. Once a day the porters would run up the trail to a height of 3262.5km, deliver their goods and then jog back down. The scale of this incredible daily effort was only to become truly apparent in the days of pain which followed our own climb, when our legs crippled with aching muscles stubbornly refused to transport us without much moaning and groaning a mere step from pavement to road. Whilst it could be said that we did not eagerly anticipate our lunch, the break to breathe and gulp down water shortly after the 4km mark (approximately 2800m altitude) was heaven to me. Itching to reach Laban Ratan at a reasonable time before the light started to go, Duhisin pushed us on climbing out of the forest into sparser, shorter and more gnarled vegetation. Here, rhododendrons flourished, their flowers breaking the monotony dark green pebble leaves with explosions of apricot. Sour raspberries also lined the trail, however after a tasting recommended by our guide I stuck to my store of apple sweets. Eventually we reached Laban Ratan to relief all around, only slightly tempered by Duhisin’s announcement that the hut in which our dorm was located, Gunting Lagadan, was a further 100m climb. Deciding we did not have the energy at over 3000m to repeat this any more times than necessary, we stayed at the café, ate a simple dinner from the buffet selection then hauled ourselves in the already descending dark to our dorm. The dorm was four bunk beds and basic with no hot water or heating, however bundled in multiple layers we managed a couple of hours sleep before awaking at 1.30am. After a cup of coffee and a slice or two of bread with honey, we set off at 2.45am on our final ascent to the mountain summit. Climbing a 4095.2m mountain in the black of night is a truly surreal and wonderful experience. It was almost full moon and the night sky was pierced with a shimmer of stars, some of which would occasionally shoot silver arcs in front of us. Guided by our head torches we could make out a metre or so of rock face around us, whilst ahead and behind a twinkling firefly trail of climbers slowly advanced to the summit. Beyond the sphere of torch light the mountain form was erased by the darkness, somehow aiding our ascent as our climb proceeded step by very small step. As the rock face became steeper and the air ever thinner, heavy ropes attached in sections assisted our climb. At South Peak (around 3900m) a lightening of the sky became visible with the threat of dawn before reaching the summit now a real possibility. However, this was not an option for us! We pushed ever onward with Duhisin on hand to encourage and advise. He took this fatherly duty seriously and included in his charge not only us, but many other waifs and strays in the caravan of climbers who panted and gasped their way onward. Taking ever smaller steps and ever more frequent rests (as our lungs were pretty much pancakes at this point) we reached the summit in perfect time to see a red-gold ball of sun break over the craggy peak. After taking the obligatory posed photos in which I was very reluctant to partake and Duhisin was very eager to capture, we began our descent. The softness of early morning light (it was about 6am at this point) smoothed the hard granite mountain and illuminated pink and white trails of candyfloss clouds over the blue valley below. Every moment was photograph-worthy and breathtaking, and the magnitude of standing on this sloping ceiling of the world as the earth stirred below us, resulted in halted progress in our descent. Duhisin gently prodded us onward and downward towards breakfast, knowing that we still had 4hrs of descent to complete after reaching Laban Ratan. At 9am, after more coffee, pancakes and fresh fruit, our griping leg aches began to kick in as we hauled on our rucksacks for the 6.5km slog down to the national park HQ. Whilst I was slightly more chipper than on some stages going up, Ben began to resent the wet, muddy trek at an earlier stage. Passing some eager and some already knackered climbers on their way up, our progress down was painfully slow. The steps which we had traversed with relatively little thought on the way up, became hurdles of torture on our descent. Sporting a sideways crab shuffle (in which we were not alone) we passed 0.5km marker after 0.5km marker, as the downpour intensified and the trail became more waterlogged. Hearing from Duhisin that transport back to our accommodation would be waiting for us from 12.30pm, we threw ourselves into our awkward descent. Reaching our pick point on time, after a hideous climb back up nearly 100 steps at the trail’s start, our elation was somewhat crushed when our guide informed us that our transport had had problems and we would now face a two hour wait in our cold, wet clothes. A number of seemingly fruitless phone calls later, we resigned ourselves to sit out the wait, dripping onto plastic chairs in a nearby café. Luckily, after just one hour instead of the predicted two our minibus arrived. Shivering through a further air-conditioned hour in the mini bus, we arrived back at our hotel. A short time later, showered and with a gin and tonic in hand, the incredible nature of the climb began to take on it’s true impact. An experience maybe not to be repeated, but definitely cherished. A.
We awoke to absurdly stiff and painful muscles; our calves, knees, thighs and, strangely, abdominals complaining at our every move. Crippled, we limped up and down the stairs to breakfast, and a little later to our transfer to KK’s gleaming airport. From here we flew to Tawau, to the south of Sabah. The town was once renowned for it’s cocoa, but is now surrounded by sprawling palm oil plantations, unfortunate ecological deserts compared to the rainforest they replace. After nervously making our way from Tawau’s bus station to our hotel in the dark, past dying rats and other delights, we ate dinner across the road. We rose to discover that the window in our room was in fact a sham, allowing not a hint of sunlight with it’s rather glorious view of a nearby concrete wall. We paid little heed to this knowing we would soon be heading for Mabul, an island in the Celebes Sea, to the south east of Sabah, famed for it’s aquatic life and proximity to Sipadan, allegedly one of the world’s top dive sites. Our journey there started with a pleasant but cramped minivan ride through the now ubiquitous fields of palms to Semporna, a town placed on the map only due to it’s unavoidable use as stepping stone to the nearby islands. In the drizzling rain, and without a map, we somehow located the alternative bus station to purchase tickets back to KK after our stint in the Celebes Sea. From here found the town’s waterfront for our boat transfer to our destination. Passing a variety of water-based villages and their unsightly floating garbage patches, presumably formed by ocean currents, an hour and a bit later we reached the tiny island. Mabul is a strange place indeed; part paradise, part shanty town. Probably no more than a couple hundred metres wide, it is inhabited by some Malaysians, but also immigrant families from the Philippines who live there with no official status, attracted by the island’s underground fresh water source. Others, which some locals describe as sea gypsies, live off their tiny wooden boats, mooring them at low tide in the day to perform a variety of daily chores before heading back to deeper waters. We were to stay at a cute and slightly rickety homestay, booked through sipadan.com, which like most structures there is built on wooden stilts over the water. The place had a charming simplicity about it, with rooms no more than four walls with crude beds in, and the showers a simple tap, bucket and pail. We spent the afternoon walking round the island, quite surreally passing through it’s different zones, from the most exquisite and expensive of floating resorts (with their obligatory guarded sentinel posts), to backpacker dive shops and finally the haphazard shacks and friendly bustle of the fishing village. We were surprised by the intensity of activity on Mabul and the manner in which these opposing worlds appeared to coexist smoothly.
We spent four nights on Mabul, and to be honest it’s hard to differentiate one day from the next. The day starts here at 6am, when the electricity supply from the generator is switched off. The fans stop in the rooms and sleeping becomes impossible as the clatter of activity begins. After a breakfast of pancakes, jam, coffee, and, with some luck, eggs and baked beans, we could choose to join any of the three daily dive boats for a spot of snorkelling. With lunch and dinner consisting principally of rice and cabbage, sometimes supplemented by some Spanish omelette, we found our energy levels quite low; a fact probably enhanced by the searing heat of the sun and the overwhelming relaxed vibe of the place. As a result one snorkelling trip a day seemed sufficient. We visited some incredible sites, with the reef drop off closest to us, know as Sting Ray City, the definite highlight. On our hour long snorkel here, Al and I were swimming alone following the reef’s edge, feasting our eyes on the myriad of iridescent fish, large and small, who inhabit the area. On a couple of occasions, a large turtle appeared as if by magic from the deep milky blue, cruising past us sedately. Both times we were able to swim along for a while, the animals seemingly undisturbed by the two plastic-finned aliens pursuing it. We also snorkelled by one of the posher resort’s jetty, a shallower site which granted us glimpses of eels, lion fish, needle fish, parrot fish, and a whole other variety of unknown but spectacular aquatic life. On our final day, the venue of choice was Kapalai, a sand bar a few miles from Mabul, onto which a luxurious stilted resort has been built. Despite being bothered by the inoffensive but unpleasant sting of small jellies, we were again able to swim amongst an incredible array of marine life. The vast shoals of tiny shining blue fish being my favourite here, as I gazed at Alice swimming through them, causing them to shimmer away in response. Though fully satisfied with our snorkelling adventures, we felt it would ridiculous not to try diving. After a brief bit of theory, we set off for our DSD, or discover scuba diving, with our dive master Tomo and his reassuring Durham accent. Once in the water, Alice found the notion of breathing underwater very strange and preferred to spend the following hour snorkelling. Though a little on edge, I managed to demonstrate the four basic skills required, followed by a dive down to a depth of seven or so metres. I trailed Tomo round the reef a little awkwardly for a while, attempting to take in the sights but really just focusing on breathing and staying calm. I was relieved to rise to the surface, shed the equipment and swim off to find Al for a brief snorkel before heading back to shore. The afternoons at our homestay saw most guests reading quietly on the jetty, slowly moving their chairs further and further back to avoid the glare of the descending sun. The buzz of activity round our homestay would begin to fade, with a welcome stillness enveloping the place. The evenings were magical, watching the sun set over the sea and spying the shoals of fish gathering underneath us, along with the occasional turtle, attracted by the terrace’s only lightbulb. Our fellow guests kept us entertained, notably Dora, a lovely vegetarian South Korean lady with anarchist tendencies. The second night saw the two resident Fins, Oscar and Villa, turn up with bottles of cheap Philipino rum they’d somehow found in the village. Mixed with some Coke, it proved a trigger for a strange political debate led by the square-shouldered Oscar and his controversial statements. The nights invariably finished early, the 6am start, sun and water taking their effect. We would retreat back to our simplistic rooms for clammy night’s sleep.
We left Mabul by boat for Semporna and enjoyed the ride very much, watching the afternoon sun illuminate the stilted water villages and the strange criss-cross pattern of their fishing nets made with empty water bottle floats. With a room at Semporna’s top hotel, the functional but insalubrious Seafest Inn, we spent a contemplative evening reminiscing about our time on the strange little world that is Mabul. So serine and beautiful yet spinning out of control with the pressures of population and tourism. In the morning, we joined our Dyana Express First Class Luxury Executive Coach due for KK. It seemed the extravagant name was based on the complimentary water bottle for each passenger and little else. The 10hr journey was filled with more violent movies and continual expanses of palm plantations’ bizarre cross hatched canopy. In fact, it was more than half way into our journey before we caught any convincing sight of rainforest. We were also a little perturbed by the drivers’ rubbish policy, ie. All detritus is dropped on the floor, which is then swept out of the bus and onto the ground at any stopping point. The drive took us past Mt Kinabalu National Park and its looming cloud covered peak, a reminder that, quite incredibly, a week on our from our gruelling climb and our legs were still sore. Eventually arriving in KK on a drizzling evening, we immediately set our sights on Jothy’s Banana leaf for dinner. We even convinced them to fill out Tupperwares for our lunch the following day, and they were so generous we made the food stretch to include breakfast too. Feeling our time in Borneo was coming to a timely end, we left to KK’s second terminal for a cattle-truck style flight to KL and from there onto New Delhi. B
5 December 2010
Our taxi ride from Indra Ghandi International airport was our first glimpse of Delhi, and indeed India. We were not disappointed as we hurtled along, narrowly avoiding motorised rickshaws, surrounded by a flood of horns. Arriving in Friends’ Colony West a little while later, our taxi driver located with some difficulty the Mani household, family home of Raghav, an old friend from school. We were welcomed by his sister Pritha and shown round the exquisite house, with its luxurious wooden finishes, marble staircase and elegant décor. Still awestruck by the property, we were presented a lavish Indian vegetarian feast by the cook Laxmi which rapidly washed away the unpleasant aftertaste left by our Air Asia inflight meals. We slept well that night, with the comfort of our bed mingling strangely with the sounds of car horns, train whistles and the local night club.
In the morning, Raghav had organised a tour of Delhi for us in a large SUV. As we were a little daunted by the city, this turned out to be the best possible introduction, easing us in gently. Our guide, who asked us to call her Angel, took us round some of Delhi’s premier attractions, including the Jama Masjid Mosque, the Lakshmi Narayan Hindu temple, the Qutab Minar and Humayun’s Tomb. Personally, I enjoyed absorbing the colourful array of everyday Delhi moments as we drove around the most. Entire families riding a single scooter, with wife sitting elegantly side saddle in a colourful sari, children squeezed in the middle. Groups of men squatting round small fires making chai by the side of the road. A cow sitting calmly amidst a busy dual carriage way. Men wearing shiny mohair v-neck vests on rickety bicycles carrying loads of unbelievable sizes. Birds of prey circling the city sky. Pigs rummaging around piles of rubbish. Men washing on the pavement under taps. A lavishly decorated elephant, presumably on its way to a wedding ceremony. Men peeing anywhere and everywhere. The light in Delhi struck me as particularly beautiful, drowning this vivid tableau of humanity in a bright yet soft and hazy glow, somehow mellowing the madness.
The next day was proclaimed ‘day of rest‘. I had caught a cold on the flight over and we both a little weary from our busy last week in Borneo. We spent some of the morning chatting to Raghav’s wife Diana and the afternoon relaxing in our spacious bedroom and reading our books. The slight nip in the air gave us a cosy feeling, a particular novelty for us after Borneo’s enveloping humidity. In the evening, we ordered some curries from a nearby restaurant and enjoyed them with some surprisingly fine Indian wines. Tuesday morning, I partook in the weekly ashtanga yoga session in the garden, led by a to-the-point Indian man. Though familiar with many elements of the routine, I was nevertheless taken aback by the speedy succession of postures and breathing exercises, my blocked nose making the latter rather tricky. Once I had recovered, we were driven to the National Gallery of Modern Art for the new Anish Kapoor exhibition and a brief chill in the museum’s grounds. We returned to Friends’ Colony just in time to be collected by Marina, a good friend of my parents, now living in Delhi with her husband Charlie. Set in Triveni Gardens, their house sits a little outside the city centre in Merhauli but feels a world away, surrounded by greenery and a large garden including an inviting pool. After meeting their slightly ailing teenage son Ant and the cuddly family dog Tara, we sipped a cup of tea in the tranquil garden and caught up. In the evening, the cook Parmeshwan, known with affection as Parmesan, cooked up a delicious Indian spread.
Over the following days, Marina proved the perfect host and a knowledgeable guide. We joined an expat group for lunch in the delightful grounds of the Sanskriti art foundation, surrounded by traditional terracotta representations of crazy-eyed horses. Marina showed us round the Hauz Khas area, typical of Delhi with its Moghul era archaeological park and soupy green lake, juxtaposed with a slick and vibrant little shopping area. Our senses were overloaded by a walk through the flower market, a short stretch of road littered with composting petals and lined with dozens of colourful stores selling all manner of floral displays for the wedding season.
On our final morning, we walked round Lodi gardens, a chance to witness locals running, walking or partaking in yoga sessions, whilst young couples courted stealthily on benches hidden behind ancient Moghul tombs. We then made our way to New Delhi Station for a tour led by a rather charismatic group of rehabilitated street children. They told us their incredible stories, showing us round the back streets they used to inhabit and a variety of facilities run by the Salaam Baalak Trust. This charitable organisation provides shelters and contact points for the thousands of children, some as young as three, who live in and around the station. We were shown a class room of at a boys’ shelter where they eagerly greeted us. It was an emotional experience, at once distressing and warming. The trust clearly does an incredible job, with many of the children leaving to join successful professional careers of all sorts.
Armed with a bottle of water and a pack of biscuits, Marina then left us to take a cycle rickshaw ride round the maze of alleyways and markets that make up Old Delhi. We surrendered all our trust in our driver Gabar as he demonstrated his incredible skills. He towed us at speed through the constricted lanes, narrowly navigating round pedestrians, scooters and, at times, oncoming traffic. He would cheekily turn to us and grin proudly as he built up speed, hollering warnings to pedestrians in his high pitched voice. Our ears ringing from the sound of horns, he dropped us off at the Chandni Chowk metro a couple of hours later for us to negotiate our way back to Marina and Charlie’s. When a south-bound and jam-packed train reached our platform, Alice and I ran into the front carriage in the hope it would be less full. I narrowly missed the closing doors and looked up to find we had accidentally entered an all-female coach, a previously unknown innovation by Delhi metro. Watched by some disapproving glares, I left Alice and rapidly navigated to the end of the carriage to stand sheepishly amidst a crowd of men. Arriving at Chattarpur station a while later, we found a tuk-tuk to take us back to the haven that is Triveni Gardens. B
On reflection, Delhi is a city of the most incredible contrasts testing your ability to respond and adapt with every street crossed and every encounter made. Amazing walled wealth sits up against primitive poverty. The quiet calm of Delhi’s elegant green parks and majestic history are encroached by the desperate need of its current citizens for shelter and space. Mogul monuments and modern motorway bridges are inhabitated by those with no where else to go and no option of safety or permanence. Traffic lights provide opportunity for opposing worlds to collide through air conditioned glass as tattered five year olds plead for money and sweets before the traffic surges on and they scurry back to the kerb to review their successes. The most beautiful dressed women of our journey in peacock coloured saris, immaculate in the dust, carry huge dirty bundles on their heads whilst men look on chewing and spitting. There is a kaleidoscope of stimulation wherever you turn; sizzling pooris are swept from deep pans of oil, delicate fingers construct flowing fireworks of marigolds and roses, dogs run in eager tail-wagging packs between hills of seemingly abandoned bricks and the air is never still from piercing accent of horns. For me Delhi is not a place to love unconditionally but to think about intensively. This is a place that thrives on inequality, with some gulfs widening as ever separate cities and separate lives are built behind guarded boundaries. A
18 December 2010
Our journey to Darjeeling was a chance for us to leave the relative security of our stay in Delhi for a taste of spicy Indian adventure. We booked an overnight train destined for New Jalpaiguri, 1471km or 20hours away, in West Bengal between Sikkim, Nepal and Bangladesh. At New Delhi station we located, with some difficulty, the indecipherable chart detailing our exact carriage and compartment number. When the train drew into the platform we then located, with further difficulty, our cabin. First class was our choice, thinking it might help ease us into the trip. Despite the very reasonable ticket price it exceeded all expectations, with a spacious compartment along with smiling attendants who welcomed us with a gift of a small rose. The food was for the most part very palatable, although the sheer quantity of it a little overwhelming. We rapidly took to requesting only one meal between us in an attempt to ease the incessant flow of tray-based fodder, somewhat confusing the steward in the process. Otherwise, we mainly read, looking up regularly to absorb the fleeting scenes of rural India flashing by. It struck us that though on the whole very impoverished, life in the countryside appeared more serene than the frenetic streets of Delhi. Some words from Paul Theroux‘s African travel book Dark Star Safari echoed as I read them: “The urban shanty town, without foliage, cold in the winter, sweltering in the summer, very dirty, lying athwart a main highway; what was worse? Rural poverty at least had the virtue of gardens and animals and the traditional house of reliable mud and thatch. Rural poverty had its pieties, too, as well as customs and courtesies.”
After a night’s sleep somewhat disturbed by the train’s erratic creaks and shudders, we awoke to a landscape seemingly unchanged. However, quite suddenly the craggy white peaks of the Himalayas emerged magically from the misty horizon at a height that defied all expectation. A few hours behind schedule, we arrived into New Jalpaiguri station and negotiated a taxi to its sister city Siliguri and our chosen accommodation. A necessary stopover in an otherwise unappealing spot, we kept to our quirky hotel and caught up on blog writing. We ate dinner in the hotel’s bizarre vegetarian restaurant, where we overlooked the shambolic service only after our waiter kindly offered to run out and find a couple of Kingfisher beers for us. After spending much of the night impressing Al with my mosquito killing technique, we woke early to possibly the least nutritious breakfast of our travels so far: instant coffee and a glass of Fanta, the latter masquerading as fresh juice. Narrowly avoiding a couple of rip-off attempts upon check-out, we made our way back to the train station, eagerly awaiting our ride in the infamous century-old toy train up to Darjeeling. Frantically, we rushed about the station seeking the said train. With no trace of it, we discovered upon scrambling our way to the front of the information kiosk that we had reserved seats on a service that had been cancelled many months ago! (We later found out this was due to a landslide on the tracks.)
The station lobby was thankfully rife with hawkers keenly luring travellers into jeeps due for the mountains. We located one and spent a little while negotiating seating arrangements with our driver and fellow passengers. The road to Darjeeling is notoriously windy and due to strikes in Kurseong, we were informed the usual 2 hour drive on the good road would now be replaced with a gruelling 5 hours on the bad road. Having graphically outlined Al’s travel sickness, we secured a forward facing seat for her. Meanwhile I was sandwiched into the boot on a nausea-inducing sideways bench. Setting off however we were soon distracted by the bouncy road surface, unfolding scenery and amiable travelling companions. We climbed rapidly up steep valleys, passing tea plantations and colourful little villages, eventually commanding incredible views towards towering Himalayan peaks and soaring ridges. Marauding monkeys lined the road, defying traffic to collect disguarded food scraps off the bludgeoned tarmac. A million car honks later, we reached sunny Darjeeling and located the cosy confines of Hotel Dekeling, a friendly and well reputed Tibetan-run lodge.
Surrounded by deep green forests and tea plantations, Darjeeling is perched precariously on a steep West-facing ridge in the Himalayan foothills, well over 2000m above sea level. The population is a mixture of people of Nepalese, Tibetan and Indian ethnicity. To Alice and I, it felt a world apart from the frenzy of Delhi, or even Siliguri. The life there hums with a lovely festive atmosphere, as the locals keenly celebrate Buddhist, Hindu and Christian festivals irrespective of their religious inclinations. The pedestrian Nerhu Rd is the town’s principal thoroughfare, lined with colourful little stalls manned by knitting women selling their homemade wares. The street ends in Chowrasta, a lively town square where, dressed in their best North Face gear (some authentic, some fake), the locals come to drink chai and people-watch. Walking round at night is much like meandering through a music festival as the dark lanes buzz with the ambience of rickety stalls and small restaurants, the back streets navigable only with the aid of a torch.
On our first three days there, we spent a lot of time wandering these pleasant streets a little aimlessly, soaking up the relaxed vibe, stunning Himalaya vistas and bright sunshine whilst casually doing a spot of Christmas shopping. We spent a fair amount of time in our homely wood-panelled attic bedroom at Hotel Dekeling with it’s incredible views of the Khangchendzonga Range, the zenith of which is the world’s third highest peak at 8598m. The mountain was to become a constant presence, looming over us majestically at all times as sunlight gracefully danced over its rocky facets.
A small Tibetan restaurant down the road from us became a favourite with its wholesome vegetable soups and hearty momos, rice flour dumplings served steamed or fried with a potent fresh chilli sauce. We also discovered Sonam’s Kitchen, little more than a whole in the wall with a minuscule kitchen and enough room for about eight diners. A rare source of real coffee (as opposed to the ubiquitous tea or Nescafe served elsewhere), its eye-jittering brews fuelled us regularly. Sonam’s only served dinner on a pre-ordered basis, so we would place our requests with our mid-morning coffee. We would return at 6.30pm to squeeze in next to fellow travellers bundled up in our down jackets and woolly hats for a plate of pasta with homemade tomato sauce and local greens. B
Unknowingly we’d arrived in Darjeeling at a time of some political unrest. Painted slogans announcing ‘Gorkhaland’ were daubed across most walls and shop frontages. As we were later to discover from our trekking guide, the local population – comprising Darjeeling, Siliguri, the strung settlements in between, and north to Sikkim – was on the verge of a vote for independence (to take place on December 20th). Seeking to be recognised as a separate state from West Bengal, with a noticeable different identity and mix of cultures, Gorkhaland’s fate was imminent and it‘s peoples’ show of strength and solidarity highly evident. Unfortunately the upshot of this was a weekly pattern of heavy strikes cutting back transport services and closing banks and post offices for 5 days a week. This affected us in a number of ways: greatly inflating the price of jeep travel to Darjeeling, forcing us into a small dingy back room to pay a hugely inflated commission to a very happy currency exchange manager, and delaying our posting of cards home – but we survived!
The morning of our trek arrived and we were greeted at 9am by our very smiley guide Nandu. Clambouring into a luxurious looking jeep, though obviously minus seatbelts, we set off on a bumpy three hour drive to Dhotrey, a little village sitting at an elevation of 2300m. Here we met our porter Deepuk and were ushered into a compact roadside ‘café’, little more than a 3m square kitchen with a couple of benches against the far wall. The proprietor (who we later understood to be Deepuk’s mother) deftly whipped up a batch of the most exquisite momos filled with a tasty, spiky green squash, accompanied by dry chilli sauce and in Ben’s opinion the perfect cup of tea (I still hold reservations on the whole tea front!). Greatly satisfied after our lunch, we started out from the village in a short procession that was to become our daily pattern – Nandu and Deepuk effortlessly striding out in front and Ben and I doddering at the rear.
The first day of our trek overwhelmed all expectations (our guide included) with the most balmy warm weather and cloudless blue skies. We climbed steeply through deciduous forest out into a world of arid grassland and endless Himalayan vistas. Tracking back and forth across the Indian-Nepal border we reached the Nepali hamlet of Tumling at an altitude 3000m by early afternoon. Shortly we were served tea outside sitting on small wooden stools, perched on the ridge, facing the glowing Khangchendzonga Range. After this obligatory tea fix (I later adopted ginger tea as my beverage of choice), Nandu led us up a spiralling path to the peak Tonglu (3070m). On our way a large, brightly coloured Kalij pheasant swept across the path in front of Ben and I. However, Ben more focused on the epic heights and masses in the distance, choose to look the other way, leaving me the sole observer of the feathered friend. Sunset at Tonglu was overwhelming in its richest, as lower peaks behind us turned red-gold, the Himalayas softened to pink and the air became frosty and incredibly still. Feeling the chill set in, we tramped our way back down to our lodgings at a small homestay, where after arranging our multiple sleeping bags and blankets we sat down to a small glass of Gurens Roksy, a warm rhododendron whisky (quite similar to sake) followed by vegetable soup, dal, rice, chapattis and muttar aloo. As the darkness grew, accompanied by our hot water bottles, we padded back to our simple room to sleep guided by our torches in the absence of electricity.
Rising leisurely and after a breakfast of porridge, fruit, sweet fried Tibetan bread and omelettes, we set off and shortly entered Singalila National Park by way of a rocky path. Crisscrossing the border, we climbed down to the Indian army outpost of Gairibaus (2325m) and then hauled ourselves uphill to the Nepali settlement of Kalipokhri (3186km). This 14.5km route saw us gazing down into mist trapped valleys, passing bushes laden with bright blue berries, skirting a large and smelly xo (yak-cow cross) and the ‘black pond’ of Kalipokhri. Our second night’s accommodation was at a slightly larger homestay, where our small wooden attic room caught the last of the afternoon sun, and had the best seats in the house for the orchestra of farm animals who bellowed out their compositions from early evening onwards. Settling down in the family kitchen, warmth and light was provided by the ubiquitous ‘Land Rover fire’ – charcoals dug from the bottom of the oven and shovelled into a wheel hubcap. Having sampled and gained a taste for one of Nepal’s famous alcoholic products the previous night, we were now offered a large wooden flagon of Tongba, millet or rice beer. The fermented mix was frequently topped up with hot water, drunk through a bamboo cane (but with no stirring) and a single pinch of flour was added to the lid of the flagon as an auspicious sign. Quite similar to mead in taste, the Tongba was very warming on an increasingly chilly night. A
After a similar hearty breakfast, our third day of trekking was the shortest, but also the hardest. The six kilometer climb to Sandakphu took us up to 3636m. A stone wall near the summit was inscribed with “No sweat, no sweet”, a slogan that echoed with us as we struggled with the steep path and lack of oxygen. We were suitably rewarded for our efforts as both the Khangchendzonga and Everest Ranges breeched the thick blanket of clouds ahead of us upon reaching Sherpa Lodge, our accommodation for the night. After a lunch of veg chowmein, we set off for an afternoon stroll along the Singalila Ridge. We gazed at the bank of thick mist in the valley, catching flying glimpses of huge Himalayan peaks as wind drifted the clouds aside. Three large eagles flew over us, displaying their vast wing span as they rode thermal currents and soared ever higher and out of view. Returning to our small wood-panelled room, we rested under a pile of blankets in an effort to stay warm. Dinner comprised the usual array of Nepalese curries, differing from their Indian counterparts through their mild use of spices and chilli. Lacking the usual Land Rover wheel for warmth, we wrapped up in all available layers and sipped rhododendron whisky before heading to bed early to hide under our growing pile of bedding to eventually get cosy.
The altitude made us restless as we tossed and turned through the night, and before long Nandu and Deepuk were knocking on our window to summon us for our 5:30 sunrise wake up call. Feeling a little under the weather, Alice declined. Meanwhile, looking a little like the Michelin man in my multitude of layers and down jacket, I braved the Sherpa Lodge’s yapping dog and made my way out into the dark night. Nandu, Deepuk and I climbed a small summit off the ridge, myself panting my way up behind the ever-effortless others. In the icy wind, we awaited the sun as the sky slowly changed hue over the hills of the Singalila National Park. To the North, an uninterrupted view of the Himalayas awaited us, stretching from the Everest Range in the West all the way to the peaks of Bhutan in the East. In vain, I attempted to capture the moment on camera as sunlight struck Khangchendzonga, the snow and rock glowing pink as the sun’s warmth gradually penetrated the cold dawn.
I returned to sleep briefly upon return, selfishly grateful Al had stayed behind to keep the bed warm. A little later, we set off again for a 14km walk down to the Shiri River valley. The trek took us down through two different types of bamboo forest, and onto a steep gorge lined with beautifully terraced fields, some being ploughed by yaks. As some Himalayan Vultures circled menacingly overhead seeking carrion, we entered a picturesque and spotless little village for lunch. We enjoyed a brief momo-making lesson and yak butter churning demonstration as we waited the hearty fare. From here, we followed the lush green valley to Siri Khola, 1900m, another colourful little hamlet. Accompanied by the sound of the gushing river, we sipped a few congratulatory ginger whiskies here as a ridiculous array of food was bought out to us. After a pre-dinner snack of six large pakoras, a starter of fermented vegetable soup, popcorn and delicious homemade chips, we attempted with some difficulty to find room for our substantial main course of Nepalese curries. We finished the night sat on a small green couch sipping one last whisky in the dim candle light, stuffing our hot water bottles into our jackets to stay toasty.
Our last day took us 7km long the beautiful Shiri Valley up to Rimbik, 2000m. The path took us through a variety of picturesque villages with their amusing animals and terraced fields. Other than the demented goats and football-round chickens, Nandu pointed out the prevailing cash crops: black cardamom, cabbage, carrots, potatoes and soft-broom, all sold onto Darjeeling and Sikkim.
By mid morning we reached the bustling settlement of Rimbik. Here, we visited the local council building to officially sign out of the trek before being collected by our trusty jeep driver. We drove back to Dhotrey, gladly devouring another portion of momos and chilli sauce in Deepuk’s mum’s small wooden hut there. After a last group photo, we begun our long windy ride back to Darjeeling, the road side lined regularly with concrete bollards painted with philosophical slogans: “Enjoy the beauty of hills”, “Keep with the speed limit”, “Speed thrills but speed kills“, “To know the road there, ask someone returning“.
We spent the last of our time in Darjeeling enjoying the relative luxury of our room at Hotel Dekeling, especially after our free upgrade to a super deluxe room. Wandering the bustling streets, it became evident that the tourist season was drawing to a close several of our favourite feeding-spots closed down for the year. Strangely, this reflected our state of mind as our travels came to an end. Our last day was spent at the zoological park, where some beautiful but sad looking endangered animals were kept as part of a breeding program. We stopped for lunch on the way back at the amusing Hot Stimulating Café, perched on a steep hill side, for one last batch of momos.
Our journey back to Delhi could well have been designed specifically to suck our last remaining stamina for travelling. We woke at 1:30am for a 2am taxi ride to New Jalpaiguri Station. The loud Indian pop music, potholed tarmac, punctured tire and whisky-sipping driver meant we got little rest on the way. Knackered, we boarded our train and located our insalubrious and cockroach infested second class cabin for some well-deserved sleep. The rest of the 36hr journey seemed interminable as the tiny scruffy window allowed no views, and multitudes of strange snoring, farting and horny-toed men frequented the two free berths in our compartment. Dazed and confused, we reached Delhi station shortly before dusk the following day. Our energy sapped, we boarded the most battered of white vans to take us to the Country Inn and Suites, notorious as the world’s only 5 star vegetarian hotel. The last of our time here was spent sprawled in our ridiculously comfy bed staring in disbelief at the plush surroundings.
4 months, 10 countries and some blogging later, we are ready to return home for a Christmas spent with our beloved families. B
