Perhentian Islands

I wasn't sure what sort of boat to expect for the crossing to the Perhentian Islands from Kota Bharu. Surely, s.th big and solid for a trip lasting about one hour? Alas, the boat that materialised was somewhat smaller than the picture I had in mind, and as it was finding its ways through a landrat's perception of rather choppy waters I began to wonder whether it may just break into two after crashing down from the next wave. With us on board were two Malaysian mothers with their kids. The little ones were mortified, curled up in their mothers' arms, who - like me - seemed to wonder whether the trip was such a good idea after all.

After an exchange of encouraging looks between us, Ian's manly efforts to calm down women and children with a cheery smile, and a quick reminder that I am a good swimmer, the crossing started to be fun and I was almost disappointed when the boat stopped at Petani Beach on the South-west coast of Perhentian Kecil, the smaller of the two Perhentian islands. The disappointment did not last long. We unloaded our backpacks from the 'big' into a small boat to cross the last 100 meters or so to a picture book tropical beach with about seven wooden huts. A little oasis run by a South African/Malay/Thai team; basic but perfect.

Ian's eyes lit when he saw the hammock, tasted the food, and encoutered four kittens who hardly left his side during our stay (ok Ian, I know this is an exaggeration). I indulged in a Padi scuba diving course run from the neighbouring beach. The first day of the course was spent in a classroom; I was picked up by boat at 8am, in rain so heavy that I decided the best strategy was to go in a swimsuit and to wrap a T-shirt and towel into a heavy plastic bag. Theory and test were completed by 6.30pm and I was ready to live the Padi life: "GO PLACES, MEET PEOPLE, DO THINGS UNDER WATER". The next two days were mainly spend under water with great instructor Matt who could even show Ian new insights into the meaning and practice of 'mellowness'. The aquatic life was quite stunning, sting rays, turtles, all sorts of small colourful fish whose names I shall not pretend to know (yet). The shark encouter, however, was Ian's privilege - more of that later.

to the East Coast of Malaysia

I thought I would bring everyone quickly up to date with the trip up the Malaysian peninsula, and Birgit and I can then add some reef-related stories plus hopefully get a slide show of pictures up.

We took two long bus rides, Seremban to Ipoh and then, the following day, from Ipoh over the spine of the peninsula to Kota Bharu on the east coast. The buses we took are public - we were the only Westerners on both of the buses. They come in a variety of options, differing mainly between the various competing companies that offer regular services. The largest national carriers seem to provide the most luxurious and fastest buses - I got many opportunities to view them as they overtook us.

The stations are frenetic places but quite user-friendly once you get the concept that there are multiple small booths offering competing services to various destinations. We were lucky on both trips despite having opted for fairly old and slow buses on each occasion. From Seremban we got the last two seats and sat therefore in the rear seats right above the suspension. The ride was however comfortable on good roads all the way up.

At Ipoh we really lucked out. We had failed to think through the implications of the fact that we were intending to travel across the peninsula on the Saturday marking the first day of school holidays. Having dumped our rucksacks at the hotel in Ipoh we rushed back, on the advice of the owner, to the bus station to book the onward journey. Seemingly not a chance ... a relentless litany of apologetic smiles from inside the booths - all sold out until Sunday evening. A real exodus of families was heading back home for the hols. At last however Birgit scored a hit - I guess the last two spaces on any bus heading east. So as you can imagine the prospect of the rear two seats yet again was in fact a happy one.

The ride over the hills and down to the coast was scenic and good fun. For those interested in checking on Wikipedia or Google, the bus didnt follow the route through the Cameron Highlands. This is in all the guidebooks as one of the most picaresque tourist areas of Malaysia - developed by the Brits as a tea-growing hill station in the 1920s and,like many in India, still retaining much of the olde England charm.

Our elderly bus however headed over a more northerly and direct route. The more mountainous terrain seems to have kept the worst of the plantation economy at bay, although you could tell by the logging tracks cut into the surrounding forest that the logging industry was active. I guess there are very few teak trees left that are not going to be featuring in a Homebase catalogue before long unless things change drastically. However, the scenery was great, in particular as the bus began the descent to the east coast as that side of the mountains seems to benefit from most of the precipitation and is much more lush and verdant.

The east coast is demographically the most Malay part of Malaysia - the Chinese and Indian populations being miniscule compared to the 30-50% they seem to comprise in the rest of the country. Its also the most observantly Muslim and seems to be the poorest area. Small farm plots were cut a hundred meters or so back into the forest with a shack built close to the road; a harvest of tropical fruit, a small stall selling produce on the road and a few chickens seemed to be the standard. I guess that explained the diaspora on the west coast all heading back home for the holidays.

However, as we were to find out, people were very warm, outgoing, direct, proud of their culture and country, and down-to-earth and pragmatic. In our experience this was particularly the case with women, which seemed to directly contradict the religious stereotype. The guidebooks report that the east coasters have the reputation in Malaysia of being highly entrepreneurial ... it was the key trade route linking the ancient north east asian economies of China-Japan-Korea with south east asia and the Indian ocean.

After an evening in Kota Bharu we took a 1 hour taxi ride south to the little outpost on the coast where you take the boat to the Perhentian Islands ... which will be the subject of the next entry.

The "techie's" voice

Just to say that I have finally managed to upload a few photos - connection on the Perhentian islands is understandably slow. Have a look at the 'little bleeders' and 'Dusun' sections. As my writing buddy is a little slow, I thought I give you a taste of the Perhentian experience. A hut on a romantic beach and some scuba and skin diving.

Seremban - Ipoh

After four great days at the Dusun (www.thedusun.com.my) - which in addition to the jungle walk also included a outing with a Malay taxi driver and his wife to the old Palace of a regional principality and a visit to one of their family member's traditional Malay house - we set off on the morning of the 11th by bus to Ipoh.

The trip took about five hours. Ipoh has been and still appears to be a thriving and dynamic town on the West Coast. Set amongst some dramatic limestone formations it started growing thanks to tin mining (probably replaced today by rubber, oil agroindustries as well as administration and land speculation). Ipoh was a one night stop to do some internetting and to catch a bus next morning to Kota Bharu on the East coast.

For one night Ian and I decided to revive our memories from the 70s/80s of real and honest backpacking/hitchhiking with some new impressions. The 'rough guide' to Malaysia recommended a 'best value' hotel in Ipoh for $4.50 per night. Great value (and a real nice owner) it was, but we decided to make this a one-off experience if we have the choice. We both felt rather proud, however, that we can still rough it. I admit that Ian had to constrain me from running out of the room on first sight. A few beers later the room was still no better - but sleep arrived nevertheless.

Little bleeders

Next morning we had booked a guided walk through the jungle. According to Helen there was a small waterfall and pond about an hour up a jungle trail where one could swim. The walk was straightforward and not particularly strenuous.

The guide was from the local village - ethnically Malay but from a group that had been nomadic until recently and remained animist in religion rather than converting to Islam. Anticipating the possibility of leeches we were equipped with German hiking boots, thick sports socks and long trousers. At around 10am our guide showed up, a tiny guy dressed in shorts and equipped with the very latest in jungle hiking technology - old blue flipflops. (Graham and Jean, please note.)

Off we set at a fair pace, our guide maintaing a cheery conversational soliloquy in Malay (so no doubt a wealth of information on local fauna and flora, plus for all I know an assessment of Col. Gaddafi's career and chances of surviving the week, are lost to us). The monologue was punctuated by drags on a roll-up cigarette (no filter) and interrupted by pauses to focus on lighting a new one.

The first part of the walk was along a tarmac access road. This had apparently been built by property developers in the 1990s; with basic infrastructure put in the land had been parcelled into lots for sale. The development had collapsed in the Asian financial crisis of 1997-8; repossessed by the banks the plots remained unoccupied. There was however an official-looking front gate with empty guard post and a couple of forlorn one-room "pavillions" that no doubt were part of a clever marketing plan to suggest the possibility of a thriving community.

After about 20 mins our guide veered off onto the jungle track proper. The gloom under the tree canopy made it seem initially cooler than in the direct sun, but it also seemd suddenly much more humid, so the overall effect was probably neutral. In any event we were pretty well soaked in sweat after 5 mins.

The track itself was narrow and slippery but no real problem for anyone halfway fit. Mr. Flipflop skipped effortlessly ahead, pausing every once in a while to grin encouragement or cheerily point to the roots and branches to use as hand or footholds on the steeper points. I commented later to Birgit that for him it was probably as if a couple of tourists paid me 50 quid to walk with them to the top of Portobello Road.

Not long in our guide turned with a particularly wide grin, pointing at something in the middle of the trail - an inch-long leech, its base anchored on the ground, waggling its evil little head blindly in the air. I guess they're alerted either by the scent of passing warm blood or by the vibration of something big passing on the trail. Once alerted I spotted quite a few and was able to neatly step over them with a certain "missed me" sense of satisfaction. I failed to notice however that while my attention was distracted several of their better-camouflaged cousins had taken the opportunity to hop on board.

A piece of advice - thick cotton sports socks are no hinderance for a leech! When I checked my ankles out of curiosity several tails were sticking out of the cloth, the heads already burrowed in to the flesh. True to leech legend I hadn't felt a thing. I have to admit there is something disgusting about them, and I reacted pretty instinctively in brushing them off in spite of the story-lines in The African Queen and elsewhere warning against the danger of leaving their heads inside to cause infection.

So my time at the idyllic waterfall was spent removing my socks and rolling up long trouser legs which had proved useless.

The four or five puncture wounds bled spectacularly since anti-coagulant gets injected as the blood gets sucked out, But that wasn't the end of my vicious little buddies' talents - I swear I caught a couple doing end-to-end back-flips up my boots and trouser legs like some Soviet gymnast of the worm world.

I took a picture of one of the little guys which I attach for your education and delight.

I should also mention that Birgit did go swimming, only to emerge with an even larger, acquatic cousin on her stomach. Her reaction outdid even Humphrey Bogart in The African Queen. After brushing it off she did ask our guide in sign language whether he could use his cigarette to burn them off - his response was an incredulous giggle. Waste of good tobacco probably.

So the moral is - don't sneer at flipflops on jungle trails. His approach was to stop every minute or so and remove any passengers before they could drill through the skin.

Dusun

Dusun is about 10 mins up a steep tarmaced but potholed track. It looks out onto several sq. km. of forested hillsides and out over the flat land around Seremban. It's not really "jungle", being really just a penny packet that has survived because it's the water catchment area for the town below. Logging and plantations seem to have pretty comprehensively done for all the primary rain forest, at least on the west coast of Malaysia.

The main house and several smaller guest huts are built of hard wood on concrete pillars. This is obviously due to the steep slope but it's also a reference to the traditional architecture of Malay houses. Even on flat land, and regardless of whether they are shacks or villas, they are built on pillars about two meters high. No doubt it is a big help to keeping the air circulating, catching whatever breeze there is and maybe a deterrent to some of the local wildlife.

The guide books explain that wood construction means that there is virtually no surviving historical Malay architecture - termites, fire and climate-induced decay means that it is rather the stone- and brick-built Chinese and Indian temples that last.

Anyway, the first day was spent contemplating the view, reading and enjoying the pool. The slight altitude seemed to keep it a bit less muggy. It was great watching night fall from the balcony, seeing the fireflies come out and experimenting with different cocktails of mosquito repellent.

[Ian's travel tip for S.E. Asia: carry a coffee plunger and a supply of vacuum-sealed ground coffee. The alternative is ready made "3-in-1" whose principal attraction is a 20-min. sugar high.]

[Photos: the camera is working - at least on full-auto. I will try to upload the photos onto a web site and provide a link/password to each relevant slide show in the blog post. We'll also be posting a few directly onto the blog but that's a bit more arduous and Birgit is better at it than me. Any recommendations on which are the best sites to post photos?]

S'pore to Seremban

7th March: left Singapore from the old colonial train station, owned by Malaysia and apparently scarcely used. The "express" train trundled aimlessly through a monotonous landscape of palm oil plantations, punctuated by regular inexplicable stops.

However, on-board entertainment was provided - large TV screens playing first Japanese Manga comics dubbed in Malay, followed by the "A" movie screening ... a Malay soap opera.

Birgit had booked a guest hut at The Dusun, the home of Helen and her husband in the hills outside Seremban. Seremban is at first sight (at least from the perspective of sweating pedestrians lugging rucksacks) a hard-scrabble market town servicing the surrounding agroindustries.

Our goal was to make it to the nearby village of Pantai by taxi, buy provisions for self-catering and wait to be picked up by Helen. The first surprise was being told that the easiest way to buy food was "at Tesco". We found ourselves at a gigantic Tesco in the suburbs, a rather frazzled Birgit hastening through unfamiliar aisles while I waited outside with the Tamil taxi driver and rucksacks.

So early evening found two knackered Westerners sitting under a tin roof of a roudside food shack, surrounded by rucksacks and Tesco carrier bags, sheltering from the rain and waiting for a lift that had been delayed by a torrential thunderstorm in the hills. I failed to capture the surreal scene on film!

Arrival in Singapore

Before we start we have to thank our Berlin Karlshorst friend John for being our blog guru. We will no doubt be slow learners now the training wheels are off.

Three days to recover from jetlag and adjust to heat and humidity in Singapore. My ex-colleague and friend Greg was in Tokyo and Beijing on business but we had a great evening with his wife Jenny and their daughters.

Thanks for your repeated advice not to buy a camera for more than Euro 100 John - this was ignored by me but luckily I had Birgit with me so didn't overdo it too much. I have it working on "full auto" and the photos look reasonable. I'll focus on editing them and getting them onto the blog or maybe a photo site as soon as I get the hang of it ... promise!

We also have a few days' travelling diary to catch up on - some wonderful days in the "jungle" and some great experiences ... details to follow asap.

two days before take off

First of March and it feels as if the journey has really started. We had a few great days with family and friends in Greven, Bielefeld and Berlin, and are now looking forward to take off on Thursday from Frankfurt to Singapore. Berlin, as always, as worked its charm on us - for those of you who fancy renting an appartment in Berlin check out www.berlin-appartement.net.

Apropos farewell party in London: I am not sure how many photos will make it onto this blog as Ian and I are still finding our way around. This technical obstacle is, however, a mercy for most of us. Can't resist to give you a taste with a couple of photos, hope those captured don't mind. Thanks again to all of you for joining us on the day - we really enjoyed it and have taken great mental pictures.