Down The Road

The Air of Yangon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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’

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.

4 days in Baguio

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.

Sunrise in Amed

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