Room for Adventure

Had Yai to Krabi, Low Season

2011-10-29T12:02:00.004+08:00

Ao Nang Beach Peace

Hat Yai Central Hotel provided me with 2 nights of comfortable stay for 520 baht a night. The hotel is tired but functional providing me with a clean, firm bed, air conditioning, tv, refrigerator, ensuite bathroom, free wi-fi in the lobby area, no breakfast (noodle and rice food outlets abound in the immediate vicinity) for this price.

A tuk tuk to the bus station is about 40 baht. Several tuk tuk's are forever hovering at the entrance the Hat Yai Central Hotel.

Arrival at the Hat Yai bus station by 9.20am gave me several options on a bus to Krabi. I opted for the 9.50am departure and paid 169 baht for what was forecast to be a 4-5 hour coach ride to Krabi. The coach was clean, air conditioned and adequately roomy for my large size. Comfortably roomy for the Thai size.

I asked the young ticket master on the coach to 'tell me when we were in Krabi and I should alight from the coach' which he appeared to understand.

It worked out ok... he summoned me pretty much when I was thinking I needed to get off (a little like I always awake to wait for the alarm clock to sound). What followed was one of those akward ten minutes when you look for a way forward and nothing immediately appears. You subject yourself to a mixture of do-gooders and opportunists plus a few village idiots who just openly gawk with an open mouth and rotten crooked teeth. The village idiots are the only ones you can easily identify.

After listening to some alarming facts about how far away and inconvenient a trip to Ao Nang from Krabi was going to be I decided to follow my nose. I'd seen a couple of buses head down a nearby side road and noticed a bus station sign pointing that way also.

My luck was in... less than ten minutes walking brought me to the Krabi bus station and a regular service large tuk tuk took 60 baht from me for the onward road trip to Ao Nang.

I became part of the daily transport process as the tuk tuk netted the patronage of 6 well behaved and smartly uniformed school kids from outside a Krabi town school and deposited them one by one at various points along the well tarmacked road to Ao Nang.

I had been to Ao Nang before and as we came along the main drag adjacent to the beach my memories returned. I was the only passenger remaining and I waved the driver on up the hill away from the Ao Nang beach toward the bungalows that I remember being nicely presented and positioned in a garden setting when I visited a few years back.

There it was! I recognised the frontage from the road. A tap on the tuk tuk cab glass produced a 'thank god' like smile from the captain.

Adam's Bungalows (25 Moo2 Ao Nang Beach, Krabi, Thailand. Tel: (+66) 0757 637 667, email: adambungalow@hotmail.com) had rooms and offered me discount on their book price. I paid 400 baht a night for the bungalow with clean firm bed, fan, ensuite cold water bathroom. My veranda looked out across their garden and one of the tall rocks that make up the Ao Nang geography looked over me from the distance.

I could relax again :-)

Footnote: £1 = 50 baht.

New Hoover Loses Border Case

2011-10-27T13:29:00.000+08:00

The New Hoover Coach Service runs from Jalan Yan Kalsem in Ipoh, Malaysia to Had Yai in Southern Thailand twice every 24 hours. My departure time: 1pm in the afternoon. The cost: RM40. The message: Be wary of transport staff who spit big twirling banana like gobs.

Let me tell you what inconsiderate unthinking traveller enemies some transport staff can be.

Everything ran smoothly up until the Thai border. Here, of course, one has to alight the bus and, as I understand from previous journeys, walk your case or luggage with you through the immigration channel and be prepared for a Thai customs inspection, post immigration. Once past customs one finds and re-boards the coach in the car park.

On this occasion I alighted the bus, passport in hand, prepared to pick up my back pack from the hold of the bus and make the route described above. Not necessary our Chinese loud mouth co-ordinator (not) informed us. I have seen this guy before on this service. My previous estimation of his customer care skills set them at around minus thirty. Let's undertake to re-assess that a few paragraphs farther through this short tale.

Myself and a handful of other passengers made a variety of grateful aah's and oh's then skipped happily and lightly to the immigration booths. There were no queues and I didn't see anyone get any immigration hassle. There were no customs personnel at the inspection stations beyond the immigration booths. In our ones and twos we made our way into the car park where our red and black bus stood doors shut, waiting for staff and passengers before it embarked on it's onward journey.

As I approached the bus Clmc (not)'s Malay colleague was walking away from the bus and informed me that my backpack was at the other end of the complex and waved his hand in the direction of the place that the bus had set us down.

I was confused but thought I had better check it out. At the point the bus had set us down my backpack lay in the road with a couple of other cases. I picked up my backpack, looked around to make sure I wasn't about to get sniper fire from a Thai customs officer, and then proceeded to walk toward the bus. It still wasn't open. Myself and a few other individuals stood around like lemons wondering what the delay was about.

Then I spotted Clmc (not) chewing away on a bag of something as he swaggered toward the vehicle. He spat, voluminously, then opened the drivers door and deposited his bag into his compartment. Without a word to anyone he then opened the passenger door and climbed into the drivers seat, chewing and, I suspect, building up to another big twirling banana like gob.

People climbed into the bus oblivious to the potential bag/case issue. I hovered at the entrance and asked if he could open the hold so that I could re-insert my bag. With a 'what sort of fool are you?' bark in his terse response I was told to bring it on in.. 'there aren't that many people in the bus', you dork (he inferred).

I did and as I did I asked if he knew why it was left in the road at the point the bus set us down. The question was dismissed as idiotic and too lowly to be considered by Clmc (not) super intelligence. I took my seat.

As the bus moved to depart the car park I said to the two ladies behind me.. 'Do you have hold luggage?' to which they nodded and I followed with.. 'Have you checked it's back in the hold?' to which they said they didn't need to remove it. I followed with ... 'I didn't remove mine but I found it on the road at the point the bus set us down for the immigration check' to which they showed some surprise but pooh poohed the need to react.

Had Yai was another hour away. A Thai monk and a couple of other rice padi types were allowed to depart the bus at about half way. The light was beginning to fade.

The first port of call in Had Yai was the bus station. The two ladies made their way out of the bus. The Clmc (not) was already running around getting his paper stamped and behaving ignorantly in the bus station. The ladies asked for the hold to be opened. It was empty. They were livid. I was right. The Clmc (not) should have been shot. There was a lot of shouting. The Clmc (not) that should have been shot climbed into the drivers seat, threw the door close switch and drove off leaving the ladies without their cases, without a plan, without help. You bastard, I thought.

Re-assessment of his customer care skills failed. None were found.

New Hoover, disgraceful.

If you are reading this because you are thinking of making the Had Yai - Ipoh or Ipoh - Had Yai trip by coach, I suggest you don't use New Hoover or if you do, watch out for this complete imbecile.

Footnote: I have seen one of the ladies at the shopping mall this morning. She was smiling and spoke to me. They called the police who drove them back to the border where the bags were retrieved from the roadside, undamaged. The police then drove them back to Had Yai.

Mastering Macau, Part 2

2011-10-13T13:48:00.000+08:00

Senado Walk

Macau's heritage sites are mostly within walking distance of the Rue da Felicidade. The centre of Macau is undoubtedly Senado Square and surrounding area, just a few minutes walk from the Hotel Kou Va. The wavy paved pedestrian area that is Senado Square extends along a walk between fashion boutiques, overpriced jewelry shops and dubiously sourced electronics outlets to tease out the visitors spending money. Small alleys off the main thoroughfare offer a variety of quirky food and drink outlets. It's a cool place to start discovering Macau from.

The standard tourist literature available at the airport does a fairly good job of guiding one through the more prominent points of interest in the central area.

Some less reported facts and suggestions I can share are ..

Macau transport authorities appear to promote the use of zebra crossings (without lights). They are installed on many of the main streets. Step on to them at your own peril as many motorists see them as opportunity to assert their authority over tourist pedestrians via large helpings of terror. Macanese pedestrians have given up with them many walking years ago it would seem.

The older Macanese have a 'fuck you' attitude about them. Unfortunately many are employed in occupations that require them to interface with the tourist such as bus drivers and tourist information centre officers.

There is a distinct lack of places to hang out and chill. Bars, people watching enabled coffee shops, pubs, al fresco dining operations all seem to be, disappointingly, conspicuous by their absence.

There is a bus company driven conspiracy that promotes over payment of bus fares. Commercial operations able to change 10 potatoe banknotes or higher into smaller currency denominations to match bus ride tariffs have been banished from within a quarter mile of all bus stops.

The younger Macanese are cool, courteous, fine mannered individuals in general. If you need help, go young.

Beer (Tsingtao) is around 10 potatoes for a large bottle in a Chinese noodle shop and most operators seemed content to let one drink for a while before expecting a food order (on average 20 potatoes a dish). The savvy operators have picture book menus.

Go to a Casino. The only apparent dress code is 'no cap'. The cool croupiers are more fascinating than gambling.

Mastering Macau, Part 1

2011-10-13T12:27:00.003+08:00

On exit from the customs hall at Macau International Airport one is confronted by several rows of agents offering hotels from 450 Pocata's (affectionately renamed potatoes) per night to thousands of potatoes per night. Some quick mental arithmetic told me that was about 38UKP per night for the cheapest hotel.

First enquiries revealed there were none of these hotels available ie they were full for the night and I was also told that this is the best price one can get. If it's busy or a Friday or Saturday night then the prices increase.

Feeling a little wounded, I spotted the tourist information office and ventured in with a spring in my step politely requesting help to find budget accommodation in the central district. Were there guest houses or homestays in that area? The stern, stoney faced, female attendant didn't say anything but retrieved a tourist map from her secret pile, opened it out, ringed a road called Rue da Felicidade, reported that budget accommodation was available in this area and bus no. MT1 or MT2 would go as far as the Lisboa Hotel.

She then carried on about her other business which was nondescript at the other end of the counter.

The bus it was to be. Potatoes. I had better get some. The ATM in the arrivals concourse obliged willingly enough but I felt sure the 500 potatoe note would have produced something less than a smile from the bus driver.

I bought a coffee and a mysterious sweet bread item at the first floor cafe. Even there the 500 potatoe note produced a mocking guffaw. Friendly lot so far. However I felt more prepared for the bus trip than I had previously and took my time over the coffee and bun.

Understanding one's arrived at the Lisboa is not difficult when it happens. It's massive, oddly shaped and well 'labelled'. One endures that uneasy mix of uncertainty and anxiety at all prior stops as the ‘is this the stop?’ question goes un-answered.

Rue da Felicidade

A 15 minute walk through the centre of Macau's commercial/shopping district per the airport tourist map saw me at Rue da Felicidade. The red fronted China Sea style double story terraced houses that line Felicidade create a pleasant ambience that is further developed by the conversion of some into small restaurants. The road was the centre of Old Macau's night life at some time in the distant past!

150 - 200 yards down the road I had yet to discover any accommodation and was seriously thinking about engaging plan B (which was to pay an even more exorbitant amount for the first night in a much higher profile hotel and spend the first part of the following day sourcing budget friendly accommodation) when, like magic, on my left appeared a hotel called Hotel Kou Va.

Hotel Kou Va

550 potatoes a night for a double room with en-suite bathroom, hot water, air con, satellite TV, without breakfast and on inspection proved to be clean and with firm bed. A room was available. Wi fi existed on the floor but did not reach all rooms. It felt great to have a base, to get rid of the 10kg backpack, to get rid of the 3kg sportspack and have a shower.

Airport agents play a game that is not always in the best interests of the tourist.

Riding the Mae Hong Son Loop, North West Thailand.

2011-06-28T12:03:00.005+08:00

When a friend suggested we ride the Mae Hong Son Loop my first thoughts were of an epic train journey on stylish rolling stock through a part of China that I had still to discover.

As he talked more I discovered how wrong I was.

The adventure he had in mind was a road adventure to be undertaken on motorbikes through an area of North West Thailand that was something of a pilgrimage for the mesh jacket and leather boot brigade.

As a 'biker' during the late 80's the appeal soon sunk in. I was hooked.

The outline plan was to fly to Chiang Mai. Take the first day to assess the bike hire situation, strike a deal on the bikes and refine the route detail with information gleaned from the bike outlets. The following three days would be 'on the road' enjoying (hopefully) whatever came our way along this famous biking pilgrimage. The afternoon of the third road day had to see us arrive back into Chiang Mai to return the bikes and rest up before an early flight out the following morning.

My riding buddy was Simon Wong. Later in the trip re-named Mr Gadget.

At 08.30 hours on the 20th June 2011 we departed Tony's Big Bikes (17 Ratchamankha Rd. Chiang Mai - Tel: +66 053207124) in the heart of Chiang Mai astride two Honda Phantoms. Bikes somewhat smaller in cc than I had imagined we would take but recommended by Geoff at Tony's Big Bikes as being eminently capable of the task ahead, frugal, reliable comfortable and light and manageable through the enormously winding route ahead.

The bikes cost us 500 baht per day each plus 100 baht per day insurance each. A helmet was included. The insurance was not compulsory and appeared to cover serious bike damage. Personal cover is compulsory and is included in the bike rental. (500 baht = 10UKP)

Simon had put a lot of thought into the route, converting distances into times and selecting probable overnight stop locations. We would go 'clockwise' leaving Chiang Mai in a South Westerly direction with a target of Mae Cham by lunch. Kuhn Yuam by mid afternoon and possibly Mae Hong Son by evening. The first day was to be the toughest I remember him telling me. His reasoning was that we would be full of energy and enthusiasm on this first day, therefore covering it as easy as blinking.

I felt great during the first hour of riding. The road was wide, straight and the traffic quietened the farther we went. I was happy at 60-70km/hr. Simon would race ahead and then wait, repeatedly. There were lots of waving hand signals as I passed him each time. I still felt good. Completely relaxed and enjoying the improving scenery. After no more than an hour Simon had pulled over in front of a small line of shops. Coffee and possibly noodles came to mind.

Simon was disturbed. I was not going fast enough. We would not make his schedule. I had to speed up. I offered some defence in that I needed to get used to the bike. The reality of it was that I had to get out of dream mode and into achieve mode. I understood but wished we weren't against the clock so much.

After two more short, fifteen minute stops in the National Park area of Doi Inthanon, we rolled into the small town of Mae Cham at about 12.30hrs. At the second of the stops it had just started to rain and I made my only wet weather clothing purchase. A poncho. At this stop I also 'borrowed' a couple of plastic bags to wrap around my bag on the rear carrier of the bike.

Simon seemed happier at our Mae Cham lunch stop but I am not sure whether that was because he liked the chicken rice lunch or because I had speeded up enough. I hoped it was because I had speeded up but the chicken had, apparently, been free range.

Heavy rain delayed our departure from Mae Cham until about 1.45pm. The following three hours of motorcycling were the most challenging that we were to come across. Our route onward toward Kuhn Yuam took us to heights of around 1600 metres.

The temperature dropped as the elevation increased. Persistant light rain stayed with us for most of the three hour plus ride to Kuhn Yuam. My jeans and light shoes became sodden and I became cold and miserable. The poncho leaked slowly adding to the misery.
Occasionally my concentration waned and I found myself changing up a gear when I should have been changing down!

I felt anxious and displayed caution at the tight wet road turns, of which there were many, and very cautious of the tight turns that appeared to be marked with rain AND soil run off. My utmost concentration was commanded by the not infrequent sharp bend on a steep decline, some with scary adverse cambers and marked with greasy soil run off. OMG.

Visibility had declined considerably also.

At probably the highest point the light rain became torrential and I opted for a break at a farmers rest shelter (see photo). Simon was ahead and hadn't realised I had stopped. There were a bunch of locals, probably farm workers, some with bikes also taking shelter. One was kind enough to point out that one of the bungees retaining my bag had become unhooked. Simon re-appeared. Apparently the GPS was suggesting we had missed a turn. Simon encouraged me to leave the shelter and make the way back with him to the missed turning. Just when I was beginning to make friends!

Within a further 5km we wheeled into a small village. The village store presented itself. We parked up. Ordered coffee. Refueled from a hand pumped, sight gauged petrol machine and relaxed for 15mins. I exercised in a vain attempt to lift my body temperature a little.

To be continued.

Land Slip Hill

2011-05-01T17:33:00.002+08:00

In my home town of Swindon in Wiltshire, England there is a public park close to the centre of town called Queens Park. During my school and college years my family lived close by. In the summer months, particularly during the periods of school and college holidays it would be a favourite location for courting couples and groups of flirtatious teenagers whose only interest was to find a partner and join the courting couples community! I remember the heady, flower and shrub scented ambience of the park being further propelled into a dreamy unrealism by these hormone driven teenage advenures.

Now some 40 years later my mother still lives in that same family house and on my visits there I occasionally pick up community news sheets that stir those teenage memories enough for me to want to revisit the park and write about those previous visits all those years ago.

One of the news sheets reports an incident that I remember well. The incident, some 27 years later has finally been addressed in a 21st century style eco centric style.

The main feature of the park is a sizeable lake that is home to a wide range birds (Swans being the most prominent), fish (no fishing allowed) and reptiles (allegedly). To the south side of the lake is the incline of a hill that rises into the 'Old Town' area of Swindon. During 1984 a landslip occured. It was caused by a combination of heavy rain and the unfortunate soil content of the hillside. Layers of clay became unstable in the heavy rain and one slipped over the other to engulf a considerable part of the south side of the park around the lake. From that day til 2011 a complete walk around the lake has been impossible due to the danger of further slippage.

During April 2011 the walk has re-opened. An extensive drainage system has been installed throughout the area of the land slippage to prevent a re-occurence of the 1984 event. At a starting point near to the cafe one can take the 550 metre walk completely around the lake past the hill known as Land Slip hill, across the grassed area, around the north side of the lake most popular with the water bird feeders and back over the bridge.

Through the area past Land Slip Hill the newly laid woodchip footpath allows people to walk around the lake edge but has left the wildlife undisturbed in the deeper thicket and the hillside has become a haven for the many species of wildlife, which include foxes and badgers. Some of the timber cut down to clear the path has been stacked as woodpiles used to encourage insect life. These insects will provide food for the nesting birds which will live in the 36 nest boxes placed in the trees. The stone dragged up from the lake edge had been placed in in the the open canopies allowing reptiles, especially grass snakes to bask in the the midday sunshine . A few benches are planned around the path so everyone can enjoy the view across the lake.

The work has been deployed with great attention to minimising cost. The woodchip comes from the tree gang cutting and the pruning of street trees in nearby areas of Swindon. Path laying and scub clearance is undertaken by volunteers co-ordinated by Swindon Borough Council's Ranger Team. The nest boxes are made and installed by volunteers. Donations are still being sought to help pay for the rustic benches which will also be installed by volunteers.

Photo(s) to follow.

A Journey Update

2011-04-22T11:52:00.000+08:00

September 2007

In September 2007 I, voluntarily, left one of the most prestigious technology companies of our time. I gave up a salary, an apartment and a wicked vehicle that were the epitome of corporate ex-pat life. I packed a bag and travelled for over a year. I took a slow tour of the Philippines, Thailand, Cambodia, Laos, Indonesia (Bali, Jogja), Myanmar, UK, Spain. Some countries were pleasant enough to enjoy 2nd and 3rd visits from me.

Some of my acquaintances felt I was worth nothing any more and abandoned me.

Some of my acquaintances continued to ask for money but gave me further little time and even less respect.

Some of my acquaintances turned out to be good friends and continued to give me time and respect and still never asked for money.

My family encouraged me to go with what I felt was right for me. So cool.

I held on to an idea that my corporate experience must remain of value.

Mid 2008

I returned to Malaysia with a personal objective of putting my corporate experience to good use.

I rented a room and rode a bicycle.

I established a technology oriented business concept and developed a website.

I attracted some interest and came close to engaging with a well financed new age technology company that, sadly, were only interested in extracting knowledge from me free of charge.

It was a difficult time. I questioned myself and the new direction frequently and at length. I needed a direction. Aimless travel was pleasant but harrowing too.

I was pleasantly distracted by the opportunity to crew on a 45 foot catamaran for an admirable Australian fellow who was wanting to sail his vessel through Asia and ultimately onto Europe. The friendship with the vessels owner developed and we discussed different business ideas and concepts. We came close to operating a 'life coach' business. Which even now is parked in the wings and, we are both convinced, could be rolled out if and when it suits us.

Autumn 2008

For a number of different reasons I came back to the technology business concept during the Autumn of 2008. I adjusted it's standing to make it more attractive as a stand alone service to Malaysian manufacturing centres. During early 2009 I started discussions with an ex colleague of Malaysian nationality.

April 2009

In April 2009 the Malaysian colleague and I struck a business agreement and the entity called Frontier Technology Services was created and registered in Malaysia. Although still a consulting company I chose to focus on professional and executive staffing. Theatre of operations remained the advanced technology industries. Semiconductor, Silicon, Solar.

The infrastructure of documents, marketing material, database, tools and techniques were slowly developed and established until we felt ready to go to the local advanced technology market with the new offering.

Our first year saw significant interest, some assignments, a number of interviews but no appointments. We still had a lot to learn and many improvements to implement.

There was no revenue.

April 2010

Frontier Technology Services registration was renewed.

I still rent a room and ride a bicycle.

Late May 2010 we need a business bank account opened. We have our first cheque. At the bank we have to indicate our expected intial annual turnover. I offered X which, frankly, sounded nice at the time but I also remember thinking we would be lucky to achieve half of it.

November 2010

As we move toward the end of November there is a clear prospect that our X may turn out to be conservative.

We are in a marketing phase having added services, refined our techniques and upgraded our presentation.

We are adding people, gently.

We are determined to make April 2011 to March 2012 a Y year.

I have come a long way.

Out of the corporate toy soldier position to the founder of a small conservative but none the less slowly successful business.

My business partner has come even further and is more driven and innovative than I could ever have imagined 18 months ago.

To those that abandoned me. You are still welcome in my life.

To those that continued to ask for money but gave me further little time and even less respect. You are still welcome in my life but I won't give you money any more.

To those that turned out to be good friends and continued to give me time and respect and still never asked for money. We are going to celebrate the year end together. Thank you - you are wonderful.

To my very cool family - Having your love, time and support makes me the luckiest person in the world. Your are absolutely the best! I look forward to the Spring to enjoy more precious time together.

:-)

Chinese New Year Eve 2011

2011-03-24T09:35:00.003+08:00

One of my new acquaintances out here is a friendly Science and Technology teacher named Padre from the UK who is about my age and married to a local Chinese lady. He likes to go out and about for a few drinks with me but he doesn't get his visa signed that often. Anyhow on Chinese New Year eve we (me, he and his lady) went for a bite at a local hawker centre. He took her home after about an hour leaving me with almost a full bottle of beer to finish. As they departed I heard him say to her that he would have to come back and help me finish the beer. Green light apparently... he returned in about 15 mins.

We partied for the next six hours and he said to me several times....ooooh damn I've left my phone in the car.... ha ha ha. I don't think it was a case of forgetfulness more a case of premeditated phone placement.

We finally emerged from the last party stop at 5 something in the morning and I said I was hungry. We walked a couple of blocks to an area where food stalls are open for most of the night and it was jam packed with people. I remember he kept repeating ..... this is amazing! I ate.. he sat there in amazement. I took a picture of the whole thing on my phone.

At last we decided to call it a night. Or in this case a morning! I had cycled to his house earlier and we had all gone out in his car. I couldn't face cycling after such a night so I suggested he drop me back home and, if he didn't mind, come and pick me up about midday to collect my cycle. I must have been drunk to make such suggestions. He said 'yeah, no problem'.

At about midday I got a phone call.. 'Graham - would you mind to get a taxi over when your ready?' - 'No of course not, it's fine, I'll see ya soon!' Bloody hell! What sort of buddy is that, I thought. Slowly I began to realise.. he had had his ear bent. I can imagine it.. What? Graham keeps you out until 6am then you take him back and you have to go fetch him to recover his cycle the next day?? You phone him now and tell him he can get a taxi here!!!! Ha ha ha ha.

Of course when I get there I don't just get my ear bent I get a full 40 minute lecture. He sits behind her, smirks, raises his eyebrows occasionally. Ha ha ha ha. The only thing I can think to say is .. Vangie.. it's ok. It was all good clean fun. No sex,drugs or rock n roll. Well maybe just a little bit of rock n roll! Which just started her off again.. You don't know what these Asian women are like. They can charm you into anything especially after a few drinks. (I can see Padre thinking .... really? ... maybe I was unlucky then). I was even asked to reproduce the phone picture as evidence that we were innocently munching at 5 something in the morning ha ha ha... Damned hilarious.

He's only been allowed out once since then. Poor guy.

Sometimes I think I should get hitched and then stuff like this happens and I think again.

Equatorial

2011-03-10T14:45:00.002+08:00

Equatorial

I am planning an excursion. An equatorial excursion. The prominent features of which will be sea, islands, boats, and atmospheric (misty) scenery. A small amount of pre planning will take place but not too much. I have a rough outline of locations to visit.

I will depart Malaysia for Singapore this weekend. Make my way into Indonesia and over four or five days ripple through a series of ports and small seaside towns across a number of islands, planning the next from the present.

The Ocean will be the South China Sea. Tanjong Pinang will be on the list.

My Bro Gets Out There

2010-08-14T22:35:00.002+08:00

My brother made me laugh again the other day. He's decided that he will leave his solitary existence and is embarking on a dating plan in an effort to move toward a partnered life full of love, sharing and companionship.
Not wishing to be sat around pondering his first real date in years, he decided to arrive at the agreed location, Market Market in Fort Bonifacio, Metro Manila, in plenty of time and explore the location in the hour or so prior to the arrival of the lucky female.

Forty five minutes before the scheduled meet my brother received a message from his selected sweetie requesting, due to unforseen circumstances, the meet time be pushed out two hours. He sent an amicable reply and extended his exploration time by two hours taking in a bookshop and the purchase of reading material to pass the time. Twenty minutes before the rescheduled meet time he received a message from his selected sweetie to indicate she was 'on her way' but the traffic was bad. An understanding and patient message was returned informing her that he would meet her in their arranged location when she arrived, no worries. Twenty minutes after the new meet time another message arrived from his selected but slightly less sweetie in his newly established view asking him to meet her in a new location a short walk away. It was raining heavily. His reply was still amicable and co-operative but he asked, jokingly, if she had a towel. I think he said her reply was no, but she had a tissue!
Expecting her to be waiting at the new location he reported to me that he looked excitedly around the interior on the ground floor and then the first floor even walking around some tables so that he could get a full visual on occupants. There was no positive id! Outside tables were checked - still no positive id! He said he began to feel something of a mug at this stage. However, almost as if she could see him, another message arrived on his mobile at this point. 'Only joking!' it read, 'I will be at Chelsea'. When he relayed this to me he swore at this point but after weighing the pro's and con's he chose to remain friendly and replied in a rather non commital manner 'am I being filmed?'.
I have to say at this point I probably would not have replied and sought alternative entertainment for the evening. To say that we think alike is not a great untruth. My brother decided to find the nearest bar, relax and wait. I can imagine what pleasure the beers brought.

After a short while the messages re-commenced. He said they ran along the lines of...'the taxi is lost', ' I am at postcode xxxx', ' I am in Fort Bonifacio high street', 'where are you?' - which was the first message he replied to in over forty five minutes. Three hours and twenty minutes after their original meet time and after two location changes she made it to the date...
My brother could not believe how un-concerned she was. A half hearted apology was slipped in to initial exchanges but it was completely unfelt and she exhibited zero humility. She apparently replied 'a Margerita' to his offer to place her drink order. I began to feel sorry for my brother as he continued to relay the remainder of the episode to me. She picked up a food menu and ordered her own food without enquiring if my brother was eating or had ate. Her food was a salad and apparently another Margerita was requested.

My brother reportedly spoke harshly to her when she reprimanded him for not understanding her work content correctly. Ha ha ha... Well done bro!
To top this, my poor brother was cajoled into walking the wet Bonifacio streets with her stumbling on his arm because she had become almost legless on two Margerita's. She would not take a taxi and insisted on being told a story, whilst she allegedly attempted to sober up. On a tour of one car park, a location chosen so that my brother could pee I think, she threw up!!
After a bottle of water from a San Fran Coffee Shop she apparently consented to a taxi journey. The taxi was left clean but before the door to my brothers apartment could be opened she was vomiting again at the entrance. My poor brother became nurse maid for a night. He is apparently reviewing his selection criteria as I am writing this. Bro – looks aren’t everything!!!

Happy Daze

2010-06-07T23:27:00.014+08:00

One particular Suffolk based brewery has a lot to answer for! Not only has it provided my daughter with a job for the last eight years it has furnished her social diary with fun events and her address book with fun places to visit. Connections! The Farmers Boy Inn (FBI) at the village of Longhope between Gloucester and Monmouth and within yards of the county line between Glos and Hererfordshire is a sparkling gem from that collection of connections. The FBI connection! My feedback to Phil, the boisterous proprietor, courtesy of his customer comments card was; divine food, smiley staff, clean and cosy room(s), glorious location. The FBI served as our base for two nights and two days exploration of the nearby Wye Valley. At less than fifty gbp a night for a single room inc of breakfast, for which I recommend visitors take the full English (!!) we were admirably cared for. In the evening we at the magnificent FBI pies as the centrepiece for our evening meals, (even taking some away for the family back home at the end of the trip ..what better accolade?), drank wine, played pool and chatted with staff and locals like we were one big family.

Magnificent pies, voluminous quantities of alcohol and full English breakfasts were to be teased off of the waistline with day one activities oriented around cycling. I would be stretching a point well beyond the limits of imagination if I attempted to describe it as mountain biking. A remodelled ( with roof and boot cycle carriers) black BMW320D tenaciously transported three mountain bikes the one hour twenty minutes from Swindon to the FBI and a further 15 minutes onto Simmonds Yat the morning of the first day. Simmonds Yat is at the heart of the Wye Valley through which the River Wye runs a flamenco like course down towards the Severn estuary. Through picturesque Herefordshire settings we cycled six miles stopping only twice for (cider) refreshment at the Ye Olde Ferry Inn and the Saracens Head. Much of our route was in the Monmouth direction from the riverside pubs of Ye Olde Ferry Inn and the Saracens Head and took the form of an old tree shaded old railway line (now bereft of lines and sleepers) which ran alongside the River Wye for the trip into Monmouth. The full trip registered 12 miles on the lead cyclists odometer, acknowledged by cries of 'no wonder my bum hurts' from infrequent cyclist team members.
Such aches encouraged the car oriented second day visits to Monmouth Town Centre revealing: The Savoy theatre and cinema with an incredibly nostalgic facade going back to the at least the '50's; Coffee served by an attractive cafe but consumed outside of a very un-photogenic lingerie shop in a sunny little courtyard not far from The Savoy. A further short car trip transported us curious to sports fields allegedly close to the River Wye!? Through a hole in a nearby hedge all was revealed. We crossed the river to reach the Boat Inn courtesy of a bridge that at some time in the past carried trains and still retained enough character to provoke visions of chuffing steam engines and the colourful livery of wooden southern region railway carriages. Now, sadly, Mr Beeching, the bridge provides only pedestrians a means of crossing the river. The Boat Inn has the longest list of draught cider options I have ever seen. ABV's ranged from 3 something to 7 something. Eeeeeeek! I chose a pint of Happy Daze at 4 something and had a happy hour there with Rach and Stu. Rach, my daughter and Stu, her bf, were my pals for the weekend adventure that culminated at Tintern Abbey. A 12th century abbey of which only the ruins remain and now appear to serve the sole purpose of justifying the Welsh price of four pounds for a pot of tea, a scone a small tub of clotted cream and squidge of strawberry jam at a nearby tea shoppe. Really the only disappointment of the weekend!

Fleetingly French

2010-05-14T18:21:00.008+08:00

A fifty six euro ensuite room in the Hotel D'France situated on a small road parallel to the Allees Paul Ricquet in the Languedoc Roussillon town of Beziers provided our accomodation for the first night in France that I have endured in over 30years. The room was comfortable, clean, warm, simply but tastefully decorated, and the hotel efficiently run. However, as we discovered much later in the night the hotels close street companion was a popular night club named 02. Much needed sleep was intertwined with meaningless but clearly excited young French male conversations that rang between the walls of the closely associated buildings until around 5am in the morning but, oddly, no music.
My companion on this long weekend trip to the less glitzy region of the South of France was my daughter Rachel. The boisterous 02 frequenters disturbed her sleep this friday night the 7th May 2010 much more than mine. We would discover, to our dismay, later how the lack of sleep would impact poor Rachel's Saturday.
Saturday breakfast was, surprisingly, not immediately easy to secure along the flutter of small streets running from the Allees Paul Ricquet. Coffee was finally taken with a croissant at a friendly but cold and functional operation just paces down a small street the other side of Allees Paul Ricquet. Almost satisfied, we headed back to the hotel via an apartment store called Galerie La Fayette. A second distraction in the form of a well presented boutique gift shop with a strong African flavour just a couple of doors away from the hotel yielded extra luggage for the trip in the form of an Asian style (!) wooden eyes only (shut) bhudda face.

At the top of our Saturday agenda was the securing of a rental car. This, we were reliably informed, would be most easily negotiated at the railway station where there were offices for some of the larger car rental operators. A fifteen minute trundle through light rain and the Park des Poetes, which was in the midst of hosting a VE day celebration brought us to Europcar and Avis signs at the forecourt of a moderately busy Gare de Beziers. Inside the building rental car offices were disappointingly locked and even more disappointingly void of helpful contact information should one wish to partake of car rental type business on this VE Saturday morning. An hour of dithering and determination to stay chilled was followed with the purchase of two, one way, eleven euro fifty each, tickets to Montpellier on a train that departed within twenty minutes of ticket purchase. Bye bye Beziers.

Montpellier station was alive with mobile rucksacks. This was clearly a town popular with the tourists. Tourists that travelled by train and carried their goods on their backs.
It was still raining. In a state of aimless and somewhat weather driven disappointment there followed a thirty minute zombie amble in the vicinity of the station that culminated in food and drink at restaurant J'aime! The underlying question - what fun is this? - was pushed aside as we tucked into beef and chips in a baguette (as most food items are in France). The pleasure of food encouraged us to revisit the need for a plan and we resurrected the 'rental car' idea. In a flurry of energy and enthusiasm we visited three car rental counters in 30 mins. Prices were ridiculous at around 150 to 200 euros for two/two and half day small car rental. My enthusiasm and inspiration was subsiding fast. Rachels had already evaporated. We needed a room to rest and recharge. L'Hotel just beyond Mcdonalds at the other end of the street got lucky and were treated to the pleasure of our patronage for two nights. It was the turning point of the weekend. Rachel slept and recharged. I explored the pedestrianised town centre on foot with camera in hand. By early Saturday evening we were excited and ready to explore the Montpellier restaurant scene. We were not disappointed with the choice and our selection.

Good old British humour amongst the European air space mess

2010-04-19T23:04:00.002+08:00

....amidst the controversy over European airspace being shut down the BBC invited people to comment with a post on their website of "Would you fly?"..... here is the best answer I saw from SSnotbanned:

I already have.
I took off from the top of ''Mount Bourtie'' wearing my high-visibility jacket and flapping my arms for all my worth.
Take-off, airtime and landing all went smoothly.
No coughing was registered, although there might have been a slight increase in Guinness consumption which could have cleared some of the pollution from the machinery.
I don't know why Ryanair are still grounded...

:-)

Malaysian trains rock and roll

2010-03-18T18:34:00.002+08:00

I think rail service from Ipoh to KL has improved since the dual track was introduced but it is still a farce. I have traveled Ipoh KL, return on it a few times recently. Sometimes in the 12 RM seat and sometimes in the 22 RM seat. On the last trip to KL during the heat of the day the power failed, the aircon stopped and the lights went out... as we went through a couple of tunnels toward KL Sentral we are hot and in complete dark. It was uncomfortable but laughable. No one cares. No one complains because no one cares. It is like everyone has contracted the plague of lethargy. On my return journey, in the early evening when the sun and outside temperature is going down the electric never fails and everybody freezes in the extreme blast of the uncontrollable aircon, it's ironic!
The carriage I returned in on my last trip was a 12RM per seat carriage. I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the interior fittings and the comfortable nature of the seat. However when we began to travel I think I discovered (along with the rest of the passengers in this carriage) why such a comfortable well fitted carriage should be used for 12 RM seating. It was suffering a chronic case of wheel imbalance. At about the speed the driver wished to cruise at the carriage vibrated and rocked violently. Frankly I was concerned for our safety. I imagine the rolling stock and track maintenance required after some months of running like this will be well in excess of the balancing or replacing a couple of carriage wheels. However if the engineering staff are of the same mindset as the front line staff (those on the train and at the stations interfacing to the people that pay their wages... the passengers) then nothing will be done until there is an accident.
I have traveled on the Indonesian trains through Java... Surabaya - Solo. Malaysia are still many years of improvement behind these services. Indonesia appear to have licensed several different operators therefore encouraging some service competition which may be a reason for the differences.

Makati Avenue

2010-02-28T22:02:00.004+08:00

Isabel Royale Hotel provided me with a box to sleep in. I hit my head on the 'overhead' TV and couldn't bend over in the shower. I had to shuffle, feet out penguin style, around the bed. On the plus side I had aircon, the bed was clean, firm and long enough.

On check in I was asked to pay 1000 pesos deposit which I questioned as the internet information advised me there was nothing else to pay. With an almost indiscernible shoulder lift the check in girl then said ‘never mind’!! I was asked to sign an inventory list which included curtains and light bulbs without seeing the room which, I pointed out, seemed a little illogical, although I was glad this suggested the room was still equipped with these items. The bell boy took the inventory list to the room and I checked the room was equipped the items on the list including curtains and light bulbs. Surreal.

Having no desire to plot an inventory reduction scheme I left the box and explored. One place along Makati Avenue had roadside tables and beer at twenty eight peso a bottle. I’d just finished a third bottle and was settling the bill with a shoulder chipped Ruby, when a middle aged European, bottle in hand, ambled onto the scene. He appeared to be passing through but enquired of my health all the same. I felt ‘good’, I told him. He suggested I avail myself of a bottle of something even more palatable than San Mig Pale. Holding up the bottle in his hand he advised me of the attractive price, alcohol strength and purchase location. The 7-11 opposite! Other information imparted in the short exchange led me to believe he was from Sweden, retired and living the life of Riley in Asia after an accident insurance payout that afforded him reasonable rooms, travel and enough remaining change for 7-11 alcohol that stood head and shoulders above SM Pale. His amiable throw away manner drew me into the name exchange ritual and I was advised of another somewhat, in my view, outrageous episode of his recent past. He’d changed his name through an official route (in front of the mirror after a prolonged bout of 7-11 alcohol consumption?) to King Sir. Maybe I should have understood what sort of accident he’d had.

I returned to the box for a late afternoon siesta and a happy plan to visit Heckle and Jeckle later but woke at 9am the next day.

Jump in a taxi

2010-02-16T10:27:00.010+08:00

I felt a curious internal warmth during the early morning Air Asia flight from KL to Clarke International Airport in Pampangas, Philippines. A warmth, I think, derived from pleasant memories of previous trips to Manila and the friendliness of almost every acquaintance I have made in that heavily populated, hot, busy, polluted city.

Previous visits had either been made on business or to stay with friends. This visit was going to be different. Situations change. My close lady friend of previous years had chosen to find a marrying type and another friend had finished a work contract and downsized accomodation while he looked for another work opportunity in the region.

I was an independent traveller again fending for myself completely on the transport and accommodation scene in Manila.

I had pre-booked the first night at the Isabelle Royal Hotel which is actually more of a Condotel at the northern end of Makati Avenue.

From Clarke International airport the routine is straightforward. 350 peso secures a comfortable seat on a Partas or Philtranco bus terminating at Pasay. About the nearest point to Makati on the route into Metro Manila.

The fun starts at Pasay. There is no shortage of taxi drivers desperate, for some reason, to take me to my desired destination. I have two simple questions for them. Can you take me to Isabelle Royal Hotel, Makati Avenue and will you use the meter. The answer to the first question is always yes. The answer to the second question is either 200 or 250 peso. So I walk away from them. One youngish Manny Pacquaio look alike (they all try, but this one seemed more successful than most) came after me calling 'Sir, SIR'.. I looked round and he said 'OK we use the meter'. In the car he is less than amiable presumably because he has to use the meter.

I don't think we did a particularly long, round about tour of Metro Manila to arrive in Makati Avenue possibly because I had make a couple of remarks designed to suggest I knew where we should be going. As the 20 minute journey progressed it appeared I had more idea than he did of the area and location of the Isabelle. He tried so hard to be unhelpful it was laughable.

We got to within what I thought was a couple of streets of the hotel location and I said 'stop please, I'd like to get out here'. I knew we'd never actually get to the street where the hotel was. The meter showed 150 peso and I didn't feel the slightest inclination to give him a peso more. Unfortunately I was not well prepared and the closest I could get was a 500 peso note. Manny went one round ahead. He has no change of course. 'Never mind... Hang on' was my response and grabbed my valuables bag but left my clothes bag in the taxi and visibly enquired at a couple of the nearby outlets for change of my 500 peso note. The first couple of enquiries couldn't help.

I heard a car horn and the taxi was trickling toward me with another fare on board, possibly a stooge. The nearside front window was down and I looked in to see wad of notes in his hand. Manny said '200?'; I replied..'the meter said 150'. He said 'ok', took my 500 note and passed me four notes in change... three hundreds and another note tucked in between the hundreds. I opened the door and took my clothes bag from the front passenger seat with a 'Jeeez, I don't need this shit' air about me. I dropped the bag to the pathement and peered down at the cash through a haze of carbon monoxide exhaust gas. There was 320 peso in my hand! Manny wins on points. My internal warmth had evaporated. Welcome to Manila from your average Philippino taxi driver.

Isabelle Royal was around the next corner and twenty paces down the road. Please let this be a pleasant experience.

Festive Shift

2010-01-16T09:38:00.014+08:00

I chose the 9th to the 16th January for my festive season break because I have come to detest jams, queues, crowds, and the increased noise and air pollution that peak period holidays bring to a 'break'. Break.. how apt! Break, it probably would do, certainly spiritually and probably financially too. Most holidaymakers are easily herded into the tour operators dream mindset of: 'we've paid a lot for this holiday so we must enjoy a lot' (and to enjoy a lot, a lot more is paid at the destination for a rich variety of rich foods, a rich variety of outings and day trips at prices for the rich, and everything else in between at a peak season premium designed to 'break' you and make the locals rich).

So with my slightly mal-aligned festive season break I was hoping that I would not be broken. The break I needed was a break from the slog and monotony of routine and quite honestly the boredom of Ipoh.

Ipoh to Hat Yai via the New Hoover bus company cost me RM40 and six to seven hours bed rest. Arrival in Hat Yai , the closest Thai town to the Malaysia Thai border occurred at an unearthly hour that became positively cosmic when one remembers that Thailand live an hour behind Malaysia. In an aimless wander away from the Hat Yai New Hoover office I veered into the third early morning breakfast operation to appear in the street. Coffee and a bowl of noodle soup (to rival the best in Ipoh!) were consumed and left me feeling rather pleased to be in Hat Yai again.

Vague, hazy, early morning, time killing research into my plan to follow the Hat Yai visit with onward travel to Krabi and Ao Nang produced the, also pleasing, bi-product of a deal at the Hat Yai New World hotel of 450 Thai baht for a room with air con, attached bathroom, hot water, tv, fridge, clean and firm bed, but no b'fast. Another benefit of off peak holidaying.

I always enjoy the retail therapy experience of Hat Yai. However after the mind petrifying experience of Malaysian clothes and shoe wear shopping it doesn't take a lot. Hat Yai food and beer are also a pleasure and a step function improvement over Malaysia tooooo! Wake up Malaysia!!!

Despite the Hat Yai pleasure, depart I had to, and the next day was transported from the New Hoover office ( a block away from the New World Hotel) to the bus station by Sao in her Honda Jazz. Apparently she is in league with the New Hoover organisation and obviously earnt something of the 300 Thai baht I paid for the 12.30 (which turned out to be the 13.30) aircon bus to Krabi.

A forty minute TUK TUK (a large tuk tuk) ride from Krabi bus station to Ao Nang brought me to within what I hoped would be no more than thirty minutes of having moderate cost accommodation at a modest walk from the beach.

I walked from the beach road east up the gentle incline amongst the bristling and not so gentle but inclined to be in your face commercialism of a much changed Ao Nang. It had everything that I could remember feeling disappointed to see in Chaweng on Koh Samui six years ago. MacDonalds, 7-11's, Starbucks and a host of other franchised chain's all bringing their own brand of western commercialism to what otherwise could be an eastern paradise. Ao Nang's twee-ness was disappearing fast.

The fourth accommodation enquiry was at a place called Adams bungalows. Adams bungalows are set in half a football pitch size, well maintained garden of palms, shrubs, a pond and winding paths. Creating a pleasant 'back to nature' feel that I welcome so much in my life, particularly in this instance after the commercial lashing I had sustained during the twenty minute walk up through Ao Nang toward Adams bungalows.
I didn't need anything fancy and was satisfied with a negotiated 450Thai baht per night for a clean firm bed, attached cold water only bathroom, fan, no tv, no fridge, no aircon, no b'fast deal. One night changed to three nights and then four... there may even be a fifth.

The days were sunny, very hot and spent between the beach and the book , the beach side restaurant and the book and the internet and no book. Western food choice is blazing and in many cases good quality too (I had to make the most of the terrible appearance of those beastly western franchise operations!!). Mostly because of its comparative scarcity in Malaysia I was attracted to the Western food more than the Thai food.

I have detected an air of irritation and dissatisfaction amongst Thai business owners and workers. I hear more westerners expressing concern at prices and I suspect that the decline in the strength of European currencies against Asian currencies make it a little tougher for the westerner to holiday here in the style they were accustomed to. Thailand needs tourists. Will they wake up to the realities of the new global financial situation or just keep raising their prices and only realise their mistake when their customers have found new locations to holiday. The latter I suspect. Greed is a terrible thing. Nevertheless they have had a good run.

Header photo is of Adams Bungalow's.

Air Asia - loathing increases

2009-11-15T12:53:00.009+08:00

Air Asia...get organised!!! As a consumer I have a love Hate (little l, big H) relationship with you that continues to slither toward hate.

Travel within South East Asia definitely took a leap into the era of accessibility with the advent of Air Asia. One of the first Air Asia flights I remember taking was from Hat Yai in Thailand to Kuala Lumpur almost five years ago in early January 2005. The plane was two hours late arriving into Hat Yai and 3 hours late departing. There were leather seats, I remember, but they were a mixture of shapes and colors that gave one the impression the plane had been purchased at a used plane dealer and then 'souped up' to fit the demands of it's new owner which, I suppose, it probably had!

Several months back I had, a long time in advance of the travel date, booked a trip back to the UK. It was via a Singapore Airlines night flight departing from Singapore at around midnight. I thought I would try to ease my travel burden from Ipoh, Perak, Malaysia to Singapore by flying Kuala Lumpur to Singapore on Air Asia's evening flight. The flight would arrive in Singapore at around 21.30hrs if my memory serves me correctly. It gave me a full two and half hours to collect my luggage, transit from terminal to terminal if necessary and check in for the long haul flight to London. Forever positive, I was convinced it could work.
The last piece of the jigsaw for the passage from Ipoh to London was finally pressed into place with the purchase of a YoYo Travel bus ticket for the Ipoh to Kuala Lumpur leg. Everything was fitting together nicely and I was hoping for a pleasant, restful nights sleep before the Ipoh departure.
Air Asia had a different idea! Clearly realising they had a reputation to uphold they chose to press their relationship with me a few more degrees toward hate along that travellers line of emotional imbalance. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr. In the middle of the night (past midnight) prior to my departure Air Asia informed me of the re timing of the Kuala Lumpur to Singapore flight. It was pushed out over an hour and I was informed of it by a post midnight sms!! Fuzz!!! It meant my time for that luggage collection/transit/check in process at Singapore would be reduced to one and a half hours if everything went smoothly. I couldn't risk it! Between waves of frustration, disappointment and anger that evoked room pacing in a black mood and underpants, I slept very little.
By 08.00hrs in the morning I had embarked on an all or nothing plan B. A different Ipoh bus company made a daily trip to Singapore departing early morning. At 08.15 in their booking office I was able to purchase a ticket. However I had to pay a taxi surcharge to have him race to the second pick up point as I was just too late to make the bus departure from the booking office... the buses start point. I made it. The bus trip was very pleasant. I had to forego my Yo Yo bus fare, my Air Asia Kuala Lumpur - Singapore flight fare but at least I made it comfortable time to catch the long haul.

Karma spurned compensation created an otherwise smooth journey and my time in the UK was fantastic; no thanks to Air Asia.
The image at the top of this article is from Bath... a city of history and architecture not far from my home town in the UK.

Ketsana!

2009-09-29T11:39:00.005+08:00

I have a friend in Manila whom I have never met. T.S. are her initials. Cajole is her middle name. Then Ketsana arrived. 36 hrs of the heaviest storm to hit the Philippines in four decades, 80 people already reported dead and an estimated 250,000 displaced from their devastated homes I chatted to her on facebook chat and her sister was out of reach in the most submerged region.. Rizal province!!! The following day her work organised their own search and rescue activities. Today I have had this yahoo IM chat with her...

Me
got the message about your sis....great news ugh?! 10:37
are you busy celebrating? 10:45

TS
@ work now. Just relieved dat she's safe although not totally okay. Her place was flooded. We brought rescue & relief teams yesterday & today to our affe 11:04
cted officemates & their families. Of course, family comes first! We've seen worst along da way. It's really heartbreaking. Indescribable. Never seen qui 11:04
te like it before. The damage, was enormous. Aaaarrrhh! ;-( 11:04

Me
mmmm it's grim isn't it and sad too 11:08
I see the death toll is now reported as being toward 100 11:09
is it still raining? 11:09

TS
Really sad. I'm happy my sis is safe but sad 4 others who arent so lucky. No more raining here. Its sunny actuali. Storm was a great equaliser i shud say 11:17
. It didnt matter whether ur rich or poor or whether u drive a millions worth of suv or just a plain jeepney. They were all floating in da same muddy h2o 11:17
. And da houses too. It can be replaced alryt. Still is good to be alive. 11:17

Me
your sis may experience some trauma affect... Not my business but I would have her stay with you or other family member for a week 11:20
just my thought 11:21
anyway I guess you have some catching up to do at work 11:21
I will let you attend to all that stuff and catch up with ya again soon 11:21

TS
Ok thanks. Good day. 11:30

**********************************************************************************

I feel happy yet sad toooooo!! Now the death toll is at 240.

Night Mission

2009-08-14T23:42:00.004+08:00

Long Haul jet lag was a bitch until I had to rise sharply and alertly from a light sleep at 2.40am on the morning of the 8th August 09. I was whisked off through the fresh dark empty night in a black 3 Series BMW like a spy on a covert mission of inter-planetary importance. My darling daughter, as mission controller, skilfully navigated the undercover route and penetrated the perimeter security of the closet low cost carrier airport - Bristol. Bristol airport at 4.15am had an air of reluctance about it. Apparently, only forlorn persons with half open eyes and tousled hair were being admitted. Generally we fitted the bill well. Little was being said. Propulsion was derived from the prospect of sunny days, golden beaches, tapas, and the fun of a foreign language.

My party were a trio. On two seperate flights to the same destination. Alicante in Spain. Rach and Stu's Thompson flight departed around the 6am mark and my Ryan Air flight departed at 6.40am. The two hour flight plus hour time difference brought me bouncing to the tarmac just before 10am on a warm sunny Spanish morning. I haven't witnessed applause at a successful landing of a modern jet aircraft for years and I wondered if the pilot had been bet by the co pilot that he couldn't get applause for his landing. That was surely the reason he bounced the machine far too late onto the runway then in a frenzy of hold those horses activity had the reverse thrust roaring like a lion as the michelins were stretched to the limit between tarmac and tons of de accelerating bones,flesh and metal. The Ryan Air pilot must have been Spanish but got his pay, his on time delivery bonus, some applause from the cabin and, I suspect, an extra tenner from the co-pilot.

In a Latino fling of carefree dismissiveness Alicante airport was without immigration or customs officers, AND my (undamaged!) bag was in the first truck from the apron so, within minutes of departing the aircraft, I was wandering through the Alicante Airport wondering where the other two of my traveller trio had taken up hiding. To my surprise they weren't playing that 'lets watch to see what he does when he can't find us' game and I found them draped raggedly across the end of a row of chairs amongst stand up cases with extended handles and discarded fleeces in an arrival hall at the normal landing end of the airport buildings. We'd wandered back through half of the airport and out into the arrivals pick up area before someone remembered about mobile phones. A brief exchange over the airwaves with a 'Spanish' member of the Fegredo family assured us that we would not be subject to that age old game of 'lets see what they do when they aren't picked up' and within minutes a fit, tanned, younger version of Omar Shariff climbed out of a Toyota Prius that had glided quietly into a parking space within feet of us. Stu's Dad's welcome was warmer than the Spanish morning and spread a smile on our presence more smoothly than warm butter on toast.

Twenty minutes of Toyota Prius gliding over a mix of intercity highway ‘quality’ roads and more Spanish style, bumpier rural access routes ultimately brought us to the Fegredo residence at an urbanisation around a village called La Marina. Jeff left us in no doubt about how proud he was of his palace and proud I would have been too! On a 400square meter plot Jeff and his wife Yo had created a Spanish bungalow style habitat that mixed easy living with functionality and comfort. Complemented by an 8 meter long pool at the rear the gardens were shrub driven and eco friendly providing a mix of colour, scents for warding off mozzy’s, scents for deep breaths at dusk and dawn, and security...bloody sharp spiky affairs along the inside of the front wall!

Hi, Bye Had Yai

2009-07-26T16:54:00.005+08:00

Rm75 return fare for the coach to Had Yai from Ipoh tethered my travel plans. I departed from the New Hoover coach office in Jalan Yang Kalsem at 1.45am on Thursday the 23rd July 09. I would meet my friend in Had Yai, mid morning at Had Yai Junction. Not a pub, a railway station! And so it unfolded. A pleasant two night, three day visit to Had Yai in southern Thailand. We ate, drank, sang, danced, walked, shopped, spat rice, perused hotels and generally had a great time. The weather was kind to us with fine days and temperatures a little lower than the Malaysian scorchers.

Had Yai hotels ranged from the perfectly acceptable Num Huat in Thanon Inpatuthit 3 at 300 baht per night for a room with twin or double bed, aircon, tv, and fridge and own bathroom; 350 baht per night for a similar room but with no fridge at the Tong Num in Trok Sukonthahong near to the Seven Eleven; unattractive options at the Metro Hotel and the Park Hotel for 360 and 400 baht a night respectively; then on up through a selection of mid range options with the Cholatern at 450 baht per night, the Indra at 500 baht per night, the Yong Dee at 580 baht per night, the Sakol at 680 baht per night and the Grand Tower with it's own swimming pool at around 900 baht per night. Every hotel had rooms available on this Thursday morning.

Seemingly run by football team of brothers, we ate superb food at a 'Thai name only' restaurant behind the Grand Tower hotel. Hauling our full tummies to the livelier of the two central live music venues, Deep Wonder, situated (steeply but not particularly deeply) below the now defunct Odean Shopping Centre was a small matter well worth the effort. Deep Wonder's happy atmosphere and moderately priced beer kept us smiling through a medley of numbers from it's talented resident band that included, Dire Straights' Money for Nothing, Rolling Stones' Honky Tonk Woman, Pink Floyd's Another Brick in the Wall, Boy George's Carma Carmelion, U2's With or Without You and many many more.

Full marks to Had Yai for a creating a scene that far exceeds anything that similar sized towns in Malaysia have to offer. Malaysia still has a lot to learn (from Thailand) if they wish to increase tourist revenue!!! The photo shows hawkers on the Had Yai Junction railway platform.

Malaysian 'news'

2009-07-17T13:11:00.004+08:00

In an attempt to spur the local economy the Malaysian Consumers Association organised a "Buy Nothing Day".
Visitors to the capital, Kuala Lumpur, will pay approximately double the current fare from August 1st 2009 for the pleasure of being ripped off by the ignominious taxi driver community.
A 5.36 meter long whale shark was towed to Kuala Muda jetty by self deluding fisherman who made the 'dead' catch 50 nautical miles out in Penang waters.
Building site safety practises were being revisited after an Indonesian plasterer slashed a supervisors throat in Mont Kiara, Kuala Lumpur.
Politicians aide found dead as Malaysian anti corruption commission continue enquiries into alleged abuse of state allocations by 'role model' politicians.
Middle aged Bahasa Melayu word creators not redundant after all. Maths and Science teaching medium reverts BM. Of course it makes sense.
At a Manchester United v Malaysian football match in Kualar Lumpur more Malaysian supporters were expected to be wearing Man U. colours than Malaysian colours!

More Metro Manila fact

2009-06-28T14:40:00.004+08:00

I just got some info from a friend on air quality in Metro Manila. The world health organisation suggests that to prevent ill health air pollution should be at less than 20 micrograms of particulate matter per cubic meter. Long term exposure to a pollutant level of 70 micrograms of particulate matter per cubic meter or greater significantly increases the risk of contracting a respiratory related illness. Metro Manila has an average of 138, the dirtiest is the stretch of Edsa with 282, over 3 times the w h o target. It's probably not a good idea to live around Edsa.
Interesting data at http://www.portfolio.mvm.ed.ac.uk/studentwebs/session4/27/citydiff.htm

I don't know Brough.

2009-06-24T16:43:00.004+08:00

His taller than average height, burly build and dark coarse unkempt hair was his camouflage for a sincere and sensitive heart. The slightly overlength blue jeans and very short sleeved body huggin tee added the gravel that peaked out that tough man image. He was clearly western. In Asia he turned heads. Mostly female. All young and on bodies jangling with hormones that jangled still further with Brough in their vision. Brough belied his image. He wasn't a steel erector or a mountaineer. He was a clever and sensitive writer.
I last read his work in a short story submitted to a writers periodical dedicated to award consideration.
In the style of introversion.
The principal character, Brough's brother, Barrge, had submitted his heart to a Philippina. She was young and attractive; a generation lesser than Barrge. Brough adeptly relayed Barrge's emotional dilemmas as the relationship, aggravated by distance and teased by culture, convulsed through a storm of dramas each with their own circumstantial twist and intrigue. Barrge was focused on creating a business for their combined future in a neighbouring country. Brilliantly, the character signatures were scribed by Brough's deft hand. Barrge's difficulty in interpreting his Philippina's behavioural characteristics including anomolies such as indesire or inability to communicate in times of difficulty, a desire to literally run from conflict and confrontation, and an insatiable appetite for material gratification were delightfully relayed to beguiled readers. Brough's tale simmered toward an awesome conclusion as Barrge's Philippina announced, on what was to be Barrge's last visit to her home town, her intention to marry an internet suitor. Her underhand deceit and wideangle immorality were cleverly used by Brough to illustrate Barrge's sincerity and honesty. In the penultimate twist she declares herself pregnant to the remote Barrge with Barrge's child. An early term miscarriage (?) brings Barrge to the edge of emotional free fall as Brough's pen cascades toward the punishing finali. No less than three weeks after the miscarriage the still remote and emotionally bedraggled Barrge is informed of his Philippina's new live in lover, by her sms. Barrge's pain becomes his strength and Brough's talent with the written word paints a colourful and indelible image of Barrge mixing realisation with release to close the darkroom door and turn to face a new, bright, exciting future.

Then I realised that Brough was an only child and up until recently he'd had a girlfriend abroad. So... that's the style of introversion. Please read the title again.

Manilan, Philippines observations.

2009-06-20T12:47:00.013+08:00

A Philippine shop worker/sales assistant in Manila earns around 50 peso and hour and works 8-10hrs a day, 6 days a week making a gross income of around 12000 peso a month or 150 UK pounds.

A four station trip on the Manila MRT will cost around 10peso. A taxi ride for a foreigner for a similar length trip is likely to cost around 200 peso.

Taxi's use a meter system that appear to be operational most of the time, however be prepared for the taxi driver to ask for the meter plus 50 peso in heavy traffic which is most of the time in Manila.

San Miguel Pale Pilsen beer costs less than 30 peso for a 320ml bottle in the supermarket. The same size bottle will sell for double that price in an average bar/restaurant. Still good value and a third to half of the cost of a similar amount in Malaysia.

Air pollution in Manila is high. There are no vehicle exhaust regulations applied that I know of. Grey sticky bogies testify.

Manila weather in June is variable with frequent high winds and heavy rain. June is the middle of the three or four month typhoon season. I recall visiting via a flight from Malaysia at this time of the year a few years back and feeling increasingly nervous as the pilot saw fit to abort not one landing attempt but two due to high winds and torrential rain at the airport.

The people are vibrant, energetic and happy. There is a clear live for today and worry about tomorrow, tomorrow mentality.

There is a strong Latino element in their inherited character producing much musical talent and dance desire and ability.

There are over 7100 islands. If the question of precisely how many islands make up the Philippines is asked of locals one will often receive the reply of.. 'when the tide is in or out?'

The food grows on you and deposits itself within you being wrought with saturated fats due to pork and pork skin and fat content. Pinakbet, sizzling sisig and adobo dishes are musts.

Rice is the backbone of the Philippinos basic diet.

Alcohol consumption is unlimited.

Philippine Shopping Mall mentality leads Asian Shopping Mall mentality. Operations like the SM Megamall in Ortigas and the Roxas Boulevard Mall of Asia are pristinely presented and attract huge numbers of people.

Walled and guarded communities are a way of life. Poverty and city 'street people' are also a way of life hence the walled and guarded communities.

The many beautiful locations away from Manila are not easy to get to requiring many hours of overland and ferry travel even after internal flights of which there is a wide selection. A natural deterrent for the foreign short break tourist and a natural aid in maintaining the final frontier feeling of many of the locations.

The US occupation of the country has helped to create the most ‘English’ speaking nation in the region.

Manila R&R

2009-06-14T13:12:00.000+08:00

Gloria Jeans Coffees in Makati Avenue, central Manila offers fine brewed coffee plus the de riguer range of pastries for a late 20th century style coffee shop. It earnt my patronage as the second stop of the morning behind a vegetable laden breakfast roll a few doors along the avenue at Subway. The internet connection at the Australian franchised coffee house was reliable and fast allowing me to collect email, chat, blog and continue experimenting with the google web tools. GJ Coffees hovers at the Gloriettas outer edge and offers a pleasant outlook across the minipark towards the ignominous Shangri La Hotel. If inspiration waned a glance toward the park re ignited thought processes. A constant stream of shoppers and shop workers along the GJ Coffees frontage make those quiet moments a people watchers haven. Manila's Hard Rock Cafe and Friday's restaurant reside in the same block and indelibly mark this stretch as a pinnacle of F&B oriented R&R in the heart of Manila's business district.

Low cost travel or trickery?

2009-06-09T22:49:00.003+08:00

Yo Yo provide a bus link from Bercham in Ipoh, Perak, Malaysia direct to KLIA main and LCC terminals. At RM43 for the one way ride it's an ok deal. The buses are clean, spacious, well maintained and cool. The trip takes about 2.5hrs and Yo Yo recommend allowing 3 hrs to make the trip. So I did and it meant leaving Ipoh on the 1am bus to arrive in KLIA LCCT at around 4am in the morning in readiness for a 7.20am Air Asia flight to Manila in the Philippines. I slept lightly on the bus and ate (Mc D!?!?) to relieve boredom at the airport. Check in opened at 5.30am. With my bag despatched to the dungeonous mysteries of the KLIA conveyors and a boarding pass tucked into my passport I left the main concourse for the departure lounge and a singular duty free task. Terry's gin aka Gordon's Gin upon purchase at the duty free shop is sealed into a specimen bag large enough to contain a gaggle of such bottles.
Air Asia have finally ditched the free seating approach to loading the plane. Their reason I guess they would argue is that it's more orderly to have seats allocated at check in although I don't think you can request a particular seat or even location such as window or aisle at the check in process. I have however noticed that there is now an opportunity to add Rm10 to your fare for the priveledge of selecting a preference seat at the internet booking process. Low cost travel or trickery, I occasionally ask myself.
I was fortunate enough to have been allocated an aisle seat, allowing me to thrust the parts of my European form not easily located into the pen between seats, out into the aisle. This irritates the stewards endlessly who counter attack by kicking and wheeling trolleys into me at every opportunity. The seats recline one inch in the interests of economy. As if in compensation they are leather and much is made of this in the amateur banter attempted by the leading stewardess in attempts at lifting the moods of passengers depressed by the overpriced, undersized, taste free food portions and the hand dry towels in the toilets that regress to multiple white tacky globules once moist and in contact with skin. Dry your unshaven face with the hand towels in Air Asia in flight toilets and you will appear to have contracted an in flight mucus that if managed properly could do more for the amusement of other passengers than any banter over leather seats.
The eventful three and half hour flight to Clarke Air Base (a hangover from the American occupation of the area) in Pampangas Philippines was concluded with a smoothe landing on a wet runway. As usual people are out of their seats before the plane has come to a halt, hauling heavy and fragile bags out of the overhead lockers and then stumbling with them as the pilot finally hits the brake pedal. One industrious Philippino was fighting his way up the aisle from a point beyond the wing exits to acheive pole position on the start grid for the door openings. Smile I did when it was announced that we would be departing from the rear of the plane to facilitate a bus service laid on to keep us dry in our passage to the immigration and customs area.
The Philtranco coach to the SM Megamall in Ortigas, apparently the closest stop to Makati cost me 300peso. Alighting from the coach was comparable to being submitted to a bear pit. I fended of the frenzy off taxi drivers who are intent on not only capturing my fare but partaking in conversation about where I'm going before I even make eye contact, My God! I recovered my rucksack from the hold of the bus and walked away from the drop point in the opposite direction to that of the taxi rank.
I sweated a little as I walked away but fell on my feet when in conversation with a street vendor discovered that there was an MRT station on the other side of the Meagamall building. I think it was Shaw Boulevard or Shaw Station and the fare to Ayala was 11peso. A bargain compared to the 250-300 that I would have been paying in a taxi.

Drinks at Houz!

2009-06-03T10:38:00.002+08:00

Authors Note: Not as much as one of the characters in the following paragraphs are fictitious. Any character resemblance to individuals within my social circle is completely intended. :-P

Interesting bit of social last night. Got invited to a few drinks at Houz. Eagle and Flamingo were going to be there and Toucan would pick me up to take me there in her car. For a drink with Flamingo I thought I would be able to put up with a car ride from Toucan. She was late picking me up and when I asked her what happened to make her late she reported that she couldn't decide what to wear. I wound the window down to vomit but managed to hold back. Instead I just commented that the deliberation wasn't worth it and she still looked like a Nag. Nah just joking. Anyway..pleasant car ride with Toucan where the conversation went along the lines 'so Graham you live in Ipoh Garden East?' ; 'Yes Toucan.'; And that's the house you live in?'; 'Yes Toucan.' ; ' I seeee' ; by which time I was asleep.
After a remarkable hunt for a car park space which contained missed turnings, missed spaces and, thankfully, a few missed pedestrians I was tasked with slithering out of a three and a quarter inch door opening, a biproduct of Toucan's act of wedging the Myvi into a space that, in a previous life, had been a concrete anchor for the ubiquitous 1980's style public phone kiosk (and still retained some of the bolt studs and wire ends that serve to mark Malaysians keen desire to minimise their expense on honorary tributes to 20th century technology).
In a feeble attempt to escape her presence for a few seconds I ran to the Pub from the parking space. I fumbled at the doorway with some frustrated pushes on pull signed glass entrance doors and the beaky presence of Toucan once more besieged me. We walked in together and I felt a warm flood of sweat engulf me as I realised the street wise Houz croud had clocked me and I had within seconds fallen from attractive, stylish, desirable bachelor, in their lofty esteem, to desperado of the month, possibly the year or even decade.
I was lifted by the smile and charismatic presence of Flamingo opposite Eagle perched on stools at a corner table. As I approached the table our eyes met and my hand went to her elbow. We conducted the cheek to cheek ritual that signifies the warm hello exchanged by those with a hope for more than just a drink together. Wicked. OMG.. dream on Graham!
Then the evening collapsed, again. Flamingo's husband arrived. There was an evacuation event that would have earnt medals of decoration for bravery and dedication to underhand activities for all involved had we been attached to any military organisation.
Within a few meagre minutes of arriving at the evening of my dreams I'd somehow been herded into the consolation position of one table, one bucket, one glass and one freedom.

C'est La Vie!!!!

2009-04-03T14:02:00.000+08:00

Colour co-ordinating with the duster I see....Electrically charged shorts too!

UK humour courtesy of my son!

Jon, Minx and Me.

2009-03-28T13:46:00.000+08:00

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

An introduction from a friend called Bronwyn, some brief email exchanges and two phone calls heralded the most exciting suggestion befallen me in years. I'd nothing more to do than pack a bag and ride a bus to Singapore.

My companions for the next two weeks were holed up in Raffles Marina. They'd both travelled from Mooloolaba in Queensland, Australia, over recent months and were taking some time to recuperate in the southern extremes of the Malacca Straights.
Their passage had been via Darwin, North Australia and on through some of the more remote Islands of Indonesia, one of which had left it's indelible marks on this remarkable pair.
The younger of my two future companions was no more than 18 months in age. Her name is Minx. Many of her assets were presented in pairs. Her form was sleek and refined and many would use the term sexy to help create an accurate image of her lines.
The elder of my two future companions I found in sunglasses, t shirt and shorts enjoying a healthy fruit and nut breakfast tucked up in Minx's lap on the Sunday morning of my arrival.
He is vibrant and flamboyant. His name is Jon..
Visually they complemented each other admirably, or should that be admirally!
Minx is a 38ft state of the art, cruising catamaran.
Jon is a state of the art, flamboyant, entrepreneur.
I was introduced to both by Jon over the ensuing few hours. Histories, both recent and beyond were exchanged in an easy flow of conversation that signalled a healthy respect and friendly future for us as friends and team mates in our adventure ahead.

We needed to be as confident as we could that Minx was ready for the passage in front of us. We were going to head out from Singapore to Langkawi, a distance of about 500 nautical miles up through the Malacca Straights between Malaysia and Indonesia. I was to be Captain Jon's single crew member.

Minx held some concerns for us, an on board toilet malfunction, a battery charger that had failed, an outboard engine that wouldn't start and a starboard engine that had just been refitted after some repairs at an adjacent dockyard. We attended to items with our combined knowledge and resourcefulness, slowly bringing ourselves to a point of sufficient confidence. In the course of these activities I was provided with a handsome understanding of the many facets of Minx's character and build.
This work was interspersed with introductions to Jon's recently made friends and acquaintances on and off boats at the marina. Tom and Witney made contrasting impressions on my conscious person during those few days. Both were engineers; Tom of marine diesels and Witney of attraction.

It was Wednesday before we had Minx properly prepared. Thursday mid morning saw us maneuvre gingerly out of the berth and into the channel between the Jurong side of Singapore and Malaysia. Jon, Minx and Me. The emotion was elation. The mood excited apprehension. Within the hour we were to have our first taste of the sensitive Singapore, Malaysia relationship. We were flying the Singapore flag. Replacing it with the Malaysian flag was the least of our concerns as we made our way into Malaysian waters. A Malaysian coastal marine patrol saw it differently. We spotted the officious looking vessel approaching from our stern at 12 to 15 knots. It was at least 35’, steel and stoutly. Through binoculars I recognized the Malay inscription indicating a government maritime vessel. It’s heading was clearly our direction. Within twenty seconds of its arrival at our stern it moved to a parallel heading and passed within 20 feet of Minx. We rocked violently in the wash. Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeez. ‘What was that all about?’ I enquired of Jon as he spun the helm wheel to bring the nose of Minx across the sizeable bow waves. ‘I guess we’d better exchange that Singaporean flag for the Malaysian flag.’ was Jon’s cool response.
The following days brought a multitude of new and breathtaking experiences to my 55 plus years on this planet. We were at sea and at one with the elements. Weather, wind, waves, tides, the sun, the moon were all both our allies and our enemies. We were in their hands yet in control. We learnt the weather patterns and sailed well in the late morning and afternoons. The main sail and genoa often pushed us toward 10 knots in the north westerly’s of the late day. We experimented with the screecher but the main and genoa produced a nice balance.
We were at anchor overnight for the first three nights. The first two being at Pulau Pisang and then at Muar.

The third wasn’t planned. Melacca looked attractive as we approached the city from the murky out waters during the late afternoon of the third day. It felt attractive too, after two nights at anchor. We could almost hear the Melaccan Tiger roaring on our approach. We were running only the port engine. The starboard engine had begun limping on the second day and we were only running it when absolutely necessary. We’d furled the genoa and the brought down the mainsail. Our speed would have been less than 5 knots. We’d had to maintain a constant watch for fishing nets, usually marked with white buoys… irritatingly, often disguised by the late afternoon white caps. There had been a sampang off our port bow with a couple of busy fisherman hauling nets up. After careful inspection of their activity through the binoculars we chose to keep them on our port side. The dull klunk from the port prop was our only indication of the mistake. Jon was quick to throw the engine into neutral and we spent 10 to 15 minutes hoping that we’d escaped with a mere collision on the buoy. We daren’t run the engine until we understood the situation fully. The fishermen continued to gather their net. We dropped anchor. The fishermen continued to gather their net. The sampang edged its way toward Minx. We realized the worst. The elder of the two fishermen demanded RM200 as the sampang bobbed up and down perilously close to Minx’s pristine body work. Negotiations were heated but oddly enough perforated with the occasional Malay chuckle. We finally parted with 50, 000 IR and a handful of Singapore coins before the nets were cut and the Malay fishermen departed into the dusk presumably to treat themselves to a KFC, via a money changer, courtesy of Graham and Jon. An unsuccessful attempt to get under the boat and free the prop from a mass of net and chord preceded a third night at anchor. During calmer waters at first light the following morning I managed to get below the boat armed with gulps of air and a knife. Within 30 minutes we were free of net and chord and on our way.

Jon, Minx and I arrived at Port Dixon, Admiral Marina on the evening of Sunday the 1st of March. Entry to the marina was simple. However it was the first time that Jon and I had worked that exercise together and as with many of the boaty operations that we have had to conduct together, we still have to refine the initially discussed process to have it run really smoothly.
Chandran was at the wharf to help us tie up.
David and Bronwyn were at Blitz just a few berths away to help us relax.
Blitz lubrication was gin and tonics mixed in generous proportions by Bronwyn. The bite of the quinine and the buzz of the gin encouraged a chattery hour of status updates and adventure exchanges before David needed to leave for the airport and a hospital appointment in England the following day!
Jon and I retired to the bar to allow the love birds a peaceful cooing of goodbyes. Food at the bar had not received any rewarding accolades from the Blitz crew so we ordered cautiously and bade our time with a couple of beers and a game of pool at the toytown pool table. I must have been over ginned. I lost at pool and the beer tasted as though it had been pulled direct from the Marina. We tried not to complain but it was impossible. There was a rumour that a barrel was being changed somewhere; our expectations were lifted and relaxed smiles replaced disappointed frowns as mental pictures of Tiger barrels being rolled and taps being loosened lifted and re-applied submerged the taste of pee from the Marina.
I would like to think that the exercise with the beer caused some extra care with meal preparation and presentation. It tasted better than the beer anyway.
A further two nights at Port Dixon allowed Jon and I to say goodbyes to Bronwyn, explore local stores and restaurants, and enjoy a ‘finale’ evening of dance and song with a Philippino band at an otherwise deathly quiet hotel on the Port Dixon run in. I’ll remember how well Chris sang ‘Bleeding Love’ and ‘Better in Time’ for years to come!

We were moving again early the following morning. It was half a days sailing to Port Klang’s Selangor Yacht club. The mooring process left us in less than joyous cheer. There was a very strong current that hindered a remote mooring to a pontoon that was losing its mooring stays to rust and general dilapidation. Later in the evening Mr. Maney (pronounced Money) a local haulage businessmen with endless enthusiasm for everything turned the evening around. Pool and beer amongst his troupe in the clubhouse closed with a drive into Klang town to consume late night oxtail soup and kway teow. Mr Maney courteously drove us back to the marina and tipped the night watchman to ferry us to the remote pontoon mooring. Look after yourself Mr. Maney.

There was nothing to keep us at Port Klang. We departed early afternoon the following day and endured one further overnight anchorage before a pre dawn departure to make the long sail to Lumut.

Sadly I had run out of time and I felt more than a little sad to leave Jon with his task of boat preparation for the onward journey and the sourcing of a replacement crew member. I am looking forward to crew for Jon again at some time in the future.

I enjoyed every minute of the whole journey, learnt a tremendous amount about myself, sailing and Minx, and made a fantastic friend in Jon Hope. I would like to end this chronological text with a big thank-you to Jon for allowing me the opportunity to join him and for making it a resounding success in so many ways. A fantastic fellow!

A Variety of Incidents, Java

2009-02-02T15:52:00.000+08:00

2nd February 09
Bali struck my pleasure chords more harmoniously than Jojga. I decided to add another 5 days to the Bali stay. I had booked a round flight from Jogja to Denpasar on Mandala Air. Cost about 760 000 IR. When I phoned the Mandala Air Denpasar office to change the return flight date I was surprised how easy it was. I could hear the Mandala travel clerk and she could hear me. She could understand my English and I could understand hers. It was no trouble getting the flight changed. I was so pleased that it was simple and straightforward that the significance of the final sentences of the conversation only struck home when I walked away from the phone booth. I was now booked onto a Monday morning flight instead of one the preceeding Wednesday. All I would have to do is pay the penalty fee of 560 000 IR. I'd even asked if I could pay that when I arrived for the flight on the Monday morning. Yes, that would be fine; the assistant told me. I reflected on the conversation and properly registered the penalty against the cost of the return flight itself. It was over 75% of the original cost of the round trip. As I thought about it the cost became more crazy. In addition, I was led to believe throughout the conversation that this was a simple flight adjustment. Jeeeeez. I estimated that there was cause for complaint. The following day I phoned again and managed to speak to Daisy, a very pleasant lady ..... another one (!), who listened carefully to my story. I told her I found it difficult to accept that I would have to pay an additional sum that is 75% of the original return trip cost just to get on a flight five days later than the original schedule. A sum that was sprung on me at the end of a conversation that never hinted at any penalty charge until I could not turn back. She was sympathetic but unwavering, possibly because she could not be anything but unwavering within the guidelines of her work. She said that she would consult with her manager. I told her that I would be taking my friend to the airport the next day and that I would try to come to the office to see her. It turns out that her office was not at the airport but the staff at the airport office were kind enough to connect me to the Denpasar office and I spoke to Daisy again. I apologised for the confusion about the office location. Daisy had some news for me. Unfortunately the office manager had not been forthcoming of a solution to my concerns. So the two ladies, Daisy and the lady that had made the original change to my flight schedule, had got together and decided that they would help me by paying the balance of the penalty between them if I paid 200 000 IR. I felt overawed by their kindness.

During this visit to Indonesia and Jogja I have spent most of my relaxing time in the area of Jalan Prawirotaman and Jalan Perengtritis. I regularly frequented the Banana Cafe. It is an odd place! The staff consist of two gay guys Peter and Krishna. Krishna's gay drama is sickly humorous. There are two female staff Julie and her neice. There is much encouragement to drink beer against a running tab. With large bottles of Bintang at 22 000 IR a throw its not such a bad deal.. until you get to the end of the evening. On receipt of the bill I have never once NOT had the thought...'OMG have I drunk that much?'. My nature is to assign a little uncertainty to accounting after a couple of bottles of Bintang and hence take the inferior position in any suspected billing error and just pay up. It's usually gone from my mind after not more than the first couple of giddy paces up the street toward my hotel.
However when it happened a third(!)time I began to re asses.
My friend, Barry at Rumah Eyang laughed when I mentioned it. Are you naive, stupid or both? He asked. he had worked out a long time ago that this happened at many places where you could drink on a running bill. He won't drink on a running bill and asks to pay for each bottle as it is brought to his table.
Last night I was a little bored and ended up walking the five minutes to Banana Cafe for a late evening beer. They were pleased to see me! Of course they were .....Grahams back! I sat at the bar and made a little regular conversation about my drinking progess. This is my first bottle. Gosh I am still drinking my first bottle. Look I have this much still left in my FIRST BOTTLE! I only did one more bottle and remarked several times that I was enjoying a second bottle. I felt it was quite fun. A little like a party game! How could they catch me out tonight. Two thirds of the way through the second bottle and I was well into my fourth card trick. Peter is behind the bar paying an increasing interest in my entertainment as his incredulity at my magic grows. Then it happens. He just walked over to the refrigerator, pulled a small Bintang and announced that I was buying it for him. It was my turn to feel astounded. Before you could say 'grab that cobra' the top was off and the bottle was at his mouth. I shook my head. There it was! No room for an underhand swindle so he went for the public announcement. I put the cards away and sulked a little. Jeeez. I didn't argue. I was speechless. I'm still speechless now when I re read this text. An opportunity to swindle was more important than a happy customer at the Banana Cafe.

I have done my best to keep a balance by relaying the Mandala Air story but unexpected disappointment makes more of a mark than expected pleasure.
Art promoted in some of the outlets in Bali displayed a primitive and often tribal character. It attracted me immensely. Owning any of the pieces would be impractical during this nomadic period of life. I would photograph some of the work though. My thoughts evolved through stages of wanting to share this art with people to the less artistic and more commercial thoughts of... would people for which this art had some attraction be willing to pay more than I could purchase these pieces for? I had the internet at my disposal after all! I knew that most of these operations were not promoting their goods on the internet at all. So I took a step forward and visited the shops that had the most attractive pieces and the most friendly of assistants and explained to them what I would like to do. In every case in Bali the outlets were pleased I was helping them to achieve improved sales. Considerable help was offered in the undertaking of my task. The initial results of my experiment can be seen at www.diversah.com/art.htm
Then I came to Jogja. Jogja appears to be less of a showcase for the primitive art that attracted me so much and has a greater leaning towards antiques of not only Indonesian heritage but also of European heritage. For a reason that I still don't understand red pvc and chrome barbers chairs appeared to figure strongly in the offerings. The outlets frequently hosted a mish mash of goods that hung precariously one rung above throw on the throw or stow assessment ladder that I would have applied. I have been known to stow some real junk in my time too! The outlets showed little creativity in their organisation or flair in their presentation, putting one in mind of a cross between a pawn shop and, what during my youth was called a second hand shop. One example of the glorified junk shop that I describe was an outlet called Moesson Antik. I found a couple of items in amongst the hilarious line up of barbers chairs and wanky mid 20th century Pathe News cinema projectors that got close to my interest in primitive and/or tribal art. Moesson Antik in Jalan Prawirotaman was just twenty yards from my accomodation and on my second visit into this outlet I explained my intentions to the shop assistant who seemed happy to work with me in an effort to increase sales of her extensive collection of items that have appear to have been the subject of the discard button in others objective assessments. Cool.
Later social chit chat led me to believe that there were outlets of lesser tourist dress located in other parts of the city that may serve my interests more effectively. West Imogiri? I decided to employ the help of Alice, a graduate from the Rumah Eyang school of tour guides to help me winkle out these less touristy and potentially more(?) 'discard button' oriented operations. More of Alice later! West Imogiri didn’t have a great deal to offer me. There was a heavy bias toward furniture. After a couple of hours around the West Imogiri region of Jogja we chose to head back in toward the city for the purpose of taking a bite to eat and a review of status on my art exploration day. We had just headed back in from the South end of the outer circular road into Jalan Parangtritis and what should appear on the nearside of the road but a Moesson Antik shop. I asked Alice to pull over and I wandered into the shop to meet one of the assistants that I had met in my first visit to Moesson Antik in Jalan Prawirotaman. Her name was Famah. A pleasant and attractive young lady. I wandered round the shop noticing a couple of items that interested me. I explained that I would like to take some photo's and proposed to meet her asking price on the items if I could find a buyer. At this point Famah became heated! It was clear that there had been some Moesson internal debate on my ideas and something of a turnaround in their thinking and resulting policy. She would allow me to take photos but forbade me any action beyond that to find a buyer. Mmmm... a photos is ok but the rest is out of order...an odd approach that reflects the flawed Moesson thinking rather perfectly I thought. In her fluster and at my suggestion that it was irrational of her to make such a suggestion, Famah described my proposed action as cheating. As I conducted some of my own internal debate on that topic a colleague of Famah's appeared from behind a nearby wanky Pathe News cinema projector to explain that they were just messengers and that this was the decision of her boss. Of course he didn't then appear from behind the wanky Pathe News cinema projector and I was deprived of a character of substance with whom I could debate the rationale for such a suggestion. How could this be anything but positive based on the increased potential for the shop to sell at their asking price. However I could see that Famah felt that she was more than just a messenger and had taken the sentiment of the manager and his message to heart, believing with some sincerity that this was in fact cheating! I didn't want to upset her further and left. I liked Famah. She was responsible and passionate about her work, evident from the great show of upholding company policy made in the face of my daunting presence! Maybe I should have explained that I didn't think I would get much of a result from my efforts... it was more of something to do than anything else. Famah..you are sweet! Mr Moesson..I describe the Pathe News cinema projectors in your shops and your thinking by the same adjective.

Famous in Bali

2009-01-16T13:21:00.000+08:00

The wheels of the A320 touched the Bali tarmac during the 2nd half of the last hour of the 14th January 09 day. Bali time. Five hours late. I'd booked no accomodation and now had the masochistic pleasure of trying to find a room during the early hours of the morning when, in Southern Bali if one is not asleep, then one is probably drunk.
With an apparently undamaged backpack retrieved and a pleasurable absence of third world immigration officers who see their role only as an opportunity to poke back at members of the 1st world for simply existing, I headed for the exit of the arrival lounge.
Am I famous here? It felt like the obvious question with so many waving hands and voices greeting me as I came out onto the walkway beyond the arrival concourse. Within seconds fame and recognition had faded to irritation and annoyance along with the realisation that these fans were in fact desperate taxi drivers. If there is one thing that suggests to me these guys have cottoned on to a get rich quick scheme it is their sheer desperation to take your fare. The scene is reminiscent of the 1st day of the January sales at large department stores. I rebel. For one I don't want to be one of the suckers that is duped by anothers get rich quick scheme and two I have never done the January sales and didn't intend to start now.
During the ensuing ten minutes and a leisurely amble through the car park I barked at enough taxi drivers to earn me the td cross. Where are you going? was responded to honestly with my destination name, Seminyak. The price always volunteered was 70,000IR. My response everytime was 45,000. Their response was usually..walk then. I had moved through the throng and into quiet ground on the exit side of the car park and was just beginning to wonder if I had burnt my boat as it were and would end up walking more than I really wanted to when a voice in the darkness enquired....taxi...meter? Yes please, I said and within seconds the bag was in the boot and and I was chatting to a pleasant Balinese guy about weather and it's effect on tourism in Bali.
At Neds Hideaway in Seminyak and 45,000 showing on the meter I was informed that all rooms were taken. No. 9 down the road was the response to my question about another nearby hotel. When I finally roused somebody at No. 9 the response was the same. Gang Bima was the road name. I am sure it translates to small gangway minimal gauge. The car would only just go round the corners. However my driver clearly didn't own this car and any mark on mirror, hub cap, wing or door was obviously going to be charged heavily. At one sharp left turn I swear we reversed at least five times in order to get the same space between diagonally opposite ends of the car and their nearest wall before the car was allowed free passage through the complete corner. I couldn't work out whether this guy was genuinely anxious, taking the piss or just resorting to preplanned subversion in order to hike the meter reading.
But I shouldn't knock Maddi too hard. The intentions he displayed were, on the whole, honorable. After both Neds Hideaway and No.9 had both advised me that they were full Maddi took up the situation with an assertive air of authority. 'Leave it to me!' He announced. We trundled gently along another section of Gang Bima and arrived at some large iron gates that Maddi had given encouraging and satisfied 'Here' type of acclaim towards. I couldn't see any guesthouse or accomodation signs but Maddi was already out of the car and at the gates with his hand through some kind of manipulation hole. The gates would swing inwards 6" and back 6" but, no matter how much he fiddled with things in the manipulation hole, the gates would go no further. I hopped out and had a fiddle also. Same result. This level of success after I'd 'left it to Maddi' was disappointing. But he was not deterred. I was signaled back into the car and we headed for the main road. I was still hoping my blind confidence in this man was not too misplaced and he would surprise me. As we moved toward the light of the main road it became apparent a car had parked half across the exit onto the main road. Maddi stopped the car and made noises of frustrated uncertainty. We were not really close enought to assess the extent of the blockage. GO (you idiot..thought but not said), I ordered him. As we got closer it was apparent that we could easily swerve right of the parked car and out into the bright lights of the main road. Maddi made relieved noises followed by 'I know' happy like sounds. I felt my confidence was ebbing away but I clung onto the edge of hope. Not more than 50 meters down the street he made noises of frustrated doom. 'Gates closed' was his announced observation as we veered past grounds with closed gates in front of them; but oddly, no evidence of guest house signs. I began to get the feeling that Maddi was creating a story to entertain his friends at the local temple the following morning. I saw an image of them falling onto their sides as they prayed, shedding tears of laughter and holding aching sides as Maddi was relaying the story and kept adding that line...'and he still believed me!'. I needed to abort this exercise and do something new and wonderful and hopeful when Maddi swung the car into a security monitored hotel car park. OK I, announced, I'll take the bags and pay you. He seemed pleased with that and I could see him wondering why I didn't just order him to a similar main road, brightly lit 4 star hotel in the first place. His bill was 56,000IR! I cant say I was enamored with his performance so he got 56,000IR. The 4 star hotel was beachfront, I realised as I walked into the lobby and witnessed the rolling waves and the silver greyness of the sand in the dark night beyond the far side of the lobby. It was light years beyond my budget at 65usd per night. I hung the backpacks about my shoulders and walked back the way Maddi had brought me. Farther up the same street I was jeered and cajouled by locals and tourists alike from their happy havens of streetside clubs and bars. I smiled and waved and marched by. Maddi's departure had lit new energy and direction in me. I was in a mess but in control. Two enquiries en route along what I now know is called Jalan Abymanu at after 12.30am at night produced a 'sorry, full' at the Green Rooms and a 200,000IR per night room that I didn't even want to look at at the Galaxy Hotel. For some reason the name Galaxy Hotel suggests scuffed, grubby, grey and bugs. I may be wrong I didn't look at the room. At the top of the road I turned left along Jalan Seminyak. Within 50 paces a lone motorcylcist had acknowledged me as prey! He knew rooms for 100,000IR per night and it would cost me 20,000IR to get there on his bike as pillion. Thats two grown men, my 70 litre backpack and a full 15 litre backpack on a Honda 125 heading toward Kuta along Jalan Seminyak. 15 mins and two enquiries later I have a 70,000IR /night room secured, bags in the room, motorcyclist paid and a glass of Bintang in my hand at a bar across from the rooms. YES. YES YES YES!

No Register On The Richter Scale

2009-01-15T14:38:00.000+08:00

15th January 09
My second arrival in Bali in just over 12 months is as demanding of some words of record as the first. The departure from Jogja was something of a signal that destiny itself was contriving to create a Bali welcome of some significance..
The simple airport at Jogja, called the Adi Sucipto airport, on one hand aligns with all the expecTations of such an establishment in this leisurely paced city and on the other hand defies many of the other expectations one is ushered toward by even a short stay in this gentle, art oriented, haven of Central Java.
The check in process was manual. Bag weighing equipment displayed the result of it's assessment through the 1970's medium of gas filled neon style seven segment alpha numeric displays! Alignment with expectations.
I was advised that the flight was expected to depart 3 hours later than scheduled. No register on the Richter scale.
I was entertained by a check in officer and baggage handler making such a mess of the check in process that it was only my amused vigilance that allowed me to advise them that they had given the prior passengers my baggage tag receipt. Less of a quake more of a Two Ronnies sketch.
The departure 'lounge' presented another side of the Javanese culture. The Malioboro Cafe charged me 30,000IR, the equivalent of 2UKP for a bowl of noodle soup that would of cost me 5,000IR the equivalent of 30p back in Jogja city. A bar of chocolate easily cost me the same as it would have back in the UK. Some gentle questioning brought apologies from the staff..sorry ya, sorry ya and almost embarrassed smiles. Of course it's a overhead thing. An opportunity for the single party oriented government to seize on the monopolistic status of the airport and further line the pockets of those in authority at no greivance to the locals. Cynicism sneaks in a poke.
However it was well air conditioned. So well air conditioned in fact that after four hours in the place I may well have pushed out my sell by date by a not insignificant period.
At a point around 3 hours into my wait I began to notice a spattering of small bright green boxes lying listlessly and discardedly on the lounge furniture. I suspected that they may have been food hampers offered to delayed customers of one of the five or so airlines operating from this gilded government revenue centre. In a state of free food bravado I ventured toward a gate official with my question prepared. My suspicion was confirmed. Garuda passengers evidently have a late departure hamper cost built into their cost structure. My airline didn't. C'est la vie.
As time 'flew' by and the rescheduled departure time for my flight became history I listened calmly to the apologies for delays over the sound system transgress to cancellations and instructions for the aggrieved passengers to report back to a check in counter...where one would presumably be warmly greeted by a 'Closed - All flights Cancelled' sign. A second poke from cynicism.
However the cancellations appeared to work in favour for some. When I began to think that most of the people left in the departure lounge were probably only there because they were asleep the public announcement system was cranked into action again. As usual the initial words of the announcement were spoken in Bahasa. At probably the third word in this particular diatribe there was an eruption from the far end of the lounge that would have put Chelsea supporters cheering an away goal at White Hart Lane to shame. I guess they were either going to get a free night in a hotel or minimum half day off work tomorrow.
I eventually departed amongst other listless examples of holidayees at around 10.30pm.

The Perwita Sari Hotel

2009-01-14T12:04:00.000+08:00

14th January 2009
The Perwita Sari Hotel... during the 1 minute 4 second earthquake of May 27 2006 the pool developed waves that were estimated to be 6 foot in height. It's all quiet at the moment!

The earthquake occurred at 05:54 local time on 27th May 2006 in the Indian Ocean around 25 km south-southwest of the Indonesian city of Yogyakarta, near Galur, on the southern side of the island of Java, 17.1 km below the seabed. Jakarta's Meteorology and Geophysics Agency determined the hypocentre to be about 37 km south of Yogyakarta, 33 km below the seabed. The earthquake had a magnitude of 6.3. Two aftershocks, measured at 4.8 and 4.6, occurred between 4 and 6 hours later.

Four More Nights

2009-01-14T11:19:00.000+08:00

13th January 2009

Tonight will be my fourth night at the Perwita Sari Hotel in Jalan Prawirotaman in the South of Jogjarkata. I have a basic room with fan, no airconditioning, a clean and comfortable bed, a tv that I haven't felt the least inclined to watch ( I suspect all of the programs are in Bahasa Indonesia anyway), and an attached bathroom that has hot water but no place to hang the shower head (?!). With a basic Indonesian fried rice breakfast this little number is costing me 99,000 Indonesian Rupiah a night which is around 6 UKP. Oh yes..there is a swimming pool and the place is very friendly. It is about 10 minutes walk from my 1st room in Jogja on this trip at Rumah Eyang. Atik at Rumah Eyang was charging me a similar amount for similar accomodation but I felt that the rooms location within the grounds of the house were a little dismal. However I am going back there for a couple of hours each day to catch up with the friends that I have made there and enjoy the friendly rapport between guests who are mostly connected to the art scene that is very dominant in this area of Jogja.

One artist that I have chatted to most days is Barry! Although Barry's art tends to be rather liquid oriented he is a leader in his field particularly in this relatively muslim region. Today he wanted to show me around a little. We got lost! Barry is seventy one and as with it as they come until directions and names are concerned. However we did ultimately make it to a McDonalds which I had already indicated to Barry was placed rather firmly near the top of my agenda. We rode the regular bus into the Malioboro area which appears to be a single fare operation no matter where you get on or off. 2500 I R felt like a bargain for a 15 minute ride in heat that would have made what was probably a 40 minute walk an exhausting affair.

I haven't felt challenged or discovered a great deal in the last couple of days. This often tends to produce a little agitation within me. However I am treating this as a break from what has been a period of intense marketing and business development activity for me around the semiconductor related affair that I have been trying to establish. So a period free of challenge and discovery is allowing me to 'breathe' a little.

I have to admit the subject of earthquakes hovers in the wings of my mind. Today they ventured toward centre stage for a few minutes. I talked to a hotel guest that was here during the massive quake of 2006 that hit the Jogja region badly. He was staying in this hotel then also. The pool managed to develop waves of over 6' in the 1 minute 4 secs that the earth moved here. His first floor room collapsed and he was pretty lucky to escape with his life he believes. He will only ever stay in ground floor accomodation near the road now!

Tomorrow I have a 1 hour domestic flight to Bali. There my intention is to take a taxi to the Seminyak region. I have no accomodation booked but I think during this quiet period there I should have no difficulty finding accomodation on arrival.

Alcohol Breeze

2009-01-10T11:02:00.000+08:00

I have arrived safely in Java. I am back in Jogyakarta to be precise. I have some nice new friends already....amazing what a cheek to cheek, toothy, smile does for ones reception! One of the nice new friends is an oldish loner guy from Perth who has befriended me. He seems to drink beer from the morning through to the mid evening when he finally signs off. This I know because he occupies the room next to me and everytime I get near the room I am invited to have a glass of beer with him! He swears like a trooper and is critical of everything within sight and he doesn't care if it or they are within earshot also. It made me laugh last night when he said he was going to join me for a bite to eat. I approved of this as he knew the area and I didn't. Anyhow he guided us to a small restaurant that did a burger and chips in the basket for 75p! and it smelt and looked really good. That was his experienced choice and I joined with an equally delicious chicken curry for about 85p. Whilst we were waiting for the food to be served a nearby table became occupied with a Western looking couple that I soon got chatting too. The 30'ish year old lady who was showing about 3-4 months of pregnancy was very pleasant and was busy explaining that she'd got the sack from her 'PR' job back in London. With a smile she adjusted that description to 'well...laid off anyway' to which my Australian friend, who is called Barry (aren't they all?!), commented loudly to me, in a vaporous alcohol breeze: 'Well...she got laid anyway!'..I sat rigid with shock and waited briefly for some irritated or even angry response from her guy at least.. but they both fell back in their seats laughing. Barry you old bugger. Hey...he is from Perth!
However the place that I have stayed the first night are charging me too much and after the burger and chips lunch I will shortly eat at Barry's restaurant choice of last night I am going to head back there and do a little negotiating. Jeeez I have just been to a hotel down the road with a swimming pool that will give me a room for about 4uk pounds a night but my present hosts want to charge me 5uk pounds a night for a run down room, Barry next door and no swimming pool.. but so friendly!
Oh yeah...on the health risk front everything is fine. No indication or suggestion that there is an issue here. I think the biggest issue is going to be losing Barry!
Life is great! Everywhere has rooms, the prices are good, the weather is hot, there are no queues and everyone is friendly!
I am sending this mail from a cooooool cafe called the Ministry of Coffee...art deco interior and furnishings, cobbled patios hosting chic table, chair n umbrella sets hidden amongst ferns and other shady plants rustling in the light breeze around the external perimeter; inside the ground floor can be observed from a 2nd floor that ponders above the ground floor in the shape of a circular internal balcony. Cool style!

Jogja breeze

2008-10-11T11:35:00.000+08:00

Jogja breeze 10th October 2008

After nearly two months of wrestling with the ideas and non ideas of business possibilities in Malaysia. I took a break.

Jogja. Indonesia. On the map you would probably have to look for Jogjakarta, Java, Indonesia. I had booked an economical Air Asia return flight from Kuala Lumpur to Jogja departing on Wed 8th October 2008. I'd two objectives in mind. To discover a little more of Indonesia and test the property investment water. However I wouldn't seriously attend to the second unless I found the first exciting and invigorating. How long does it take to understand how one feels about a region or location? The feelings unfold as one discovers more about surroundings and the people. I have mixed feelings about the surroundings. The centre of Jogja are pretty typical of most Asian city centres. Busy, hot and someone at every turn wanting to take some dosh from you for something or other. I fell on my feet with an internet hotel booking at a 'boutique' hotel well out of the city centre to the north in a region that is called Palagan. It's got a wicked bed and aircon that have promoted such glorious slumber that I am now reluctant to move on. The operation boasts a mix of Balinese styling and Javanese hospitality which were the only things that I really knew about it when I was making the internet booking. Both promote that smug, comfortable feeling and the fact that most of the furniture, apart from the bed, is creaking and wincing after less than a year of use just serves to remind me that looks aren't everything (ladies take note)! I've walked the hastily and sometimes rather too economically metalled roads around this little suburb of Jogja during the heat of the past two days and met happy souls everywhere. I've discovered a restaurant that tempts one easily into a 160, 000 rupiah dinner that can be very seafood oriented or backed off a little from the seafood with a options of chicken or duck. I hit the ten pound mark, yes my UK friends 160, 000 rupiah sounds like a fortune doesn't it...well I think it is for the locals!!, with a 1st class mix of Ikan Bakar (bbq fish) and Crispy Duck plus a little of my favorite veggy - kangkong in belachan. Mmmm, I agree, an odd combination but I am not an avid seafood consumer and I started the order with the Crispy Duck but felt that I had to at least tickle the seafood thing, especially as the joyous little place deemed to call itself Restaurant Jimbaran, one of the more famous Bali regions for taking good quality seafood. That was on my first evening here. An evening of torrential rain, lightning and a lengthy power outage to the whole of the suburb. The friendly Javanese thing displayed itself like a proud national flag that night. It was no issue to borrow a brolly at the Jimbaran establishment. In the black night and the torrential rain I wandered away from the restaurant in what I thought was the approximate direction of my 'boutique' accomodation. I do have to admit that I felt a lot of eyes on me as I departed the restaurant. Eyes full of surprise and wonder tempered with that 'yep, he's odd, well he is European' sort of acceptance. I got it roughly right. About thirty yards down the only turn that I needed to make from the restaurant exit road there was a budding warung operation surviving under a few timber poles, canvas and candlelight. I stopped and vocalised my accomodation's name at a human looking outline behind the candle. I saw his arm go round in the direction I was heading and I responded with a Melayu thankyou which brought a grunt of acknowledgement. Another five minutes of trudging down the road brought nothing but a sound of running behind me. I'd aquiesced to a probable mugging and had already started to curse myself for being such a mug. I turned round as the footfalls were upon me to discover that it was the warung outline himself this time waving his arm in the opposite direction. Bless him! I'd walked past my boutique 4 minutes back and he'd run all the way down the road in the rain to haul me back. I held the umbrella over him as we started back and I offered more thanks. The umbrella thing seemed so pointless on reflection as he was already drenched and now I was getting drenched too.
I do like the people and although the city does nothing much for me yet I like this suburb thing with it's friendly villagy feel and the farmlike activities that thrive behind the economically metalled routes and the sometimes not so twee roadside abodes.

A Salute to My Dear Dear Circle Back Home

2008-08-15T20:51:00.000+08:00

23rd May to 12th Aug 08

Haaaappppy! UK p l e a s u r e amongst honorable friends and deep, loving family.

Two trips to London to visit Paul and T taking in, on the first excursion, memorable visits to the Orange Tree, Alexander Palace (Ice Rink), and a Polish oriented Fish and Chip diner at the Southern end of Finchley High Street for healthy portions of both that the skaters deserved much more than the spectators! And, on the second excursion, leisurely visits to a High Street pub, Tesco’s and The Flat for a post beer, home grown, sleep inducing curry.

A visit to Portsmouth over a wet, windy and then sunny weekend for special time with Rachel

A Rach and Stu chaperoned introduction to the Wii Fit at a unique dinner evening presented by Mark and Hanna at their house in the Old Town.

Four meetings with Solicitors and FA's between Drakes Way and The Holiday Inn

A Stroud exploration day kicked off with a visit to the Noahs Ark ‘avant garde’ bike shop, thereafter taking in such Stroud hotspots as the Greyhound and Subway topped off with a walk over Birdlip Hill all in the effervescent company of Rach and Stu

Numerous bike ride Monday evenings scouring the remainder of pub life in and around Swindon under the amicable guidance of Dave P

Salad starter? You bet! Mother Son and Daughter in cascade just leave enough room for a maincourse and still manage to squeeze in a sweet on a wet Saturday night at the Grove

A family day at Lydiard on what must have been the most glorious day during my whole stay there.. good food, good fun, family and sun.

A barbeque evening, followed by a thumping rugby morning at a little cottage near Cirencester courtesy of the Good Family.

Two further evenings of walk talk and beer with one half of the Good family including on one occaision, former employer staff of the newer generation.

One of those evenings was followed with an impromptu trip to Portsmouth for lunchtime beer, fish and chips in the C air.

A value beer night out culminating in dinner at The Rendezvous courtesy of a former employer with Richard P

Fun hours aided and abetted by the patient and resourceful Mr John Lane rebuilding the software on my computer after the hard disk failed

A barbeque evening in the garden of Eastern with our woollens, wine, a happy daughter and her man

A duck watching, wine drinking and pizza consuming evening at the abode of the ever friendly couple, Claire and Nathan

Numerous squash games with Stu, Mark and Richard B marked indelibly by my improving game and disapproving knee(s)

A memorable evening visit to Mr Bull's residence, complemented sumptuously by a quality dinner at the nearby Butchers Arms at Sheepscombe, with a relaxed, harmonious and frequently humorous following day at a country auction and a shop tour of Cheltenham that took in a future toy shop!

Gardening, comprising principally of lawn care in Beckhampton and Eastern Gardens

Bicycle rides to Coate and beyond in relatively successful attempts to satisfy an inner desire for Mountain Bike exposure with Stu

A pleasurable re connection with Ian 'Bud' Badham exploring lap top capabilites and pub dimensions

Meals, wine evenings, walks into town and life, washing machine and slow cooker discussions with my dear Mother

A simply idyllic visit to the picturesque county of Suffolk and it's seaside towns at the hands of the inimitable Richard B and his dear wife Vicky with Ellouise and Charles representing the new generation

A country bus ride to Bath to take in Sarah's perception of the city and cast a discerning eye over her posh shared abode..cooo!

Three visits to Molly who redefines the term mentally agile!

Numerous brolly donning jaunts to local establishments such as Rudi’s, The Grove and The Merlin to make liquid quality comparisons at the bequest of an endlessly energetic daughter

A musically fluid evening courtesy of the Vic and a band that 'covered' the 70's and 80's the star of which had to be the drummer who beat a rythm around the whole room on everything from beer pumps to spirit bottles..Stu decides to take guitar lessons..did you Stu?

A birthday carvery Sunday lunch... Smiley photos, beer and Yorkshire puddings hit the right spots

Chippenham travellers arriving casually at the weekends to do 'tea' with, on one occaision a joyous neice bearing news of forthcoming marine travel

A final evening of beer and curry enjoyed by a family oriented trio who have no reluctance in eating and drinking for pleasure!

Remembering Christmas 2004

2008-07-28T23:45:00.000+08:00

The week prior to Christmas of 2004 was spent in the Philippines. My friend had arrived to meet me in Malaysia and we had taken a MAS flight to Manila. After a couple of nights in the BnB (bums n boobs) spangled evening spots of Manila we ventured to Bohol via a flight to Cebu and a ferry ride to Bohol Island itself. Panglau was our ultimate destination. Peters House was the target accomodation at the Aloha Beach location. The holiday was already a glittering trail of new experiences for my friend who had never before visited the Philippines. My expectations based on numerous trips into and around the Philippine islands were being fulfilled and it was a week of toothy grins and happy experiences for me. Unfortunately accomodation at Peters House was unavailable but we were able to secure comfortable accomodation at a friendly guest house toward the west end of the beach. Diving was our primary pastime followed closely by eating, drinking, relaxing and laughing at anything from each other to the (other) odd characters dotted around the beach resorts. Peters House incorporated it's own dive centre which provided us with our dive connection and an amiable dive schedule. My friend had set himself the objective of attaining his open water dive certification which he comfortably acheived at the expense of a few drinking evenings in an attempt to remain fresh and alert for both physical and academic tests the following mornings.

With his certification secured and gratefully received we left Bohol for Manila and a return flight to Malaysia on Christmas eve 2004.

We reflected on an enjoyable and successful week whilst supping 'one or two' beers at a watering hole not more than a monkeys leap from the twin towers of KL. Christmas eve dissolved into Christmas Day. Overnight would be in the Concorde Hotel, the infamous guardian of KL's Hard Rock cafe, just a few minutes walk from our chosen Christmas eve watering hole. Our Christmas day 2004 was spent on the move. An early morning departure from the Concorde Hotel heralded a return to KLIA for a ninety minute flight to Phuket in Thailand. I had prebooked a beachside chalet at a resort in the peaceful vicinity of Kao Lag a couple of hours drive north from Phuket airport. True to the brochure promise and the booking we had made, resort transport collected us from Phuket airport in a timely manner and we arrived in Kao Lag during early afternoon.

After a simple registration process we were taken to one of a number of stylish wooden built chalets that sat at the edge of gardens and looked out across a clean tidy yellow sand beach. The dwelling was raised from the ground by eight foot high stilt like supports presumably designed to dispel the writhing wildlife that inconspicuously inhabited the gardens. We were so overwhelmed by the chic style of the accomodation that we failed to register the one undesirable aspect of what was to be our shared home for the coming week. Sleeping facilities in the one bedroom that the chalet offered was simply not going to suit us. It was good for two people. Two people who were inclined toward nights of close proximity and although I enjoyed my friends company I had no intentions of sleeping in the same bed as him! As this particular aspect of the accomodation signalled its dark meaning to our apparently parallel consciences our heads shook in a synchronized dispelling dance. The bedside telephone was wound into service and I explained the predicament we were confronted with. After a couple of minutes on hold (whilst, I suspect, the staff at reception chuckled and joked about the two, now confirmed straight, English guys that had been appointed a chalet with a Queen bed) we were told to wait there. The bell boy returned endowed with a surreptitious but acknowledging smile. He was jangling another set of keys and we were led to a chalet in the second row from the beach that was equally chic and endlessly more suitable with two single beds in place of the Queen. Deal. Second row didn't matter. Single beds did.

The rest of the afternoon was spent exploring the immediate vicinity of the chalets and the beach. We chatted to a young Scandinavian chap whose task that afternoon was to man the 'Dive With Us' desk parked neatly off to the garden side of the path that wound its way between garden and beach. We were left in no doubt about the options for diving over the coming days. The short chat wetted our dive appetite and bouyed our excited anticipation of dive adventures for the coming days. It paved the way nicely for a late afternoon beer which was followed by shaves and showers in preparation for a Christmas day dinner at the resort restaurant.

Sleep, in the single bed, arrived before 11pm, as welcome as the beers had arrived in the late afternoon. Little did we know how the Good Lord had planned to ‘up the ante’ in the coming days.

Rested and looking forward to breakfast we departed the chalet on Boxing day morning at around 8am. A leisurely breakfast that typically saw me eating much more than I was saying was concluded by about 9am. My friend announced that he would walk back toward the chalet via the beach. I needed to head straight back to the chalet to attend to personal matters of an expulsive nature!

Inside the chalet, my first perception of the horrors to come was an audible, increasingly loud, invasion of the gentle harmony of gardens, beach and the faint washing of the breaking waves on the peaceful shore. It sounded like a plane coming into land. I stepped toward the balcony window of the chalet and, incredibly, witnessed a whitish grey wall of water charging through the gardens toward mine and other chalets. I recall having the thought that a reservoir must have burst, and a follow up thought that I hadn’t remembered seeing any sign or indication of a nearby reservoir, how odd. I recall having my palm top in my hand. I was looking up a word in its dictionary tool. I began to process the audio and visual inputs of the last twenty seconds and concluded that I would be better off out of the chalet than in it when the water arrived, which it was definitely going to do, very soon. I put the palm top into my shorts pocket as I started out of the door and down the wooden steps at the side of the chalet toward the ground about eight foot below. I would have been about half way down the steps when the water arrived. I was taken from the steps by the wave into it’s ripping curl. I could feel some sizeable debris raining down onto me in the water. I remember having a relatively calm train of thought that attached itself to a realization that this event was to be the means of death for me. So this is how I die; a solution to that lifelong curiosity. I attempted to look up from my buried position but I could detect no light; either because of the amount of debris or because of the density of silt in the water. From this point I can remember no more. Oddly, I never once felt panicked. My belief is that I was submerged for thirty to forty seconds. As I am writing this from earth and not heaven it is clear that, somehow, I survived. From the position of being submerged in that very very dark watery dead end I, somehow, found myself on the surface of the water alongside a chalet in the row behind the one that I was trying to escape from. Its outside stairway was still intact and I was afloat alongside its upper banister. Again I felt it prudent to avoid being on or in a chalet and opted to clamber into a tree using the banister for a leg up onto one of the lower boughs. I hadn’t climbed a tree for at least a quarter of a century but these circumstances were encouraging to a point more harrowing than I had ever before encountered. As I was negotiating my chosen position of safety I became aware of the eeery quiet that had descended across the gardens. As though the whole of every living thing from the plants to the birds and everything in between was either dead or in spellbound awe of the sheer and in this case destructive power of nature. Once I had elevated myself to a point well above the water I took in the view. I could see at least one collapsed chalet. There was a ghostly absence of life and the air was deathly still. Then I became aware of a worrying miserable despairing human groaning. It was a ladies sound. The picture became clearer, she was Mum to two young children of about three and five years old. Dad was around too but white with fear and concern. They were inside of the chalet that I had used as a leg up into the tree that I was now perched in. Father appeared on the slanting balcony. What should we do? Were his only words either because he was German or because he could be no more pleasant under these distressing circumstances. Probably the latter. I gave him my view on the situation. It would be no fun inside that chalet if it collapsed especially with two young children and all this water. He turned whiter and nodded in solemn agreement. He retreated into the chalet and I heard him say to his wife that there is a man in a tree outside that can still think. What shall we do? His wife appeared and I noticed her looking at me in a kind of visual denial as if she hadn’t believed her husband but had now seen me and was running down an avenue of thoughts such as … My God, first of all a gigantic wave that has come through the gardens, rocked our chalet and blocked our escape and now a man in a tree that can still think, it’s not possible; whatever is going to be next? He re-appeared. He had started to think. He asked me if I would take his son into the tree with me. Of course! I replied. We, me and the German white faced man’s son, sat in the tree together wondering what to do and why all this was happening. The wife clambered, with the husbands help, into another tree on the far side of the balcony and took the daughter into it with her. We retained our chosen positions of defence for a minimum of another forty minutes. We witnessed two more waves that rocked and rolled everything around us, including the chalets and in particular the chalet alongside my tree that was still being perched in by the German father of two and husband of one tree climbing female. As we coasted towards an hour beyond the arrival of that first vicious torrent of water and probably a full twenty minutes free of other water born motion I realized that the waters were in fact beginning to recede a little… In synchrony with that observation I was aware of voices calling to myself and others to escape the waters and the flooded garden area. Locals had arrived at the edge of the bank, the rise to from the garden to the surrounding area and the path to reception and the reception lobby. There was an urgency in their voices that matched a desperation in my mind. Wet, muddy, bruised, dazed and grazed I joined a few other forlorn souls in the short trek to the bank and made my way in mental solitude to the resort entrance where a few other guests had already begun to congregate. Staff at the lobby desk were beginning to run a register of reporting guests so I meandered a while, registered as a survivor and turned my mind to my friend. A glance at the register showed that there was no mark against his name. I needed to find him. I realized I was without footwear. I made my way back down toward the garden area but I guess I got it wrong. I appeared in a clearing and was amongst what appeared to be very basic living accommodation presumably for the staff of the resort. It was quiet apart from the gentle pur of a small fourstroke motorcycle approaching from behind me. The rider was a middle aged Thai man who beckoned for me to get on to the pillion seat which I did. We trundled off down the jungle path, him with a ploy and me in a daze. He delivered me to the main road which was less than 10 minutes gentle trundle through the jungle. I began to think that the Thai’s had already hatched some sort of recovery plan and that it entailed delivering injured or lost tourists to strategic meeting or collection points along the road system close to the coastline. I was fussed over by the locals and ushered to the closest abodes bathroom with signals of shower and clean up which I endeavoured to do. My friends plight was becoming more prominent in my muddled mind. Then I noticed a girl that worked in the resort and remembered that she had spoken some English. I explained my position and that my immediate concern was for my friend. I explained that I needed to head off back to the resort to look for him. She understood and immediately began to look for a means of transport. Within minutes a truck turned in from the main road and began to in toward the resort. She flagged the vehicle down and explained my predicament. Deal. I was signaled into the open rear of the truck and we moved off back in toward the resort and the gardens. I could think of little to do but call my friends name as we rolled along the jungle track. I was at the fifth call and raising the urgency and volume of my voice as it each time it was met with no response. Then my heart rose and a flush of relief poured through me as a voice called back…Gra! I banged on the roof of the truck and he stopped to allow me to alight. I am not normally a hugger of friends but this was the first reaction. We were speechless. He looked in ggod shape. In fact probably better shape than me. So we ambled onto the reception area in a mixture of dazed amazement, brief conversation and some tears. The coming days were to be even more disturbing!

The Beckhampton Blackberry Poll

2008-07-20T21:58:00.000+08:00

Dear Chris,

please let me take this opportunity to appraise you of the results of this weekends celebrated Beckhampton Blackberry Poll.

I'd like to begin with a little of the background: In his capacity as 'Chief Meddlar', Mr F Avenall has sewn unprecedented neighbourhood anxiety in our local health program of late through his endless talk of blackberry deficit related illnesses; the most serious of which is rumoured to be a middle ages complaint called autumn eyeburn. Autumn eyeburn arises from the strong late summer sun being consistently and inexorably reflected from sparkling white T shirts and other similar garments. Blackberry deficit results in a reduced visiting bird population and a lack of red birdshit on clothes line dried whites along the block.
Meanwhile, another local octogenerian, Mrs Smith, often referred to as Joyce, in her well acknowledged capacity as 'Lead Encourager' has been frequently seen dancing the dappled stones of 66's garden. Allegedly attired in period pagan robes and matching head dress Joyce cavorts freely with ritualistic fervour (who is not of this neighborhood - possibly from Stratton which is believed to have strong Roman connections as it is really close to Ermin St) in what is believed to be the Blackberry Moon Salsa. Ancient beliefs transgressing centuries of fruit worship suggest that the starlit performed Blackberry Moon Salsa produces the most juicy, succulent blackberry fruit on worshipped bushes.
Other inputs are more discreet. The Lane household have refined an attitude of indignant disregard. Only recognisable by this summers abandonment of the race for jungle supremacy. The unchecked urban growth at the rear of 68 became a victim of midsummer festivities. This years chosen solstice activity of druid like garden clearance was nothing but a well disguised act of submittal. There was nothing flourishing in 68's soil that would bring them anywhere near close to receiving the blocks inimitable whisper of disgrace, characterised by the hushed tones, turned back and bent head, for the most neglected garden.

So, to return to the heart of the subject, please allow me share the following with you; Amongst those that care and in complete contrast to expectations created earlier in the year there is an overwhelming vote in favour of selfishness. In addition there is no one that is willing to compete in the event that you have so excelled in.. the race for urban jungle supremacy. You have a clear and outstanding position in that field and receive the blocks ignominous accolade. Now please leave the bloody bushes alone until we have had a chance to pick the fruit from what looks like the biggest and best crop for years.

Unfortunately we were unable to capture a shot of Ritualistic Fervor and Joyce dancing but you can see bushes at the height of their supremacy.

Ipoh ends

2008-05-02T17:30:00.000+08:00

Ipoh ends

Late Apr 08

Over the recent months of travel and adventure the thought of going back to Ipoh had occasionally surfaced in my mind. Surfaced like the penalty card from a black suit in a mental game of visit poker. I’d frequently managed to sweep what always appeared as a court knave from the black suit of clubs away into a nook or cranny of my travel mind. I’d met with moderate success . It was squeezed between two other taller, wider, fatter cards in my ‘cards of life’ stack. With the Siam Reap and Phnom Penh cards now dealt out onto the table of reality it sat there in full ‘my turn’ view.

So it was with some trepidation that I made the bus trip from KLIA to Ipoh on a dark Wednesday night toward the end of March 08. A journey that I had made many times in the past after a holiday or sometimes a business visit. Then, it was returning home. This was different. I no longer had a place that I could call my home and Ipoh life had become something of the past. However it was still a home for a decade of acquaintances and several wonderful circles of friends.

Within days it had transformed itself from the Jack of Clubs to a pleasure ride. I cycled, met friends, laughed, drank beer, ate favorite foods, socialized and closed on open business of personal, legal and financial natures.

Now I am looking forward to going back again before I make my long haul trek to the family centre in the UK during late May.

Siem Reap

2008-04-24T12:51:00.002+08:00

Siem Reap

Mar 18 08

As the double decker sized bus that had transported me and twenty four other mostly European visitors in air conditioned comfort from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap approached the town centre a friendly (but entrepreneurial, I would realize later) Khmere wandered through the bus advising us to make our way directly to the office at the front of the bus when it arrived. From there we would be transported by local tuk tuk, free of charge to the destination, guest house or hotel that we had booked or desired.
On the face of it excellent service from the bus company. However my selected guest house was written off by the friendly Khmere in one short sentence that showered it with despise and disregard. With a smile this young entrepenuer suggested he could take me to a much more conveniently located guest house (that no doubt paid him a handsome commission to bring punters in) that had rooms from 7USD/night, had free internet and beer was 50 cents a glass. What he didn't tell me was that he and his little team of tuk tuk drivers brought almost every one of their bus passengers to this location (probably with a similar disparaging story around punters previously selected accommodation).....so...all the 7USD rooms were taken, there was always a queue for the internet seats, and the bargain beer flow always ended early to mid evening when the one barrel that was consigned to the loss leader deal ran dry. I would find all of this out later. What I discovered immediately I had signed up for a 10USD/night room was that he was more tacky than bubble gum. No matter what I said, he was convinced that I needed him the next day to take me to the temple region. In fact he would stay with me the whole day and, I was informed, for the following two days as well for a very reasonable 30USD. The more I listened the deeper it got.. you couldn't do the temples without a driver as the temples were too far apart to walk between them. In the end I had to be abrupt and tell the guy to go. He still had the gaul to look me in the eye and ask me how I would see the temples then. I will sort that out I told him. Not your worry.
The irony of this little episode was that I saw the same guy a couple of days later at the guest house delivering another barrow load of innocent beer thirsty tourists..He had the front to ask me how I got to see the temples. His offended retort to my answer was that I didn't support him. I raised my voice although I felt like raising my hand. At the conclusion of my tirade I pointed at him then made the sign of zipping lips and pointed to the exit. He didn't leave the guest house but he left me alone.
So how did I see the temples? Well the upside of the entrepenuerial Khmere's (EK) tactics were that there were no shortage of people with similar interests at my guest house. Within minutes of despatching EK on the day of my arrival I was making friends with Raffael and Corinne. Swiss, enthusiastic and adventurous. They had managed to do a tuk tuk deal for half the amount that EK had offered me. After a little further negotiation the next day was to be temple day for the three of us. The first of three temple days for R and C but my only temple day unless I was more excited by these buildings than I have ever been in the past.
We were on our way with our friendly but surprised tuk tuk driver by 8.15 and at the temple grounds admission gate by about 8.45. Personal photo endorsed tickets seemed an odd overkill but that’s what we got!! It must have been shortly after 9 that we were parked outside the outer wall of the famous Angkor Wat Temple. The whole township of Angkor Wat is massive and incredibly impressive. It evoked a glorious mental time warp within me and I found myself transporting the stone carved, mostly female figures from the walls into the reality of my new existence to produce a theatre of beautiful people adorned in period robes going about both business and pleasure amongst the courtyards, chapels, pools and other life exciting stylish stone structures with the grace, charm and poise of an age lost to time and the ironic march of ‘progress’.
I had the clear impression that both Corinne and Rafael were smitten in a similar way as conversation gave way to important and sometimes urgent investigation of passages, rooms and chambers whilst our imagination painted those theatrical scenes of the beautiful, mostly female for me, people cavorting their business in this exotic, romantic and historic environment.
The heat was on… March is into the hot season here in Cambodia and by 11am were drowned in perspiration and needing to keep a constant intake of liquid as part of our activities.
The tuk tuk transported us to other temple sites with 10 minute hops between each. Sadly some of the historic sites had been badly damaged by the idiotic rampage of 'military' forces during the Khmere Rouge era. However there were restoration and recovery activities underway at some of the more dilapidated and mutilated examples.
The après midi session was highlighted by temple specimens that were being incongruously invaded by trees and tendron like roots. Although these living sprawls added a new and surreal dimension to the remains they were in fact destructions pole faced ally. Plant life would inevitably have a shorter life than the structures and would decay in time to create gangrenous holes of imploding stone. The authorities appeared rattled by this relatively recent and newly evident problem. For the visitor it encourages a litany of index finger clicking and wishes of longer battery life and larger memory cards.
4pm heralded the tuk tuk charge back to town and celebratory beers in the late afternoon sun on the patio front of one of the many restaurant bars in the cozy little centre of Siem Reap. Beer sipped between indulgent, WoW like, recollections of a days exploration richer in new experiences than one might taste in months or even years of our other life (chasing ever increasing profits in the capitalist world).
Siem Reap and it’s cozy little centre became the centre of my increasingly easily adapted universe for a couple of days. It was hot but relaxed and occasionally wifi compliant. The oozing cushty feel persuaded me to stay one extra day longer than the original plan. Something that I failed to tell Mother Hen back at Phnom Penh mission control who deemed it violation enough to unleash the wrath of her clawing cynicism upon me when I reappeared for my final few nights in Phnom Penh. Sakeet, you are unique!

Other Lives

2008-04-15T14:58:00.000+08:00

13 Mar 08

Other Lives
My ten day stay at a small guest house in Phnom Penh, produced some remarkable people learnings.
There are men here that appear to be my age or a little older that I find it impossible to have conversation with. To say that they are opinionated is an understatement. Their bristly behaviour spikes their body language. As a result caution is the newcomers leaning even before any words are spoken.
For these bristly warriors learning something useful or new would be an admission of inferiority that, apparently, must be avoided more avidly than an Iraqi bullet. The chosen method of defense against such discreditation is to adopt a bodily pose at the table that arted conversationalists would recognize as the Maori grizzle. Table time is spent thrusting their view and way onto others. Loud, bold declarations of how it is and how it must be done and the ridicule of even considering anything different. Later I came to understand that there is a simple descriptive term for these people that is appropriation personified. Blowhard! Attempts at introductory conversation on my part were mistaken for an invitation for full psycho-analytical assessment. My newfound shrink saw his opportunity to rise into a command and control position and launched himself into a half hour description of some ‘problem’ I was alleged to have developed (?) and how I must deal with it. At one point fairly early in the onslaught I turned to see if I was mistaken and he was talking to someone standing behind me. To be fair he gave me a choice on means of resolution. One option I was offered was to take a Khmere girlfriend. Now why would I want to do that? I smiled and nodded all the way through.
Self righteous. Deaf. Conceited. Pompous. Brash. Plus his mother countries presidents sirname rhymes with 'Shush!', surprise surprise!!. Occasionally he would stop and ask me what I thought so I just repeated what he had just said. He’d laugh and say..you see we doooo think the same way. If I'd needed to find a character that emissed every Northern Europeans idea of that great nations generic character I could not have stumbled upon a more appropriate individual. Or was it less a matter of stumbling and more a matter of luck that previous individuals that I had met from that great nation had been more of a gentle breeze than a ‘blowhard’. Anyhow as it was I didn't need to find a character that emissed every Northern Europeans idea and image of that great nations generic character (who does?) so I was not unduly disappointed when he ordered himself another whisky and ice with the declaration that it would be his last before retiring for the night.
There is also an Englishman that bravely and regularly visits the table. In many ways he reminds me of a diminished Peter Cook. His ability to describe situations with enough sarcasm to raise a smile but not the hackles is well refined. He is a pleasure to listen to. He is a schoolteacher and his tales of classroom episodes in which he imitates the Khmere students and their overwhelming affection for UK ‘boy band’ music and their equally strong disaffection for the sun would make good material for a late night celebrity interview. In these little tales he is referred to as ‘Char’ (a seemingly affectionate abbreviation of teacher) by the Khmere students. He is my hero of the table. He does speak back, in an unfaltering matter of fact confident manner to the blowhards.
The mainstay of the table however is a lady. She is not English, she tells me, because she is from Guernsey. Time for everyone and only good words to say about them. One of the most relaxed members of the fairer sex that I have encountered. So relaxed that nothing needed to be done until it is time to panic. Unfortunately her original flight back home was missed because of a motorbike accident and a short stay a local hospital. As the end of March, the end of her extended visa period, approached I heard the words ‘I am beginning to panic now. I haven’t booked a flight home yet’!
I have wrestled with myself here. I was ill with chronic stomach pains and diahorrea for 3 days almost immediately I arrived in Phnom Penh. Making my way on the 2nd day from the guest house to a pharmacy a couple of streets away was a challenging task that will be etched in my memory for a very long time, because, quite simply, of the drama and desperacy of the situation. I must have looked like a windblown sheet of the previous Tuesdays Cambodia Daily. I certainly felt like one. Dehydrated, unshaven, listless and emaciated. I had lost my appetite about five days previous and clearly left myself bug prone. The pharmacy prescribed two boxes of pills and some rehydration drink. The climb up four flights of stairs on the return to my room left me in a bundle of litsless flesh and bone on the landing with hardly the strength to get my key in the door. However twenty fours of pills and pints of rehydration drink later, toilet visits had extended to six hourly and I had the beginnings of an appetite again.
I have found Phnom Penh a pleasant city to relax in. I have a nice room and some entertainment close by. The guest house staff are friendly and the food is good. I can sit and read or eat, or walk out to nearby entertainment.
With recovery and rehab rest nailed, I booked a bus trip to Siam Reap. 6hrs bus ride to the north to take in some of the incredible historic temples built around 1000AD.
The night before the trip I innocently sat in a bar for a brief beer before a planned dinner at a new location a couple of doors on from the bar. A fortuitous beer stop! Without it I doubt that I would ever have met ‘the demonstrator’. A UK guy around my young age also sat at the bar. After some minutes of niceties we touched on the subject of profession. Manufacturing is my stock response to the ‘what do you do?’ question. When I returned the question it was met with the alacrity of an excited teenager. I have the best job in the world came his boysterious reply; I am a professional demonstrator. Immediately I conjured up a picture of an all weather, grim faced, fist waving, placard touting, yomper inclined toward occasional bold verbal announcements in support of his current cause. This week ban vivisection, next week ban the bomb. No cause dismissed.
Further description of his tasks in this role took me into the realms of knife sales. He demonstrated how useful they were, what a good deal was on offer and, usually, people bought them. He gave me an example of the introductory crowd grabbing jibber and any shred of mendacity or prevarication that had crept into my mind was dispelled immediately. That was his profession! He was going to UK in a couple of days and would be picking up some demonstrator work in Tesco’s, Margate. A likeable, likely lad.

Fortuitous Revelations?

2008-03-11T22:46:00.001+08:00

2nd March 08

What a week! Life has been rocked by revelations from a friend. Revelations that I am not at liberty to reveal here, which of course make them all the more revelationary! Two days in KL extended to six whilst I thought and rethought the impact of the revelations on my plans. I find little to excite me in KL anymore. I was staying at a little guest house close to Bukit Bintang so I had the obtuse and obscure pleasure of being within walking distance of the shopping malls of Sungei Wang, BB Plaza and a host of streetside coffee shops.
I took the opportunity of meeting up with a couple of old friends. One in particular that recent communication had got a little sparse with. The extended stay may in itself prove to have been fortuitous as the re striking of that communication could offer an interesting lead into activity that could usefully occupy some of my time were I to stay longer in the region. More inspecific information to mystify you. :-)
So I finally got my head around the travel agenda and escaped Kuala Lumpur for Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Another Asian city but at least one with some interesting history and a pleasant laid back feel to it. On the expense scale it's at least a couple of storeys below Kuala Lumpur. My basic guest house room in Jalan Tenkgat Tong Shin near to Bukit Bintang in Kuala Lumpur Malaysia without bathroom but with aircon, free internet access and basic breakfast was 75RM/night,12UKP (negotiated down from 85RM) and my aircon, tv, ensuite bathroom, no breakfast room at the Last Home Guest House in Phnom Penh 12USD, 6UKP. Beer Lao is about 40p a can and my fried noodles with chicken this morning cost me 1.25UKP. I will do some of the history in Phnom Penh over the coming days and then head off on a bus to Siam Reap where of the course the attraction is Angkor Watt.
If this contribution appears a little bland and factual it’s because revelations from a friend have temporarily distracted me from the fun and adventure of life in the travel room. I’ll be back!!

Crowded Planet Horror

2008-02-26T22:47:00.000+08:00

At shortly after 5pm today a supporting wall and roof collapsed onto hawker stall vendors and customers at the Crowded Planet Restaurant in Jalan Tengkat Tong Shin near to Bukit Bintang, Kualar Lumpur, Malaysia. I was in the Seven Eleven shop next door when the accident took place. Renovations had been underway at the restaurant for a number of days. Onlookers were critical of the owner for undertaking renovations whilst attempting to keep the business open. Emergency services were quick to respond with Bomba motorcycle units first on the scene 15 mins after the accident occurred. It was thought that 5 people were trapped in the wreckage as Bomba personnel began the clearance operation.

The Temples of Kings

2008-02-22T14:36:00.000+08:00

22nd Feb 08

I've been ill. Two full days of stomach pains, purging and mild fever. Instigated I suspect (as we always do in such cases) by what I had last eaten before my energy processor began to misfire and occaisionally backfire?!?! I lifted medicine from my hard knocks mental booklet of no pain no gain recovery and improvement techniques and starved for 24hrs. I'm almost back in the groove and last night had a delightful unbroken seven and half hours sleep. The longest I have slept for three nights at least. The two full days of illness were my last couple of days in Myanmar. Spent amongst the dour delights of downtown Yangon. Not the most illustrious finale to my Myanmar experience but enough to put the Bagan days into perspective.

The Bagan days (15th - 19th Feb) were relaxed exploration personnified. I had a full glorious three of them. Daytime sun was relentless. However temperatures moved into the uncomfortably hot zone for only 2 or 3 hours of the afternoon. Beyond nightfall temperatures fell to levels that demanded long sleeves and trousers plus bit more.
The region of Bagan covers around forty square kilometres and consists of Nyaung U, Old Bagan and New Bagan. Terrain is pretty flat. The North Western flank of the region is marked by the massive Irwawaddy River.

During the eleventh and twelfth centuries seven or eight succesive kings of the region were so bored and lost for ways of being a bigger and better king than their predecessor that each indulged their power and authority to make increasingly large and populous marks on the landscape and ultimately history. The result is two and a half thousand temples, shrines, pagodas and stupas that range in size from small and compact to massive with internal stairways leading up to terraces that offer rousing vantage points across the flatland of the region. All but the smallest of temples have a Budda statue inside each of the four compass point facing sides of the building. Many of them are of red brick construction and some have gold leaf coverings. Some are internally endowed with wall paintings presumably from the build period!!
Temples are not particularly my thing but I cannot deny the enjoyment of cycling the quiet roads and lanes with camera, water and wallet to discover the extent of those Kings indulgent follies during that period.
There were two notable acquaintance experiences.
Gita and Aloo had discarded their Spanish names and assumed Indian names for their travel in the region and possibly beyond...My early morning need for quiet solitude meant the chances of our breakfast room nods and brief hello's turning into friendly conversation were unlikely. However a fate meeting of late morning cyclists at a road junction between Old and New Bagan resulted in friendly lunchtime chats over the next couple of days. Gita and Aloo's ideas about food people and life were not so far removed from my own. Vegetarian lunch at a local dusty floored shack where customers were attended by local urchins earning a little for their families suited us just fine. We filled the air with tales of past travel and future dreams, and our stomachs with the satisfying mixture of rice and spiced vegetable delicacies. Gita set the pace of self indulgence by a 'sleep time' declaration and led out on one of the benches for a Burmese siesta. Aloo and I continued to explore the world across the depleted lunch table. Tea and cake completed the whole cosy experience at Gita's return to the world of the conscious. Gita and Aloo wanted to live the life of the land they were in as much as possible. To behold their thoughts and indulgent yet warm and friendly nature was another outstanding landmark in my travel experience. Super couple.
The other notable acquaintance experience occured late in the afternoon of my final Bagan Day. I'd cycled leisurely around the Nyaung U town centre and was drifting back toward my temporary residence with thoughts on everything but the traffic when I realised this white saloon had arrested itself in my path. I careered around its left hand perimeter giving wide berth to the opening doors. I detected a commotion as though something had been discovered or found and then heard the name Graham mentioned. I braked forward of the vehicle and looked back to see Juan standing with his arms on the top of the open rear door and Connie with her head out of the front passenger window. It was indeed a suprise and a pleasure to meet them again in the dusty town road of Nyaung U. It took us just a few minutes to arrange 'dinner'.
It was the post dinner activities that are most worthy of note here. With stomachs of Myanmar food and veins tickled with beer we ambled toward an audible source of music and song. Myanmar's version of Gladstonbury was well underway on open land and makeshift stage not minutes from our dinner location. The final hour in the amusing company of my delightful friends from Majorca was sat at the outfield of the concert sharing Myanmar Rum and Star Coke that the 'hot dog' vendor had conjured up from somewhere. Stories were of Spanish and Majorcan fiestas gone by and hopes were of a hangover free morning. I flew from Bagan to Yangon within hours and I remember Connie saying, reassuringly, more than once that it would be ok as I could sleep on the plane. That frequently relayed anecdote for the alcholically confused!! I was still conscious enough to realise that making it to the plane might be the bigger challenge.

Blues in Bagan

2008-02-20T13:53:00.000+08:00

16th Feb 2008

Yesterday I arrived in Bagan, Myanmar on a bus from Inle, Myanmar. I am at a low. There is little inspiration or enthusiasm in my blood. I am tiring of the travel and of the long periods of loneliness. I long for the company of my family and friends. I know there is no short cut to that. I still have much ground to cover, aspects of life to confront and many solutions to find. I will need to plunder the depths of my inner resources to address them.

In many respects the travel I have committed to has been a postponement of decisions about future life, particularly about where to live, what work to take when I decide to work, and about whether to take a 'life' partner should the opportunity arise... and I know it will when I start allowing it to.

I have however enjoyed the time in Inle. Inle Lake is full of wonderful sights and mellow people. The atmosphere is quiet and serene. Early morning mists and warm evening dusks bring contrasting moods to picturesque settings that appear to be from an age long departed in other parts of this world. I had the added pleasure of spending much of the Inle time with a couple that I met in Kalaw.

Kalaw is an almost car less town. It exudes the back packer atmosphere and nestles in the hills maybe 40km from Inle. Many visitors to Kalaw choose to take a 3 day, 2 night trek to reach the lake. One overnight stop is apparently at a monastery and rumour has it that the predawn chorus one awakes to is of the monks chanting their worshipful verse. I missed that. I took the soft option and chickened out on the 3 day trek in favour of a shared taxi from Kalaw to Inle. At least my knees still work!

It was during the early afternoon of the 11th February that I had the pleasure of meeting Juan and Connie. Hailing from Majorca now but originally Spain (Barcelona) and Holland respectively they were like old friends within hours. A chance meeting in the quiet Kalaw streets led to a coffee at a nearby shop then dinner in the evening and the shared taxi the following day to Nyaungshwe, Inle.

Juan's sense of humour ran completely adjacent to my own and we found ourselves chuckling about sightings such as the hustle of small boats in a remote spot of the Inle lake that were positioned with afts to the hustle centre and the captains perched on their haunches at the afts deep in conversation. They're talking politics was the witty comment from Juan..no microphones there! The day trip on a boat across the lake to take in the floating market, lunch and finally to collect their Dutch friends at the end of their 3 day hike from Kalaw to Inle lake was a notable pleasure. Connie was warm, friendly and caring. A lovely couple. I have an invite to Majorca. Bless them!

I followed the lake boat trip on the 13th with what was described as a 5 hour trek from my guest house on the 14th. Enquires made of the guest house, Aquarious, owner reassured me that the trek was gentle and did not need a guide. I set off solo in the morning armed with suncream, water and the little rough map that the guest house had presented me with. Two hours later I had begun to get the feeling that I had missed a turn somewhere. I had been climbing gently and in some places not so gently for most of the 2 hours. The sun was strong and I was panting for much of that time. There were breathtaking views of the lake and the little town I had walked from but I had not come across the English speaking, cave dwelling monk who was supposed to have shown himself according to the position marked on the map at between 1and 2 hours. I began to think that I would go to three hours and if I was still of the opinion that I was incorrectly routed I would turn and make my way back. At least it would all be down hill and would probably be less than a three hour walk back. I continued to climb and felt that I was probably close to the peak of what appeared to be one of the highest hills around. At almost the three hour point I happened across a small village with a distinct absence of people. Just one old guy working on some bamboo who completely ignored me. I wandered across some flatland between basic woven walled dwellings toward what appeared to be a place of worship under construction. That was also deserted. I noticed a couple of children watching me from a distance. A few paces away from the part constructed shrine was a more elaborate timber structure with an open window. I called a couple of gentle hello's. Then I clocked a couple of novice monks in the shade inside the timber structure who were clearly eating and when they noticed me made the hand to mouth sign that suggested they were taking food. Don't mind me I thought. I'm just lost in space.

A more senior monk came to the window and with a series of hand signs, aaah's and ohh's I was given to believe the village I should have been at by now was a long, long way over to the west. I tried to explain to the monk that I would like him to write down the name of this village. He put pen to paper in the form of Myanmar symbols. I am not sure it will be of any use to me now but it was a nice thought at the time. I will take a photo of the map and of his writing and put into my Picasa album for the Feb 08.

I turned round from the window with my many thankyou's echoing in the air to see that the couple of children had multiplied to about 30. That and what followed made the whole walk worthwhile for me. I reached for my camera and made indications that I would like to take their photo. Immediately they fell cheerily into one straight line and I became convinced that this was not the first time they had had this request. I became even more convinced when, as I inspected the camera after the photo event, I was almost knocked over by the rush of the whole cheering group of children to my feet wanting to share the inspection with me. As I write this now I am again flushed with warmth that those happy children brought to me that afternoon. The photo will be in my Picasa Feb 08 album. My walk back was gentle. My boots were pinching my feet in a couple of places and I was sure that I would have some stiff muscles for a couple of days after but it would be a small price to pay for that experience.

That walk was to bring my Inle Lake visit to a close. I had bought a ticket for the bus to Bagan for the 15th February. 12500 Kjyet. A little over 10USD.

Before I leave Inle in this narrative I feel compelled to mention another lady that I met at the Aquarius guest house in Inle as I thought she was quite remarkable and had a lovely friendly way. Her name was Lola and she hails from Weymouth in Dorset, England. I want to mention this because I spent many family holidays in Weymouth. Lola actually owned and ran the Sandcombe Hotel close to the Esplanade Gardens for many years. Lola has retired from that business now but still spends the summers in Dorset. I have the impression that she spends most of her European winters in Asia and has spent a considerable time travelling in India. It was especially nice to hear that she still visits most of the South of England music festivals including Gladstonbury during the summers and she was keen to point out that she was old enough to be my mother. My admiration for others is pushed to new heights!

The roads are so bad here that it takes an age to get anywhere. I had to rise at 4.15am for the taxi at 4.30am to the bus stop at Taunggyi junction to take the 12 hour ride to Bagan. That bus ride was quite simply an endurance test. The bus had seats but little else that fell into the comfort category. It was incredibly dusty - inside the bus! The door didn't close properly which was a problem for the first three or four hours as the outside and inside temperature was well below 10deg C and I wore shorts and sandals. As the day went by the temperature climbed to well over the other side of 25deg C and the door needed to be open but unfortunately that meant that the internal dust count frequently rose to haze levels inside the bus. As we came to the latter half of the day the passenger count exceeded seat count by a mutliple previously unheard of but it didn't stop a gaggle of schoolgirls singing their way through the last three hot dusty hours to Bagan. As is the way in Myanmar we had some bold individuals travelling atop the bus for large lengths of the journey also. At Nyaung U, Bagan, I collected an almost unrecognisable brown Myanmar dust coloured backpack from the underside of the rattley old Isuzu bus and accepted the first offer of transport into the guest house area, a pony and trap. I am at the New Heaven guest house for 6usd a night inc breakfast. After that bus ride I can confirm it is aptly named.

I will adjourn for a beer now and be back at the keyboard over the next couple of days to record some experiences from the Bagan days. The writing has lifted my spirits a little as it always does. Nevertheless it is getting close to the time when I need to make some hard decisions about life beyond this period of travel.

The Night to Kalaw

2008-02-20T13:49:00.000+08:00

11th Feb 2008

I arrived in Kalaw, after a coach trip from Mandalay that would produce such exclamations as; ‘oooh I say Graham, how terrible’ if I were to relay this little travel episode to the folks back home. Mandalay and Kalaw people in Myanmar would see it is as perfectly normal I am sure.

The Nylon Hotel in Mandalay took an extravagant (in retrospect) 17000 Kyet from me for a seat on what was touted to be an aircon bus from Mandalay to Kalaw. Aircon it was not; thankfully for the night trip it wasn’t really needed.

Seating was the unusual and compact 5 across system; no aisle. This was achieved with aisle fold down seats whose occupants were forced to play musical chairs when anyone else wanted to move, enter or depart. In other words we were packed into that bus like the proverbial sardines.

I tried very hard not to look to long and hard at the poor unfortunate soul who occupied the flip down aisle seat next to me. He was either Osama bin Ladin or his twin brother fully prepared for a cold night in the foothills directing operations to repel capitalist insurgents. My other neighbour was younger and seemed more friendly if not a little exuberant. He was pure entertainment. He was having a good bash at conversation with me as we rolled, literally, out of the bus depot. Short sentences of Burmese floated across to me on a vapour of whisky were always concluded with an enquiring 'ok?' to which I grinned a thumb in the air ‘ok!’. His happiness at my willingness to engage in a mostly hand signal and body language exchange of gestures was signaled by frequent flashes of betel infected crunchers. What you might call the Burmese smile.

Names weren't important. We were getting along fine. Exchanges extended to chewing gum and boiled sweets.

Did he really like me as much as his seating position seemed to suggest? For a few moments I flushed as the delayed alarm bells began to ring in my head. He sat at an interference fit with left hand items of my anatomy. Mysteriously there appeared to be inches between the left side of his anatomy and the window. I made a show of measuring both spaces and shaking the hand as the Asians do to indicate the 'why?' or 'don't know' status. The betel gums reappeared as he dug his leather jacket out from the cavity between his butt and the window. It was definitely 'off the peg' as I recalled noting when we were outside of the bus. As we both relaxed into a twenty percent increase of available seat space he dug me in the ribs with his elbow in a request for me to look more closely at the jacket. He had parted the lining and a wad of local currency as the size of a bedroll was peeping at me. He had also refined a laughable hand gesture that sort of said 'anything goes' or 'let it be', which was what he was waving at me now. Clearly a Jack the Lad.

Roads in Mandalay teeter on the edge of survival. Some were conceived but never born. The dust and fumes outside the coach were what had played havoc with my throat, breathing and sleep for the past days. I was heading for cleaner air. It was a little way off yet, I couldn’t wait. The scheduled arrival time was 4am. 10hrs of travel in this sardine pack. The torture increased as the TV and DVD player was stoked into action. For my inimitable pleasure there were a couple of hours of Burmese pantomime comedy acted out by Little and Large lookalikes in Sarongs and basic props. At points most of the coach were laughing and my whiskey mate would join in most of the singing although he would pretty much be solo in that effort.

The roads began to deteriorate and for most of the time were single vehicle width with wide side tracks for passing other vehicles. Toll points were slightly better prepared. We were also clearly and slowly climbing. At about 9.30pm we pulled into a the Myanmar excuse for a service station. Some of the more friendly occupants of the coach uttered ‘dinner’ with a smile and hand to mouth signs that confirmed we would be able to eat. I went forward to a table manned by a serious looking Burmese war veteran lady that handed me rations as if there was no choice so I assumed there was no choice and took a bowl of rice with a little garlic and peanuts sprinkled over the top. Listlessly, to the side dithered an emancipated fowl limb. I was also brought soup. Then my whiskey mate arrived. He had the similar base rations but had found some withered sausage like material which I was encouraged to try. Another lady had also appeared and was energetically peeling boiled eggs to which I was treated two. I assumed that this was part of the bus deal. I even ate the Burmese at a chicken leg. Then the most touching thing happened. The serious looking lady that had handed me the rice at the beginning was now manning the cash till and I saw her mutter something to the soup girl. The soup girl approached our table and looking at me said two thousand. My whiskey mates hand went up and around to suggest all in. Despite my protestations he bought my dinner. He bought my dinner. Dah!

Back in the coach the roads subsided to stoney tracks. At best our headway was hitting a maximum of 20kmh. We twisted and turned along the edges of hills. We were climbing more steeply. In the black of the night we'd frequently need to pull over to let an oncoming vehicle pass and we'd frequently need to navigate a narrow path around a broken down truck or bus being careful not to lose a wheel over the road edge. Then suddenly all of the twisting and turning stopped and within minutes we were into civilization. I spotted a board with Eastern Paradise painted boldly on it. We were in Kalaw! The driver pulled over and someone pointed at me. Gosh, my stop, realization dawned. I felt excited but alarmed. 2am. Will I be able to secure a room at my chosen guest house? Or would I have to snook down until dawn in crevice of a building somewhere? My trusty backpack was retrieved from the rear of the vehicle and I was left there to my own devices as the bus pulled away again. Hello..came the gentle female voice from an approaching figure. Where do you want to stay? This lady had heard the bus arrive, saw that it was to deliver a bewildered tourist and hopped out from her bed across the road to help me to a room for the night. Kalaw friendliness! Eastern Paradise, Yes it’s this way. We walked the 700yards to the Guest House and raised the proprietoress who, after multiple bell presses appeared in woollen hat and cloak over a night dress. Toto, my street meet told me she would see me tomorrow to talk about treks…ahh I knew there might be a catch. Nevertheless I can’t knock the friendliness. I was ushered to a room by the sleepy proprietor, given the time for breakfast and told everything else could be settled in the morning. I had arrived in Kalaw and had a place to sleep!!

The Air of Yangon

2008-02-20T13:29:00.000+08:00

6th Feb 2008

Myanmar is proving to be something of a challenge. Today I have flown on a Yangon Airways turboprop flight from Yangon to Mandalay. The hot, dusty and frenetic streets of downtown Yangon had taken their toll. There had been little inspiration in them for me although I had enjoyed collecting some 'street life' photos.

Little has left me feeling 'Wow' ed.

Pagodas, Stupas and more Pagodas have quickly re induced shrine sickness within me. I have yet to reap anything like the reward that the beauty of Bali, Boracay and Laos visits have bestowed on me.

I have suffered a constant irritation of the throat that is indisputably a result of the overwhelming dust and traffic fumes. Add to this the difficulties and inconvenience of communication, finance, infrequent electricity, mosquitoes and rats bigger and bolder than Basil Brush ever was then personally and frankly being here feels like punishment.

There are humungus quantities of people. The majority of which need to go somewhere all the time. At any one point in time approximately half of these people are shamelessly expelling mouthfuls of pulped beetlenut mixture in a fashion that puts mere gobbing to shame and insignificance. The other half are trying to sell you something.

Most men look as though their teeth and gums have been thirteen rounds with Frank Bruno. A smile from a local has seen me respond more than once with raised eyebrows and mouth agape expecting the Gotcha or Candid Camera man to spring out from behind the nearest trishaw to reassure me it was just a silly Dracula prank. Do they actually kiss their partners in that state?

Other mostly female indivduals deem it positively becoming to scrawn pancake mixture across their cheeks and foreheads in a clearly misdirected mission of beauty attainment.

Ingenuity amongst the people appears to be inspired by transport. Buses have rear crash bars and roof racks that are frequently home to more passengers than the cushioned interiors. Today I swear I have seen vehicles that have been built from those rice harvester machines. There is the eighteen sided fat wheel at the front. The diesel engine that rev's once every two seconds and puffs dense black clouds at an equal rate is held aloft by a lengthy trailer producing an entire contraption that moves at about 5kmh piloted by a man with reins in his hand perched at the front of the trailer.

The Mandalay airport is the best part of 45km from the city. In an attempt to avoid the cost of a whole taxi from the airport to the city I began to make some less than discreet enquires of possible taxi partners in the baggage reclaim area of the airport. An English speaking party of four admitted that they wouldn't mind to share but they would probably occupy one taxi between them. I slipped into a state of 'who gives a shit anyway' as the minutes slipped by and my baggage slipped toward missing presumed lost status.

I needn't have been concerned. A sarong on the pathement near to the exit declared himself the almighty but unofficial taxi manager (no badge). Share he understood and I was told to wait there. 10 minutes later four strangers of which I was one, each with luggage, plus a driver were crowbarred into a Toyota Corolla of 80's vintage still evidently wearing original suspension springs and dampers (the Toyota).

Now back in my room at the ET Hotel some local in the street below, possibly from a competitors organisation has a tape player playing a tape of a child crying set to full volume and repeat. Either that or its a real child in despair. Bright joy.

Passage to Yangon

2008-02-04T15:32:00.000+08:00

My passage to Yangon in Myanmar had been mostly land travel; at my choice. I had left KL at 9.30am on the 26^th January to embark on a 9hr coach trip to Hat Yai in Southern Thailand. The coach was aircon’d and I had a single reclining seat with adequate leg room. The 9hr trip passed smoothly and comfortably. The coach made it’s way into the centre of Hat Yai and I hopped out fairly close to one hotel that I had stayed at before in the smallish town. However, although it was pretty good value for money at 750baht/night I knew I could get lower. With bags loaded about my person I made way through the central streets of Hat Yai focusing on ‘guest house’ accommodation. The results were dismal. Grey sheets, mouldy, smutty walls and incredibly bad smells left me cringing and depressed. I needed to come upmarket and finally found a clean room with shower and toilet, tv, aircon and fridge for 450baht per night. I had only one difficulty with this place. The pillows had this really weird strong contaminated foam rubber smell. I tried not to think what the contamination might be. If I led on my side it was just too much and prevented me from sleeping so I had to acquire a technique of falling asleep on my back with my nose in the air! I spent a couple of nights there and tried to enjoy the shopping and food that the small town offered but couldn’t really get into it. I decided to move via train to Bangkok. On the evening of the 28^th Jan 2008 at 18.05hrs I boarded a night train destined for Bangkok. The trip was scheduled to to be 16hrs and would arrive in Bangkok at 10.20 hours the following morning. It eventually arrived at almost 14.00hrs making a total journey time of over 19hrs. The cost was 900 baht. It was a sleeper. An aircon’d carriage and crisp clean and comfortable bedding helped me toward a great nights sleep which made the 19 hour journey bearable approaching pleasurable.

I had no accommodation booked in Bangkok but had been in email contact with a friend who had been staying at guest house called ‘Wendy House’ near to the National Stadium. This would be my target location and a tuk tuk made an efficient means of transport there from the railway station. Wendy House had a room but it was 1000 baht per night. Nice room though! However 2 doors away was ‘The Bed and Breakfast’ for 500 baht a night which I moved to the following day. No TV or fridge and just enough room to shuffle around my single bed but close enough to still be able to use the Wendy House wifi from my room. It was my new hutch for four nights whilst I was getting the Myanmar visa processed. I spent the days re realizing that I don’t really want to live in a city. Hot, dusty, jammed and polluted. I think I will always enjoy being in the city environment in short bursts but full time… No thanks.

My most pleasant day was spent with an old pal from the semiconductor days. We did a city tour on the river. As is the case with many cities Bangkok has a river life that predates most of the modern concrete city of Bangkok. We took in a pleasurable couple of hours of the from a long tail boat with captain that we hired for a reasonable 1200 baht. The path of the Chao Praya river through Bangkok is complemented by a network of canal ways that supported (and still do to some extent) small to medium industries as an economic means of moving materials in and products out. This was most evident when the following day I visited the Ban Jim Thompson. This American built himself a traditional Thai home or ban on the canal to support his growing interests and business in the Thai silk industry. Sadly and spookily he vanished whilst on holiday in the Malaysian Highlands in 1967. Now the house is open to the public as a salute to the contribution to Thai silk that Jim made during his time there. Storytelling scrolls, ancient Chinese blue and white pottery and Buddha statues figure largely in the décor. Built with the most prominent entrance from the canal itself, the house is a lovely robust dark wood construction characterized by open airy landings, shuttered window openings and shady gardens. The lady guide couldn’t do R’s and still had the rise and fall of the Thai language in her voice when she spoke her English so I had to listen very carefully to connect it all together. She also seemed to have a thing about potties and was keen to point them out in each of the bedrooms to us all…??.

Yangon Arrival

2008-02-04T15:29:00.001+08:00

03 Feb 2008

I have arrived in Yangon, Myanmar. There are surprises! There are no ATM's. Sometimes there is electricity!. There is no mobile phone network. Wifi is not yet word in their vocabulary and Internet Cafe's still serve coffee whilst you wait for the connection. Many people wear pancake mix smeared on their cheeks. Indian’s with all their colourful often flower oriented antics appear to make up a not insignificant portion of the population.

I was met at the airport by a young Burmese man holding a card with my name spelt correctly. That was one of the more pleasant suprises! I was escorted to a taxi and tranpsorted to the guest house that I had found on the Internet whilst in the Coffee World shop at MBK in Bangkok on the 2nd Feb. I am grateful for that welcome as the airport scene looked less welcoming and less organised than any that I have seen elsewhere in South East Asia.

For 10USD a night I have a single room with attached toilet and shower, aircon, fridge and a TV that receives satellite transmitted images at a signal strength that constructs pictures resembling a part finished jigsaws. Peculiarly the sound rolls in a lot less fractiously.

The bathroom presents an initial clean and hygenic image but I have noticed a rat shaped hole in the mesh that covers the right non glazed half of a window (to nowhere except rat city I suspect). I will be keeping the bathroom door tightly shut tonight.

My arrival at the guest house was before 9.30am Burma time. Yangon is the only city I know that makes half hour adjustments to it's local time against other countries in the region. Yangon is 1.5hrs behind Malaysian time. At 9.30am local time there were guests still partaking in breakfast at the small dining area in my guest house, called the Ocean Pearl Inn.

I sat nearby. I cannot knock the service so far. Within seconds I was being plied with coffee toast eggs and fruit by the kitchen staff. I listened hesitantly to the conversation at the table.

It was French. At the first opportunity I proceeded to make enquiries of their time in Yangon (2 days) and whether the accomodation was to their satisfaction. The general impression painted was ‘approaching acceptable’. One of the girls was convinced that she had seen a rat in her room and the guy advised me not to look under the bed! I think it pretty much summed up how I already felt.

Happiness is a Valley in Hong Kong

2008-01-30T17:37:00.000+08:00

My arrival in Hong Kong was through Macau on Sunday the 20th January 08. One of the first surprises this trip dealt me was the difficulty of communication for the Englishman in the Hong Kong belt. I’d formed the impression, after a couple of short business trips here a few years ago, that there existed some basic spoken English ability amongst the Chinese population. That appears to have become less the case.

Over the recent months I had become rather b l a z e h about moving from country to country in South East Asia and preparation for this short visit to friends in Hong Kong had received little attention; Hence the thoughts in my mind as I collected my bag from the conveyor at the Macau airport were attaching themselves to the quest of transit from Macau to Hong Kong. A user friendly ATM in the Macau airport arrivals concourse armed me with some local currency. The successful withdrawal of Macau dollars triggered the realization that I was not yet in Hong Kong territory and had still to negotiate two border crossings. Yet that realization sat at mere irritation level compared to the horror that swept across me like a rash as I noticed that only two of the three bank cards that I carry in my wallet were visible. Several mindless but panic flushed tours of the airport concourse followed. My head was more busy than the firework display of New Years eve. It was an MBNA mastercard that was missing. Jeeeeez. I'd better phone the bank. No wait, I'd better check my clothes and bags in case it dropped out. It shouldn't matter anyway because most if not all outlets now require a pin. How could it have left my wallet? When did I last see it? That doesn't matter; is it really missing? Stop, Stop, Stop, Stop!!! Sit down! Think clearly, logically and rationally. Is it really missing? The open bags, unzipped pouch and inverted pants pockets adorning the concourse seats hit me with the answer like a drunk and angry girlfriend (They are evil, ugh?). Yes, it is really missing you careless dope. So MBNA need to be informed P D Q. I therefore have a choice..call now from a phone booth (MBNA accept reverse charge calls), call now from my mobile, or call from skype after I have met my friends who I know have an internet connection in their apartment.
That was when I could have done without the language difficulty. The lady at the information desk had a good command of the English required to send me to the bus stop or the taxi rank and she could write the number of the only bus that came by the airport in English characters for me but that was where it ended. Encouraging some conversation around the subject of a public telephone, the number of the operator and the procedure for making a reverse charge call to my bank left me standing in a forlorn state of hope and her with nothing but a ‘you’re from the moon’ smile across her Red Revlon lips.
Decision made. The task of getting to Hong Kong looked as though it was going to be challenge enough. I would have to make the call after I had met my friends, hopefully with their help. The AP1 bus would take me to the ferry terminal and so on it I hopped, several times. Each with an additional piece of my increasingly lenghty luggage train. This appeared to irritate the older passengers and amuse the younger ones. The driver was older. He blasted what appeared to be a few Cantonese proverbs across my bows. I paid some money and sat down. The raucous quieted. The frumpy bespectacled man at my side seemed occupied with events outside of the bus. He apparently did not want to be disturbed as I discovered when I meekly enquired of the distance to the ferry terminal. NO ENGLISH he growled amongst rolling jowels a bulldog would have been proud of. I looked around and saw most of the heads throughout the bus turn away from me in unison.
Within minutes the bus was circling what was clearly the ferry terminal on an elevated piece of road. I looked around and a character sat behind me raised his eyebrows and pointed down at the boats in the water. I smiled and mouthed a thankyou. My God, a human!
Inside the terminal I was faced with an unexpected choice – ferries were leaving to either Hong Kong Centre or Kowloon. I didn’t know where my hosts were meeting me. Attempted conversations with various officials around the building produced little warmth but further alarming uncertainty. Finally, after several sms’ and haphazard reselections of service providers to receive replies I ascertained it to be Hong Kong Centre.
The steps into the arrival hall at the Hong Kong side were blessed ones.Yati sprang on me with the yelp and glee of a young puppy. Bjorn’s robust hand shake and composed welcome assured me that I was in good company here. We taxied to their apartment as I relayed the horror over the lost credit card. In their compact but comfortable abode I was directed to the lap top and pointed at skype whilst tea was made. They were great hosts throughout the short trip.

The following few days were a mixture of accompanied and unaccompanied Hong Kong exploration. The highlight of which was my first ever visit to a horse race meeting at the ‘Happy Valley’ racetrack. It was an evening event swamped in an electric atmosphere . The floodlit 2000km turf track gazed at by apartment blocks from one side and avid form fanatics from the purpose built grandstand down the other. The array of betting options was bewildering to the uninitiated. Whether I looked at the daily press, the printed news-sheet handed me at the entry or the multicolored bus sized 'odds' boards facing the grandstand from the central reservation my betting preparation level fluttered around at incompetent level. Being ‘risk adverse’ as my endlessly disappointed financial advisor always described me, I picked out horses in races 2, 4, 6, and 8 based on whether name of horse, jockey or trainer had any meaning for me in my hitherto non horseracing life. I remember one jockey with the name of Coetzee, a favorite author of mine, that was picked out for my money in one race and another horse with the name of Joy Up, bringing to mind a distant girlfriend, that was picked for my money in another race. My intention was to place a 10$ bet on each to make a place at the finish. I lost money in race 2 and chickened out on races 4, 6 and 8. Ironically the horse I chose in race 8 won at odds that would have left me 10$ up on the night.

The other fascination that this brief trip to Hong Kong inspired in me was for tram watching. The tall thin shape, that bold single headlight and the brave new world advertisements they carried produced a somewhat surreal image that I was persistently intrigued by.
Example in the header photo.

Lilted in Laos

2008-01-19T18:59:00.000+08:00

My final few days in Vientianne were ones of pleasant relaxation. The mornings kicked off with a 15 minute walk to a little noodle shop that I had discovered. There was absolutely nothing touristy about it. The Mama finally began to greet my arrival with a smile which I am convinced was a front for astonishment and disbelief that this pharang should return more than once for her pork noodle soup. Her man was brow beaten though, I could see it. He had been assigned duties mainly associated with mopping and sweeping and performed them with his head hung low. He was half the size of Mama. In the back of the shop there was a tv that was frequently tuned to a sports channel. In between his tidying he'd be witnessing world sports events with a fervour that belied his normal dutiful self. In one connecting moment we both ooh'd and aah'd together as black boxers whelted one another on their way to a knockout result. It's such a warmth I feel when those connecting moments spring into life.

I'd follow the pork noodle soup event with a leisurely walk through the town. Bookshops, coffee, reading, more walking, chatting to tourists. The sunny days were warm, dusty and relaxed. The French influence meant that daytime food was often baguette and pate oriented. More than once late afternoon found me at the riverside stretched out on a mat in the warm late afternoon sun with a fruitshake and a book that after only minutes of inspection would fall crumpled onto my chest as my eyes signed off and I succumbed to a new characteristic of my remodelled existance.. napping.

I was intrigued to note that amongst the many 125cc commuter style motorcycles for rent at extensive outlets across the town there would occaisionally be a trail bike on offer. Frequently that trail bike would be a Honda XR 250. If I had been in Laos a little longer I would have coughed the 25USD a day to have had the reputable machine between my legs as the tool for exploring some of the outlying terrain. I was just pondering this thought whilst admiring a tidy black and silver version of the model when the temporay owner strode up to the machine. The friendly Oz accent inquired of my interest and I shared my thoughts. His response was - DO IT! He'd hired his bike in Luang Prabang and ridden the same route I'd done on the 9hr bus ride with an overnight stop at a small village in the mountains. Now I know why some of these bikes are fitted with outrageously large dual headlamps! Adventurous bugger. I was full of admiration.

On reflection my time in Laos was lullabilic. There was no rush. No stress or tension. The people were mild, friendly and kind. On the day that I rode my bicycle to the Northern Bus Station I happened across a district populated with stylish detached houses in tended gardens and drives that were homes for BMW's and Mercedes.

The so called communist authorities appeared to have hit on a recipe that most people appeared at the very least comfortable with.

The mixture of French and Asian architecure in the streets of Vientiane was complemented by a food choice that suggested a harmonious balance between the colonial history, the ruling party and the South East Asian location. The weather gave the mornings a bright biting start to the day and mooched it's way toward balmy book reading afternoons. The dry dusty but litterfree streets encouraged exploration and walking or cycling around the city was a smiling, satisfying experience that always produced an internal warmth more normally associated with early evening cocktails. Fabulous.

I will fly back to KL for a night before visiting friends in Hong Kong via Macau for which I depart on the 20th January 2008.

Mum and son hang out in my black and white shot at the top.

The Road to Luang Prabang

2008-01-15T21:08:00.000+08:00

14th Jan 08

The ‘VIP’ coach trip from Vientiane to Luang Prabang, the ancient capital of Laos, was everything that had it threatened to be. An alleged distance of 400km. A scheduled journey time of 9 hours. That rattled out to an average speed of about 45km/hour. Some indication of the roads and terrain to be traversed! The first hour of the journey found the coach's occupants making friends, sharing concerns and shuffling seats to achieve best space usage in a quest for crumbs of comfort. A quest thwarted significantly by seat backs that only rested in the dentist drill position and leg space only adequate for small Asians. Visions of VIP comfort dissolved into a reality of discomfort endurance well before the ‘free’ lunch. I wondered if the free lunch was an attempted ploy to recover the customer smile. At the table with my lunch in front of me I realized such tactics were not in the design. To have been charged anything for the bowl on the table would have turned the absent smile into a scowl at best.
Some 4.5hrs after the lunch stop and a seemingly endless tour of winding mountainside roads we pulled into a dusty, late afternoon, Luang Prabang Bus Station.
Scant negotiations with guesthouse and tuk tuk operators at the bus station foresaw a short ride into ‘town’ in the cooling light of the day. I plumped for the third guest house I saw which was 13USD for a room with fan, own toilet and shower, clean bed and a stones throw from the Mekong River; which occupies it’s bed fully at this location. It didn’t take me long to unload the one bag I’d carried and head off into the town to explore.

It was all worth it!

The hair on my arms stood and the goose pimples bristled as the tingle of excitement rippled through me. A walk along the street just two blocks from my accommodation, which I later saw described as the most atmospheric street in Luang Prabang, made it all worthwhile. The far end of the street disappeared into the warm red orange arc of the days lost sun. Handicraft and art shops dotted amongst candlelit open fronted street side restaurants and a few bars produced a warmth of mood that the day had lost with the setting sun.
I succumbed to my food weakness and ate Indian at probably the least attractive looking restaurant along the road.
Post dinner explorations revealed more tingling experiences with the discovery of a night market that focused mostly on garments and household throws for anything from beds to bidets. Linen and Laos silk figured strongly. Laos linen patterns were bold but simple and kept me wishing I had a place of my own to decorate with this stuff. These people are subtle and artistic. How many night markets have you been to in Asia where there are no DVD’s, no music, and no copy goods? It was like visiting a tastefully decorated house and brought that similar feeling of well being.
I went to sleep with an inner and outer smile that night.

The following couple of days saw me move accommodation once, explore the town architecture which included some breathtakingly beautiful Wats and took in some Colonial French and modern French buildings, and chance meet and chat with various members of the touring party that shared that arduous bus ride from Vientianne. One of the more spooky visits was to the National Museum which until 1976 was the Royal Palace. Laos is a communist state which it became when it was ruled by Vietnam from around 1976. Prior to that time there was a monarchy and presumably a democracy. No one knows what happened to the Royal Family (isn’t that sad!!) but many of the artifacts of their existence are displayed in this building. One life size full length painting of one of the kings has everybody open mouthed. It is hung so that the kings feet, adorned with ordinary black shoes are at about chest height for the tourists. The left foot is at 90 degrees to the right foot when stood directly in front of the painting. When you walk to the right the angle of the foot the forward pointing foot increases and ‘goes with you’!! When you walk to the left the angle decreases and the foot still goes with you!!!

My departure meant an early rise on the Monday. I was waiting faithfully, as instructed, outside of my accommodation at 7am in the morning for the tuk tuk to the bus station. It’s cold then. In fact one needs a duvet at night not aircon. The morning chill spikes the early morning light. One needs coffee early. In a surprise finale to my visit I am treated to the Monks procession. Something I had read about but doubted whether I would see. Young Buddhist monks march a route through the town streets in their orange robes to collect their gifts of food for the day. The mood is somber fitting together oddly but aptly with the light and cold of the early morning. Even this event has a subtlety to it that borders on the artistic. More tingling.

Vientianne Visitations

2008-01-08T18:18:00.001+08:00

8th Jan 2008.

Today is my fourth day in Vientianne, the capital city of Laos. My first two nights were spent in a 'country residence' guest house just out of town. For 14 USD per night I had a room with fan, hard double bed and many mosquitoes. Oddly, they weren't biting me. The operation was run by a Kiwi. A young man who's every second word was f**king but no one seemed to mind. He was hard working and friendly despite the blunt edge to his vocabulary.
The house had an intriguing historic feel to it and was decorated in places by colorful embroidered material draped and hung in a variety of locations and directions to add an attractive kind of portable vibrance to the sturdy old dwelling.
The gardens made me smile. One could eat breakfast, and other meals come to that, at a variety of locations throughout the gardens. Tucked away in little detours off the main path were tables and chairs set out for garden dining in the privacy of Laos foliage. Neat!!

In Vientianne I have discovered that the only people that speak English are the English. Oddly there seem to be a fair number of those. My impression is that they are mostly long stay and probably somehow attempting to exploit the projected growth of a country that must be a good ten tourism years behind Thailand.
The Laos language has rings of Thai and I think the numbers for instance are the same in both languages. However my attempts at basic conversation using the little Thai I know fall mostly on stoney ground and turn up some shrugs and in general have little social impact.

Yesterday I moved house. I have found a 'Riverside' Hotel with rooms for 18 USD per night inclusive of breakfast. I will do that for two nights. The rooms are clean, with aircon, a fridge, own bathroom and wifi. On the downside my room is far enough away from the wifi transmitter for the signal to be weak and the connection intermittent. Which actually doesn't matter that much because even when you get connected the download speed is so slow it makes reading mail a more laborious task than watching paint dry. Even deeper on the downside is that my room has the cleaners store directly opposite it. Hence this morning I was woken abruptly at 7am by the clatter of mops, buckets and whatever other paraphernalia Laos cleaners are required to assemble in preparation for their daily cleansing challenge.

The river is famous but invisible. It is called the Mekong. One can see where it should be and one can see how it's bed is shaped. It would be massive if it were there. Nevertheless even in it's absence it still draws a considerable number of people to eat and drink at haunts alongside it's imaginery self. Late afternoon, early evening, the surreal riverside presents a unique ambience that is dominated by the setting sun and daubed by the haze of barbeque smoke. One can eat most things that once walked, swam or flew after being braziered. There is no serious contender for Beerlao as the drink choice. Roll them on in!

My header snapshot gives a hint of the riverside culinery experience on offer and provides a glimpse of the missing Mekong.

Today I have rented a bicycle. It will cost me 10,000kip for 24hrs. Kip is the national currency. 10,000kip is 50p. It is devoid of style (the bicycle not the kip). It is only functional and robust. For example it has a front basket and a stand you could watch football from. With the saddle post raised to it's extreme I still need to employ that factory worker pose (120 degrees knee to knee angle) to avoid knee elbow collision. I have spent an hour or two cycling the city roads. The traffic is gentle and I feel comfortable navigating my way around the city on the machine. There is something akin to the arc d'triomphe in the centre of the administration district. I have done a lap of it on the new steed earlier today and attracted a few waves from mischievous school children. The mood is light!

On friday I have a plan to go to Luang Prabang which apparently and for reasons I still have to understand is a must. Unfortunately it's a nine hour bus ride. So I am going to investigate a little further before committing myself to an 18hr return bus journey.

Pondok 'palace'

2007-12-03T15:27:00.000+08:00

Pondok 'palace'

2nd Dec 07

I could not possibly have stayed in the Empress Hotel at Sepang again. There is nothing that I look forward to at that location even though it is probably, geographically, the most convenient hotel for the LCCT portion of KLIA and indeed KLIA itself. So I took a gamble and booked one night in a backpacker lodge near to Bukit Bintang in the centre of KL. I was not looking forward to it for many reasons. I took the bus from KLIA LCCT to KL Sentral. That is only RM8. From KL Sentral I was quite happy to take a taxi to the Pondok Lodge in a road off Bukit Bintang; More than anything because I didn't really know where this Pondok 'palace' was. At KL Sentral the authorities deem it appropriate to operate a taxi control system that involves the purchase of a coupon from an appointed box office in the complex. Coupon price of course depends on destination. All designed to work in favour of the unknowing or unsuspecting possibly virgin tourist who has no suspicion that questions like 'is your meter on' or 'why is your meter already showing RM15 and we have not moved yet?' frequently need to be asked and even asked several times if they are ignored or met with a reply of negative inclination. Not realising there is more than one reason that one might choose to take a taxi, such as I don't want to walk but I don't want to walk and I don't know where this address is AND I don't want to get lost in this heat with two rucksacks and dodgy balance, the coupon sales person helped me tremendously by recommending an alternative mode of transport. In fact it was not only recommended but fiercely promoted, because, the attendant considered it less expensive which I would normally applaud as very tourist friendly. Take the monorail to Bukit Bintang and it's right nearby was the response to my wafting of the Starbucks receipt with the lodge address on the reverse under his nose. How much is the taxi? No, it's much better that you take the monorail to Bukit Bintang and it's right nearby. Oh Ok.. I do succumb very easily to suggestions of cost reduction which is what I assumed this to be. So with 2 rucksacks laced across my upper limbs and and a shoe bag hanging from the fingers of the longest one I swung on my heels to peruse the city horizon for what may pass as a monorail or even better a monorail station. In the polluted distance I could make out the form of what looked to be a large elevated bus shelter. An apparent route via covered market stalls seemed to be beckoning from across the road. Isn't it odd that humidity, heat and a little anxiety produce such an outpouring of moisture. I hadn't walked more than 50 paces or been approached to buy low priced sports attire more than 10 times before the bags I carried felt as though they had moulded themselves to my body. Before long the throng thickened and I was fighting football match like densities of people and, I noticed, had a major road crossing to negotiate. I am sure the perspiration must by now have turned my light colored shorts dark in all the embarrassing places. Which just served to raise the self consciousness and the rate of perspiration to a new level. Oooh traffic jam. Swing in between three lanes of stopped vehicles quickly before they move again. No chance..they move anyway when they have a chance of impaleing a heavily loaded white pedestrian with their Proton paraphernalia. I skipped and swerved a little ungainly at times but arrived at the steps to the KL Sentral Monorail station ticket office feeling and probably looking like a water otter moving house. With ticket purchased and escalator only paces a way I felt the rest must be simple. Initial indications were that my hopes would be correct. On a lightly populated platform there was little to do but watch the lights that soon suggested a vehicle was approaching. I was convinced the worst part of my journey was complete. Bukit Bintang was the fifth stop and being one of the early passengers into the vehicle I made my way to the far side and unloaded the baggage. At the third stop I suspected a possible error. The vehicle acquired an unbelievable quantity of passengers and the perspiration switch was thrown once more. If the fourth stop doesn’t deliver a large quantity of these people to their destination I may be on this vehicle for a while I thought. The fourth stop delivered no one to their destination but served as an apparent opportunity for Malaysians to attempt a world record attempt at the number of passengers in an over heated monorail car. I was at the back and due to alight at the next stop. Care I did not. Hope was disgarded at stop three. I readied myself for a monorail tour of KL. Deep breaths and salacious thoughts that included a sofa, dressing gown, slippers, comfortable temperatures, hot chocolate and possibly a girlfriend were ushered into my consciousness. A smile meandered across my hot face. I slipped away from reality in an exercise of mental consolation. The Bukit Bintang station arrived and the good Lord smiled on me. More than ninety percent of the passengers alighted. I began to reload my baggage bracing myself for the doors to close in my face. The good Lord continued to smile and I was allowed to walk from vehicle to platform unchallenged. From a gaggle of exits from the station I plumped for the simplest; the nearest. Outside I enquired at a Maxis promotion booth of directions to Pondok ‘palace’. A short walk to traffic lights, turn right and it’s not far down there. S i m p l e. Beyond the traffic lights and 5 requests for further directions later that had produced completely conflicting results I turned my attention to taxis. 'Five ringitt' danced the black lips of an Indian cabbie through the open window of his Proton Wanka who was clearly well tuned to making a fast buck from a naïve newcomer to the district. No meter but aircon. He drove 10 yards to the corner, turned left and another 10 yards and dropped me outside Pondok Lodge. We both smiled.

I won’t return to Pondok Lodge. I can’t complain about the cleanliness but I struggled with the sheer blandness of the place and the room with no window.

The photo here is actually shot in Boracay in a little kite surfing beach location which will be the subject of an upcoming blog entry. I was not inspired enough to dig out my camera on the short visit to KL that was the subject of this blog entry.

2007-11-23T15:33:00.000+08:00

Too Long in Chiang Mai

22 nd Nov 07

Chang Mai is something of a centre for mountain sports. There are a host to chose from. White water rafting, mountain biking, trekking, climbing. Sadly I feel unable to participate in most because the balance is still not particularly brilliant. I have however ventured on an elephant safari where the highlight was about 45 minutes of elephant riding through jungle and river. Yesterday I had planned a solo trip to a famous temple and the kings palace (his country retreat) in the mountains about half an hour drive away from here. It was going to be a case of haggling a reasonable price out of a leg taxi. Crumbs, I asked so many people how to do this trip solo (without paying through the nose at one of those ostentacious high street tour stalls) and they all told me to go to this particular road and take a bloody leg taxi. Ok, I kept saying. A leg taxi, Ok. I asked a few more people, the lady at my lodge included. Finally I felt I must ask how I would recognise this leg taxi. Leg, I was told, leg. Mmmm. As a means of preparation for this ominous trip to the hills in a leg taxi I started to weigh up some of the vehicles that plied the streets of Chiang Mai. Taxis of all shapes and sizes were scrutinized for anything that might justify the leg taxi title. Pictures, writing, means of seating, modes of entry, alighting procedures. I still couldn't fathom it out. Short of flagging vehicles down and asking the driver directly if he was a leg taxi I was stumped. Stumped but not to be deterred. I decided to forget the leg taxi thing and just flag some vehicles down and regurgitate my destination in the Thai accent I had refined during my earlier enquiries. NO! Unbelievable, the first response I got from a driver was; 'ah you need leg taxi, not this one'. Kob Koon Krab. Thankyou very much. I turned away from the road to purchase water at a small roadside shop. Leg or blue bottle the assistant asked me. Leg please, I said…

Eureka!! I need the red taxi! He he he.

Within the next ten minutes I found myself next to a couple with similar intent. They were Spanish, from Madrid, I later discovered. David and Amelia. David was keen to practice his English with me. Amelia was a little more reticent but still enthusiastic and was a perfect compliment for the more outgoing David. We ended up chartering a leg taxi between the three of us for about 5 hours and did the Doi Suthep temple (originally built in the 14 th century), the Kings palace, the hill tribe village and some waterfalls. Whilst it was good to see these sights it was also splendid to have their easy going company and we concluded the day with beers together in the evening at an atmospheric location alongside the river called, as one might expect, The Riverside Café. Fireworks, a covers band playing Santana, Nirvana and Deep Purple numbers to name but a few, and attentive staff eased us through a couple of pleasant fluidic hours with much talk about everything from work to holidays and food to books and politics. Afterward we lit three hot air balloons and each made wishes as they soared into the sky. They were travelling the next day. Going south to Sukothai, another temple oriented spot on the backpacker route, from what I could make out.

Whilst music is in my mind I should mention the welcome contrast to stalls, handicrafts, and deep fried everything I happened across whilst traipsing the Tha Phae street market last Sunday evening. What must have been 300km into the seemingly endless market road there is a traffic lighted junction. The stalls had ceased but the throng of people had intensified. My height versus the average locals height offered me a clear view without having to fight through an army of excited youngsters. A rock band were making the final adjustments to their temperamental (as usual for energetic rock bands) electrical equipment. Bursts of distorted lead guitar dispersed with cable changes and checks for adequate feedback preceded half a dozen energetically and dramatically presented numbers from an impressive German band called Diva International. The lead singer/guitarist’s antics were clearly influenced by Jagger and the gaze from his cosmetically enhanced almost Alice Cooper like eyes was mesmerizing. Thirty to forty minutes of polished indie rock with dramatics to boot left me heady and missing a music player in my bag!

The photo here is taken in the grounds of the Doi Suthep Temple that I visited.

2007-11-14T15:35:00.000+08:00

Dom

13th November 2007

Poor Dom. At breakfast yesterday I could hear a troubled Canadian accent rattling through issues of email, phones, home, how? how? how? with the staff at my lodge. It was clear to me that nothing was making a lot of sense to him. Dom is 67 and hails from Vancouver. He is desperately seeking a fellow Canadian to help him unravel in, Canadian fashion, the mysteries of existance in Chiang Mai. He is lonely. Not just lonely, but lonely, lost and confused. He descended at my breakfast table shortly after the whirring conversation that I had overheard with the staff. His introduction was by means of an apologetic request to join me. Mornings are not my best time, the cynicism in me before 9am, is often a horror to my dayself. An English-ish speaking village idiot and he wants to join my table; after such luck the day can only get better. Pre 9am speak.

I listened and nodded and listened and nodded. I began to understand how he felt. It was possibly the first time out of Canada in his life. It was certainly the first visit to Asia in his life. At 67. Nothing was working for him. He couldn't relax. He felt like a fish on the moon. 9am went by. I listened and I felt sympathy creeping up. He had paid for a month in this particular lodge. He had been here for almost a week and had spent most of his time looking for other Canadians, unsuccessfully. It wasn't working at all. With his months advance payment he felt locked in, a situation that just fuelled his unease. He had one friend back in Columbia that he wanted to let know of his whereabouts and probably feel connected to. A church lady. I began to realise that the church community was almost certainly a substantial part of Dom's life back in Columbia. I also got the distinct impression there wasn't much else.

Dom appeared to have three things in his pockets. A camera loaned him by the church. Cigarettes. Whisky. He gurgled on the latter several times during our conversation. Which he suggested was a result of his predicament. His thinking and speaking ventured toward the ‘booze’. He shook a little. A result of the booze which was a result of his disconnection from all things else familiar, was his unprompted explanation. He’d like to give it up. He’d like to go to the de-tox programme if he could find one. In my own assessment it was all just a little out of reach for Dom because it was all so unfamiliar. The whisky was within easy reach. Suddenly and surprisingly he decided his day would be consist of a visit to a lawyer (?!) that he had talked to the previous day in an attempt to get local advice on a de-tox location and connecting to his church friend back home. We had visited the email thing in our conversation. I discovered that Dom didn’t have his own email and would need to piggy back on others email addresses to communicate this way. I toyed with the idea of taking him to the shop to create his own email but he indicated he couldn’t type and wasn’t, it seemed, at all computer literate. I was glad for him that he had made a decision for his day. I indicated that I would see him later and we went off back to our separate rooms to prepare for our different activities.

It was my first full day in Chiang Mai. I had plans to walk the inner city roads and explore the many temples that appeared on the free local map that I had picked up. Temples visited, photo’s captured, city perimeter wall trailed and bottles of water consumed I wearily made my way back to the lodge toward late afternoon. I felt rather satisfied with my day. It was one of achievement if not particular excitement. Temples are temples aren’t they. I had wondered about Dom several times during the day and hoped that he had achieved things too. At the gate to the lodge I had to wonder no longer. Dom was sat there with a beer. It appeared that there may have been occasional conversation with a couple sat at the next table as the girl was half turned in his direction (and the guy had his head in his hands). I had no hesitation in enquiring of his progress. ‘The lawyers in jail but I met two girls who want to see me tomorrow’ was his succinct reply. ‘Well that’s progress isn’t it?’ I replied. He seemed to agree but it was clear that the easier comfort was alcohol. I imparted a brief description of my day and a need to go bathe my aching feet.

He would sleep soon and we would catch up again tomorrow he advised me. ‘Sure, have a good rest Dom’.

Today Dom was with a new friend. A professor. Yes, seriously. Tall the professor, born in Myanmar, from London but living in Oslo! In Chiang Mai to lecture on some new Asian University Venture. Tall had organized Dom as opposed to my encouragement toward independance. Dom was getting packed off to Pai. At Pai would be a previous Chang Mai acquaintance of Doms who was English. This fella owned his own bungalow and somehow Dom and Tall had worked out that Dom would be welcome and helped there. I last saw them at about midday in a taxi together. I hope you find relaxation Dom and enjoy a little of your time in Asia.

So today will be a ‘computer day’ for me. tomorrow I will take one of the reasonably inexpensive tours either to see elephants at work, trekking or the Golden Triangle.

My final 5 days or so in Bali were spent at Sanur. There were still parts of Bali that I had not explored but I chose to step back from the constant turnover of room and bus ride. Sanur had most things. Windsurfing figured. I was sorely tempted but balance is still a little iffy after the dive incident. I stayed at Agung and Sue’s and had friendly chats with family and staff remembering particularly the musical Elvis (struggling with, in his words, a broken heart, to which I have to add..of the new age; the more he sms’d her the less she sms’d back) Gundi who could get his acoustic guitar to sound like any accompanying music I suggested but particularly Nirvana stuff, and the malu Deane.

An Australian beach café attracted me most days. Pie, mash peas and gravy became a favorite. Wifi access made it all very convenient. Chilled. Very chilled. Brings a warm happy feeling to me as I recall it all. Mmmm.

Ooh I must mention Gary. Gary from Sydney. Gary and Tyo run this most hospitable little operation in Candidasar. Ari's Homestay. I was attracted to it by the BIG FREE BREAKFAST sign out on the pathement at the front of their place. After one night at a run down operation near to the stagnant lake in Candidasar this proved to be a pleasant find for my second night there and only 10,000 Rupiah more expensive. Tyo was from Java and the two were clearly enjoying the whole thing and making the customers enjoy it too. Gary, Viv, Henz, myself and a couple from the UK, Claire and Dave, I think, had a really nice social evening over a few beers. Breakfast was big as promised and set me up for the day and the ride onto Sanur.

4 days in Baguio

2007-10-30T14:53:00.000+08:00

29th September 07

4 days in Baguio, Philippines and now I am leaving for Sunset Bay, San Fernando, La Union. Baguio days quickly move between pleasant pine lined walks in the cool temperatures of the glade to sooty diesel fume choked jaunts between lodge and the city shops. Having been to Baguio before and completely enjoying the climate contrast to Manila, I have quickly got restless this visit and am now looking forward to the virgin (for me) Philippine territory at Sunset Bay.

Most Pleasant Baguio Experience - The walk back from Mines View to town.

Most Dismal Baguio Experience - One night in the bug infested Starwood Hotel.

Most Likeable Character - Receptionist at the Bloomfield Hotel for displaying (?!) just about everything you'd hope for in a receptionist..welcoming smile, helpfulness, friendliness, a petite prettiness, patience and... charming.

2007-10-30T14:36:00.000+08:00

Disorder is Order

29 th October 2007

My 2 nd full day in Ubud brings with it spiritual enlightening that has it’s good and it’s bad. I talked to an interesting Frenchman yesterday that has a bookshop and restaurant in the main street called Rendevousdoux (of course it would be called Rendezvous something). Life was explained in a 15 minute reverie that put Anglo- French relationships into much warmer waters than they had been for years. Thierry has a description for everything that is happening. In summary everything we experience is the process. The process rolls, non stop. The process content builds the future. It may feel barren at times but that is one of the most creative phases of the process. The phase that pre exists doing must be rich and deep with experience. Anyone can walk to the station because the route is defined. Arriving at the decision to take the train and where to take the train to will come out of phase that pre exists the doing. Disorder is order I heard several times which tasted like a consolation pill. Bless him.

Ubud, the heart of the Balinese arts and handicraft industry, offered relaxation over coffee or beer depending on the time of day at several pleasant locations with padi field vista’s. One late afternoon coffee hangs particularly dreamily in my mind as I recall the sun setting across the padi fields at the back to front café. My term. I think it was called Kita. But the kitchen and the mess was at the street side so it didn’t look particularly attractive from the street. One sat at the back and gazed across the padi field to enjoy the food and drink and on this occasion the long shadows and oblique rays of a warm setting sun.

I left Ubud on the 31 st October with the intention of staying a night or two at Padang Bai…an hours bus ride from Ubud on the east coast. My immediate impression at Padang Bai was one of an untidy ferry traffic processing town which I, uninspired, left behind an hour later on another bus heading for Candidasa. Koonikov was the other intrepid bus passenger. Yep just two passengers.

2007-10-25T14:40:00.000+08:00

Mind Games

24th October 07

Yesterday was one of those 'what the hell is happening' days. Paul and Rachels Grandma passed away on the night of the 21st...into the 22nd out here. It threw me somewhat although I never had a great relationship with her Grandparents. Upset in the family is upset in the family. My whole world seemed to have a blue air about it. My mind worked overtime but never really achieved anything. I hate those days. I resolved to start thinking toward results, views, decisions and opinions later in the day. Structured thinking not just messy whirring thinking.

Lovina things aren't so Wow. It's another of those little Asian seaside towns that offer everything from girls to shells and make an unremarkable job of those and most stuff in between... speaking principally as a spectator, of course. There is a Wow to be explored offshore with trips to Dolphin watch and early morning remote bay snorkelling. It's in there but it's early and it has to follow a nice day that finishes with some comfort food (I have spotted one operation offering Chile Con Carne), a relatively early night and good sleep... not beers in a bar listening to the unremarkable job (but good effort) live music that, this morning, brings a smile to my face. 'Sue Lawley' still seems as appropriate to the tone and moan of that 'So Lonely' Police number as the original lyrics. Sue Lawley remembered! The Lovina impression perspectivised.

There is another aspect of this rather odd phase of my life that is coming to light and probably worth recording here. For my sake more than anything. I don't do holidays. I do missions and adventures. Attempting a mindless state in the search for holiday relaxation is the path toward frustration and an oppressed and crazed existance. So I am moving out of the holiday frame and into the mission frame. This is a 'chalking up' exercise.

Sunrise in Amed

2007-10-23T14:44:00.000+08:00

22 nd October 2007

I was convinced that I would manage no more than 2 or 3 nights in Amed but here I am 5 nights later having only just checked out of the Sunrise Café this morning. Oddly enough for me that attraction was the serenity of it all. Evenings would end at about 9.30pm at the latest. I drunk little beer or any other alcohol (until the last evening) and ate healthily as dinners were always served with robust portions of vegetables and steamed rice. I think there must have been 5 small resorts along the beachfront that comprised of ‘Sunrise Bay’ so I had dinner in a different one each night. With that simple task complete it just felt like time to move on. The days were a mixture of walking, rehydrating, reading, eating and chatting although the chatting was pretty limited (another reason for choosing to move out and move on now I think about it) as there were virtually no tourists and conversation was limited to brief encounters with the locals viz the temperature, snorkeling equipment and transportation ‘bargains’. My biggest thrill was the snorkeling which revealed extensive hard coral no more than 10metres off the shore line with such a diverse range of marine life it kept me entranced for hours. Box fish, Jacks, I saw one bloody big Barracuda just skulking over sand, Cuttle fish, Angel fish, a plethora of Banded Sea Snakes with their heads out of the sand.. comical!, arguing/fighting Trigger fish, those little spindly buggers that hang vertical in groups of about a dozen, Moorish idols, it was endless and quite incredible.

A close second on the notable events calendar was the sunrise which despite the early evenings to bed I only managed to surface once in time to capture it on camera. It was supreme and added much to the mental image that the Amed visit created in my mind. The pictures are either on Flicker or Facebook.

Yesterday evening brought the Amed visit to a fitting close. The least attractive looking restaurant and therefore my last port of call on the dinner expedition turned out not only to serve the best food but to be the most friendly; and on the evening of my visit allowed me to meet some excellent company and make two lovely new friends. Warung Bali looked like a shed. I’m sorry Warung Bali but it does. A shed with some tables and chairs out the back..beachside. But it served one of the nicest fish curries I have eaten in years. Not rich in cholestrol (coconut milk) sauce it had a gentle non spicy curry flavour to it and was loaded with fresh (steamed, I guess) fish and vegetables. A perfect delight! At the next table were Alain and Mireille. Alain and Mirelle from Belgium. Also a perfect delight. Alain thought I was younger than him and he was younger than me! He knows how to make friends! Conversation was a pleasure and never an effort. Alain is an artist who works with metal. I wasn’t sure but I think he was into household items like candleholders. Forgive me Alain if you read this and I have that completely wrong. We both enjoyed to travel so there was plenty for us to talk about. Alain explained that he plays the flute and in his younger days took his flute on his travels earning his food money from his flute playing. He would learn the local music styles for the country he was visiting which I am sure attracted a few more sheckels than foreign music. He earnt just a little bit of admiration from me for all this. Just to complete the picture Alain still sports a healthy crop of curly hair (which spiked a seam of envy in me) and on this evening wore a Sarong. This is a note to me – I must have a look at the Turkish interior and the South of France. Mireille approved of everything as far as I could tell and clearly felt comfortable with Alain frontstage! Bless them. Oh Yes - Alain introduced me to the Balinese drink Errak. The locally brewed drink that derives from palm trees I think. We took it at Alains suggestion with lemon, honey and ice. It probably doesn't taste much on it's own because it tasted like we were drinking lemon, honey and ice. However it oiled the evenings progression admirably

A bumpy start in Bali

2007-10-19T13:12:00.000+08:00

18th October 07 - A bumpy start in Bali

Sunday 14th October heralded my Philippines departure for KL. An(other) uneventful overnight at the Empress Hotel, Sepang, how many more times can I overnight at this throughly depressing location, took me into the 15th October and an afternoon flight to Bali. 25USD for the visa on arrival allowed me to move freely to the arrivals area outside of the airport and the taxi office news that Kuta was jammed and no taxis were even arriving at the airport let alone departing. Chill out and work it out are the thoughts that ripple through my mind in times like this. I had booked via email a room at the Melasti Beach bungalows in Kuta. As I hovered thoughtfully around the covered but empty traffic lanes I was approached twice by 'unofficial' taxi operators. The second offered to get me to Melasti in about 30mins for 10USD. As soon as I nod my head the luggage trolley is seized and I have no choice but to follow, at a canter. We do a maze of alleys and backstreets to arrive close to Melasti in about 10 mins. Melasti is fully booked. So much for their email booking service. However the driver smiles and suggests 'no problem' we will find you a room. As I subsequently find out this is perfect for him. 2.5hrs and at least a dozen hotel stops later we discover a fairly broken down family room at a hotel that could have been nice but was verging on a state of neglect. I can have the room for Rp400, 000. A place to lie my head, no debate. I must have dinner after that marathon hotel hunt I am informed. Little or no discussion precluded the 20minute ride to a beachside fish restaurant of the drivers choice. Ketut he had said I should call him. Over dinner Ketut announced that he would be arriving tomorrow with a motorbike to take me around to find more suitable accomodation. I hadn't liked the look of the overcrowded Kuta and suggested I would like to get out of the city to a quieter beach side location. Again I play into his hands. I pay for dinner and back at the hotel I pay for his taxi services (Rp300, 000) before I am bid farewell for the night. He is to arrive at 11am tomorrow morning to transport me to this fabulous quiet beachside location that is a mere 3hrs drive away for a bargain Rp400, 000. OK, I must escape Kuta.

16th October morning I am in exploration mode. No meals at the hotel was the previous evenings information so I am ready to venture forth and find coffee and something to start the day with in nearby streets. A scantly organised reception counter was manned by friendly enough young staff who responded to my enquiry of nearby cafe's with 'none' but you can take breakfast here. A hard boiled egg, two pieces of toast already prepared with strawberry jam and a cup of sawdust heavy 'coffee' complemented the neglected feel of the hotel perfectly. At check out I began to get a proper understanding of Ketut's game. Rp250, 000 was the rate offered on a sheet under the counter for my room. The staff said I could get Rp200, 000 as a returning guest (inc breakfast.. I was tempted to suggest for a further discount if I could eat that breakfast daily). Mmmm. Well I'd finally got a room in an overcrowded Kuta... probably worth a little premium on the standard rate. Is Ketut on comission?

Ketut was on time and we were off. No ATM's in Amed, our destination, so better empty a machine now was his advice. Message understood. I asked him for a number and used it to code the machine to deliver a wadge to me. I sweat more in his miniscule people carrier in the next 3hrs than I have done sat still for a long time. It's hilly and with the aircon on (I'm still sweating) the hills are quite a challenge for the little (worn out) baby. After two hours I offer to buy lunch. I need to dry out.

Finally in Amed I am delivered to a very well presented Bamboo Bali and given Bungalow no. 1 at the top of the rise amongst well presented gardens and an almost unblocked sea view. Rp250,00 per night. Done. Bye Ketut. A walk through the village revealed many vacancies. I have now moved to a 1st floor room with balcony, clean and comfy bed, shower and fan over the beach at the Sunrise Cafe for Rp80, 000 a night inc breakfast (nescafe available). Ketut, you opportunist. The picture here is the bay view from the Sunrise Cafe in Amed.

Rustling Palms, A Sea Breeze and UB40

2007-10-13T14:50:00.000+08:00

Red Red Wine plays across the poolside terrace as I sit here in a gentle sea breeze compiling a smiley Philippines blog entry for the month of October 07. Today is the 12th. I brought a memorable and thoroughly enjoyable stay at Sunset Bay, San Fernando, La Union to a touching close on the 10th. Steve - a wonderfully positive character with a Philippina wife and young family newly arrived from England, George - on an South East Asian exploration trip from Wales, Tony - embarking on a job hunt , and Spider our Sunset Bay host, made up the UK contingent; Paul from the US with grizzly stories of his time at Bazra, and cool John from Perth completed a crewe with stories to share, views to debate and adventures to plot. A fine time was had by all! Departure inevitably included a bus trip. A sweaty seven hour bus trip that took me to Manila and city reality. Manila - jams, pollution, building work. Yuk! So, yesterdays schedule included another bus trip. A 2.5hr bus trip of escape to Alongapo, Zambales. My present location is the Mangrove Resort at Baloy Beach, Subic Bay just 10 minutes from Alongapo. Inexpensive, Seaside, Sunny. .

My picture is a San Fernado streetside snapshot taken one afternoon whilst on a shopping jaunt from Sunset Bay.

Spain stigma cornered

2007-09-20T11:28:00.000+08:00

: Why haven't I felt great about Spain? Happiness inspired by a healthy climate, mediterreanean diet and robust red wine is tainted by the relentless exit from England of a type who's prime aim is to recreate a sunny version of their crabby lifestyle around the Alicante and Benidorm apartment complexes that were the flagship of the generation that took package holidays from conception to reality but were never chilled enough to become Hippies.

I have been to mainland Spain 3 or four times in the last 3 or four years. There is still a splinter in my deep English heritage that pings a Southern European need in me. Its partly fuelled by my hatred of the English winter and partly fuelled by my persistent need to experience culture and lifestyle variation across continents throughout the world. Murcia has a draw. The coastline isn't particularly beautiful but that helps dispel the tainting element. Sadly it is Polaris World. Polaris appear to be attempting to take the apartment and villa scene to a new hierarchy of modern utopia. They are doing some progressive things. I even got tempted by their relentless advertising to go look at the stuff. I even considered buying a Polaris box. Luckily for me I had been to Murcia town the evening before 'deposit day'. Murcia town was what I had been hoping for. We sat in a square in the early evening drank a local robust red wine and ate a main course of seafood paella after a starter of sauteed vegetables and muscles. Our waiter looked like a Spanish version of Alfred Hitchcock. He was aided by a dark haired beauty from the opposite gender who had the type of smile that renders all male customers completely incapable of complaining should there have been anything to complain about. The whole thing was just marvellous. It was how Spain can and should be. Warm, friendly, foreign, interesting and satisfying. Polaris got steadily shelved and dreams of a town apartment with hopes of a bell tower visible across a pigeoned roofscape, of shuttered window openings, and a jungle of building corners owned by closely built dwellings in the chase for shade, of open evening windows and waves of Jasmin scented air coaxing one into soaring highs of rest, relaxation and pleasure.

240hrs After The DCS Strike

2007-08-15T11:24:00.000+08:00

: I am sorry the pictures do tend to emphasise the down side of it all. I guess the down side was pretty significant. However there is an upside. The upside is I have learnt a lot. It could have been a lot worse. I have come through it. I have discovered two doctors in Ipoh that have good experience in treating DCS and they actually have a sit in chamber in their surgery. In fact... I have been in it today. For two hours. It has resulted in some further improvement. No. I should say this..

IT HAS RESULTED IN SOME FURTHER IMPROVEMENT

I don't understand the mechanism of this further improvement but it is definitely there!!! I can actually look left and right before crossing the road without nearly falling over!! Therefore I think I had better celebrate with a beer tonight!!

Smile with me. Even better grin like an idiot... I am!

It's really odd the way things go on you know. I guess normally I would be pretty assed off that the arrangements for leaving this place are in tatters but I am not now. I feel that if there is anything that I should be assed off about it's my health issues. Now my health issues are declining (touch wood..don't really want to speak too soon) I am feeling pretty good about life and departure arrangements in tatters are almost a source of amusement.

What else to report... Oh yes, I have a smile on my face. Life is Gud. So I have posted a photo of the Gud Life. Tropical Island Gud Life. Pulau Tenggol Tropical Island Gud Life!

20hrs After The DCS Strike

2007-08-14T11:15:00.000+08:00

: Horizontal is still best.

One other thing that I have to say is that Niclas Jacobsson who took these photo's helped me through this like a brother. For anybody that sees this blog and knows Niclas shake his hand when you see him. For anybody that sees this blog and doesn't know Niclas.. get to know him - a great guy.

See where adventure gets you!

2007-08-09T18:54:00.000+08:00

See Where Adventure Gets You

Had a mishap this weekend. It's messed up the forthcoming UK schedule somewhat. The mishap involved completing a 2nd scuba dive off a remote island in the South China Sea called Pulau Tenggol on Saturday the 4th Aug 07 to discover that within minutes of being back on the boat I had severe loss of balance and visual cognition followed by severe vomiting. After an hour or so of oxygen Charlie and Niclas got me to the shore. I could not walk and laid on the beach for most of the afternoon. When I tried to move at about 6pm I was a mess, ending up in a crumpled heap on the beach. A storm was on it's way in and I needed the hospital. No way the regular boat could do it so the Malaysian Marine Police were summoned and I was evacuated to a jetty on the mainland in a state of the art maritime vessel through the storm to a waiting ambulance and on to a small town hospital 1.5hrs away from Pulau Tenggol on the mainland. Their diagnosis was decompression sickness. I was transported to a 2nd hospital almost 500km's away in Kota Baru right in the north eastern tip of peninsular Malaysia where they could treat this stuff. It was 5am Sunday morning. I entered their hyperbaric oxygen chamber three times over the nxt two days and showed a little improvement each time. I was discharged Monday the 6th Aug in the afternoon but told to stay in the town overnight. The people were great. One of them drove my truck from the port I originally left it at (Dungun) to the hospital on the Sunday and sat with me for one of the treatment sessions smiling and encouraging me all the way through. The chamber sessions are a challenge. Claustrophobia was my biggest issue. I had a 2hr session followed by 2 * 5hr sessions. I asked for sedation to get me through the last session! The chamber is a monoposition hroizontal acrylic chamber. It does the trick but plays havoc on the anxiety chords. My friend Niclas drove me back from Kota Baru to Ipoh Tues morning 7th Aug. I appear to be continuing to recover (8th Aug 07). Great. I have some lovely friends here who get all concerned for me when stuff goes awry like that. I have learnt a tremendous amount!! Sadly no diving for 6mnths.

2007-01-04T12:04:00.000+08:00

Back in the groove (or is it a rut?): It's a tortourous blow that I have suffered. Imparted by life itself. A blow on life, by life. It was neither hideous nor ghastly. Not bloody nor excrutiating. It developed. Slowly. In the way that experts in torture will tell you that all the greatest tortures do. Now I have torture realisation. With the grey light of torture realisation I can detect the simple beginnings and the gentle cradling of self inflicted torture encouragement. Peaks of December 06 enjoyment that were then exquisite beams of sun, sound and happiness now cast long gloomy shadows upon my back as I toil once again in the groove of daily labour. Daily labour more despairingly tedious now because you enjoyed yourself. You sad torturous oaf, Graham.

A kick or two apart

2006-07-02T11:08:00.000+08:00

Just a couple of penalty kicks seperated Germany and Argentina in their Football World Cup Quarter Final battle last night, yet it was precisely this seperation that didn't seperate.. but welded together a houseful of friends (a few old, a few new, some previously lost but recovered) in an old tin mining town at the heart of Perak, Malaysia last night. A retrospective roll call would summon 'here's from; A Frenchman, An Englishman, Four German's, A Chinese, A Philippina, three Japanese and two Malay. We ate, we drank, we laughed, we cheered, we scorned and finally celebrated. My heartfelt thanks to the hosts for their efforts in feeding us and making us all welcome. How phenomenal to think that we were just a kick or two apart!!

4.5 days

2006-06-27T11:12:00.000+08:00

: 4.5 days. 4.5 days of pure enjoyment. If I wasn't doing it I was looking forward to it. If I had done it I was reminiscing about it. I'll give you a clue.. it begins with d and ends with g. (So it isn't sex!). Some of my friends include it in the four d's of their social profile. Their other d's are drinking, dining and dancing. (Still no sex!). My 'Celebes and more' photo album may take you close.