Teacher Tales

Java part 1- A hot walk through the kampungs to Chicken Church 02-12-24

I feel icky these days before travelling, especially when I am alone. It is odd to be honest, as when I am unaccompanied I have no one to worry about but me and so it should be simple enough but, I suppose, like my father, I am becoming more nervous, as I get older and well, I am 50 now you know. I found myself, checking, double checking, triple checking and constantly doubting myself, creating problems in my head that in reality (thankfully) did not come into fruition. I was panicking about my bank cards and whether they would work, whether paying the Indonesian visa would be easy; whether I had lost my passport (about a million times) but as I sit here at the Langit Menoreh bar and lounge, I am finally able to relax and take in the delights of the day.

Tomorrow I finally visit Borobudur, a place I have wanted to see for a long time- the largest Buddist temple in the world and if it wasn’t for the soothing liquid Bintang that slides down my parched throat along with the crunchy peanuts that keep making me go back for more, then I might be all giddy and not sleep too well. Notwithstanding the latent buzz for tomorrow that fizzes around inside me, I am happy to report that today was a success in its own right. The journey, despite my fears and trepidation, has been easy and my careful planning seemed to have been enough. Perhaps I'll feel icky more often. 

The lovely man who met me at the airport, though slightly late, spoke very creditable English and we had a good chat as we curved our way from Yogyakarta (pronounced jogjakarta) to the Sinom Heritage Hotel- only 10 minutes walk from Borobudur. I felt a little sick on arrival due to the nature of the road,s but the sights I saw made up for that. By the way, before I go on, I must reflect upon the kindness of one of the taxi folk at the airport, who tried to ring my man when my internet was ‘playing up’. Lovely chap.

So, those sights- vibrant, lush green, even more so than Malaysia, covers the length, breadth and height of Java, with huge tropical leaves hanging happily over ramshackle roofs. Chickens are a thing here and they even built a church that looks like one (more on that story later).In so many houses, the chickens run across the front gardens of the bungalows in the leafy kampungs, as if they own the place, pecking away and chasing off the insects and the snakes. I have seen young boys, perhaps 12, swinging out on a bicycle, on a blind bend of a main road, with no helmet and no protection, as cars and endless motorbikes swerve around them with not even the slightest concern, apparently. 

Indonesia is like Malaysia in many ways but seems sleepier, like Malaysia’s chilled out friend. So much so, that when I arrived at my hotel, the Sinom Heritage Borobudur hotel, there was no-one at the inn, no one in the building, no cook in the kitchen. I called out but to no joy and all doors were padlocked. About ten minutes later and with my western upbringing leading me to annoyance and mild volcanic fury, two lovely ladies arrived, all smiles and apologies that diffused the flames immediatley. It was impossible to be frustrated with them. They were wonderful. I was soon in my very comfortable and beautifully scented room, sipping water and rehydrating. I dropped in the pool but it was surprisingly chilly outside, perhaps only 24 degrees and so the water was somewhat fresh. I didn’t stay in there long and struggled out as the steps to the pool were broken and a little hazardous.

I had flirted with the idea of cycling out after a brief rest but the lady at reception said she’d have to ring a chap to get the bike and so I decided to walk. It was a fascinating walk through the kampung with paddy fields, distant hills, and homestays with buddhist water features and stunning ethereal lanterns that I didn't fully appreciate until my wander back, later on. The people here in Java are lovely and many called out hellos and smiled at me as I walked, in my pineapples-wearing-sunglasses shirt and my less than subtle pink salmon pink shorts. 

There were stares but never glares and not obtrusive as they had been at times in Uzbekistan. Whilst walking the 6 kilometres down the main road and through the vegetation and past the little stalls selling fried chicken, I saw a few other somewhat bizarre sights and mainly involving mopeds: the chap riding the bike whilst holding an umbrella- sort of Mary Poppins meets Quadrophenia or the man riding a moped who was dressed in a dull orange military uniform and sporting a Hitler moustache (no one batted an eyelid). Another motor based odd moment was the column of very unusual cars passing by- each apparently a VW but not like one I have ever seen before. Stranger still was the diversity of colours on show- bright red, green, yellow, pink and more but each vehicle gaudy and attention grabbing. Many of the passengers waved, laughed, smiled and generally had fun. Like when we have conventions of minis or Beetles in the UK; just somehow gorgeously incongruent in the leafy kampungs of Java. 

I was dripping with sweat when I finally reached the last climb to the place I had searched out known affectionately as Chicken church but which is really called Gereja Ayam. This place of worship was built in 1992 and stands atop a hill between the villages of Karangrejo and Kembanglimus. A lovely smiling gentleman showed me inside, after I had marvelled at the exterior- serious chicken! Before showing me the way up to the top. The place was built by a Christian but was designed to be a place of worship for believers of all religions and so is a beautiful idea (despite me being an atheist). It is a little dilapidated but I have hopes for the place as it has become an iconic spot for tourists, partly because of its uniqueness, (it was meant to be a dove of peace but it is definitely a chicken) but also because of the incredible views from atop of the crest of the chicken’s head. 

The stairs to the top have several levels for a breather and each level is adorned with some varied graffiti, both in terms of subject matter and quality. There are images saying No drugs and other political messages whilst there are also images of many gods, cities, architecture around the world and more besides- some of it surreal- some of it poor and, in truth, some of it excellent- though Art is always subjective isn’t it?

The views from the top include a wonderful panoramic of the jungle, the mountains, a huge volcano poking out of the clouds and of course, proudly, in the distance, the pyramidal Borobudur temple. I have to admit to not wanting to look, as I didn’t want to spoil the surprise. This became surprisingly easy as I climbed the final rickety spiral staircase to the top of the chicken’s crown as my fear of heights returned without delay and with an almost crippling power. I stood in the centre of the crown; breathing slowly and closing my eyes at one point before recovering, snapping some panoramas and then getting the hell off the crown. 

Before arriving at Chicken Church, I had walked passed some ladies trying to sell me fruit and coconuts etc and I had promised to grab something on the way back. True to my word, I stopped and asked for a coconut (not like one you’re thinking of). They are green in East Asia and people chop the tops off and then drink the juice. I have never done it, to my shame, despite living in Malaysia for so long. I found myself wondering why I hadn’t. It was so refreshing and though not particularly strong, there was a pureness and freshness that was ideal after such a hike. The lady didn’t miss an opportunity and sold me some papaya whilst her friend cut me up the most delicious mango I have ever eaten, truly.

I began the walk back but thankfully turned it into a pub crawl. Well- 2 bars which is good for Indonesia! Both were in hotels and grand places indeed. I was met at the first by a gentleman who took me in the lift to the bar on the top floor where I drank 2 big bottles of Bintang and ate the most delicious Mee goreng with sate (Indonesian spelling)  and peanut sauce. From here I walked to Le Temple Terasse. Here I had to bang a gong three times, as traditions demands apparently before the doors opened to the most amazing interior, with a pool, intricate and specialist lighting and beautifully tiled floors. An attractive lady held an umbrella over me on the way to the bar (ironic as I was soaked already with sweat and rain). The bar was empty upstairs as everyone was in the restaurant with the live band. I was able to order a, what turned out to be , weak and whazzy margarita but the island tea I had afterwards was a little better. I had to turn off my phone to save the charge, fearing that I wouldn’t be able to make it back. 

I was fortunate as there was 12 percent charge left when I started it up again and it just about lasted as I took the 2 and a half kilometre walk back to the Sinom. I had a swim on arrival and was shattered, so I tried to settle down for sleep. Unfortunately, it was a fitful one, principally because I couldn’t get the air con to work until midway through the night and at that point, I woke up with a river of sweat on my back. Luckily I did manage a few hours and the bed was comfortable indeed. 

Borobudur and More...03-12-24

I woke up early, considering how little sleep I had enjoyed (perhaps 4 or 5 hours) and snoozed in and out until about 7.30am. Bleary eyed, I headed off to breakfast and as was becoming quite a common theme, I was the only guest. The food at breakfast was superb- Nasi Goreng- full of flavour, saltiness, sweetness, spice and sourness: truly a delight. I knew I had to eat well as today was the day I was heading to the temple of Borobudur. The watermelon was fresh and tasty and my only criticism, and only a mild one, was that the coffee was sadly lacking. Apparently, certainly in terms of my experience, this is a theme in Indonesia.

I popped back to the room, packed my bag with a change of clothes, given how much I was likely to sweat and ensured I had some water. The only thing I forgot to throw in was my hat and I would certainly live to regret that. Googlemaps said it was about 1.2 kilometres to the temple and it was, but unfortunately, the gated area seemed very much not keen to let me in: entrance after entrance locked, shut and unstaffed. I walked and walked and walked as several moped drivers dropped by offering me a lift to the entrance (the actual one!) I refused, stoically thinking the steps would do me good and perhaps they did but it was some distance before I eventually arrived at the proper entrance. Even this place looked uninviting, as there were cones and barriers up as well as tape restricting entry, presumably for cars, but it wasn’t obvious at first. 

I walked between the barriers and finally found my way to the start, if you will. I was offered two different tickets but one included going to the top, which was 'a must', as far as I was concerned, so it was a no brainer, despite the fact that it was a guided tour, annoyingly. I always prefer a solo wander to satisfy my lust (that sounded wrong).

You take an open air buggy-cum-bus type vehicle to the assembly point, where you have to swap your shoes for sandals and wait for a guide. Thment was comical as even the largest sandals didn’t fit me. This wasn’t because of length but girth- my feet are simply too wide for the straps and when I forced the footwear on, I almost cut off my blood supply, turning my upper foot purple. 

After a slightly irritating wait we were finally on our way- and after a 100 metre long walk, there it was, in the distance, the magical temple of Borobudur. The guide explained to us that it had been rebuilt brick by brick (as the ground beneath needed firming up) through a process of numbering and I began to wonder what a seemingly impossible task this must have been- and yet here it was, reconstructed perfectly. The structure, still exactly as it was was built in the 8th and 9th centuries during the reign of the Sailendra Dynasty. The temple has three tiers: a pyramidal base with five concentric square terraces, the trunk of a cone with three circular platforms and, at the top, a monumental stupa. 

Our guide led us up through each level, telling us stories and pointing out interesting features; not least the wonderfully intricate reliefs that adorn the temple, depicting images of goodness and evil as well as one level which has a spiritual story which you must walk clockwise around to get the full narrative. In essence, Buddism seems to be humanitarianism-do good, get good. On the streets of my old haunting ground TIbshelf, the opposite of this would be ‘chat shit, get banged’. 

From the top level, the  views are phenomenal with mountains and a volcano in the backdrop and greenery everywhere the eye can see. There are  72 openwork stupas here, each containing a statue of the Buddha. The statues themselves are amazing and two of the stupors have been opened to show the internal buddha, like a present inside a Kinder egg. It made me think that if I had sculpted something like this, I wouldn’t want it hidden inside a stupor. 

I discovered through listening to our guide that the vertical division of Borobudur Temple into base, body, and superstructure perfectly accords with the conception of the Universe in Buddhist cosmology. It is believed that the universe is divided into three superimposing spheres, kamadhatu, rupadhatu, and arupadhatu, representing respectively the sphere of desires where we are bound to our desires, the sphere of forms where we abandon our desires but are still bound to name and form, and the sphere of formlessness where there is no longer either name or form. The whole structure shows a unique blending of the very central ideas of ancestor worship, related to the idea of a terraced mountain, combined with the Buddhist concept of attaining Nirvana, which we had presumably accomplished by walking up the hair-raising steps to the top. They weren’t as scary as those at Angkor but still not for the faint hearted. 

Apparently, there is a growing rate of deterioration of the building stone, the cause of which needs further research. There is also a small degree of damage caused by unsupervised visitors and so my mild irritation to wait for a guide was probably misplaced and somewhat unreasonable. 

I bought a fridge magnet on my way out and managed to get myself away from the keen old ladies, who were desperate to sell me all manner of trinkets. From here I walked until I managed to get a signal and then ordered my first Grab, on this trip anyway. I decided to drop back to Le Terasse for a beer and once again, I had to bang the gong three times. Never has dropping in for a beer seemed such a dramatic event. Indeed, as the door opened after my striking summons, I was this time faced with a two sided line up of staff bowing in unison and welcoming me like I was Lord Canning or some other colonial bigwig. “I just want a beer”, I said. After three small beers making one and a half normal beers I took a Grab from the main road to a temple I had spotted on my phone, called Mendut monastery which is apparently still working as a monastery although once again, there was no one there at all when I visited. 

On arrival, I was almost accosted by the sellers of wares, but sneaked into the modern temple that is adjacent to the ancient structure, like a mouse scurrying into a hole. This small and modern garden and place of worship is ethereal and wonderful. It was so quiet and rain was in the air, and all of this added to the charm and the mystique of the whole experience. I took a slow amble through the gardens beautifully and liberally decorated with stone lions, golden horses, stupors in parallel lines by the water feature, many statues of Buddha (including a classic reclining one) and even a Japanese style pagoda. At the far end of the garden is a structure that reminded me of one of the gate houses in Angkor. I was enamoured by the ears on all of the Buddhas as our guide at Borobudur had told us that the long ears were to symbolise that listening is more important than talking (I missed the memo on that one). 

I left the garden and sort out the original ancient structure which was impressive and built around the early ninth century AD and finished during the reign of King Indra of the Saiendra dynasty. In 1836 it was discovered as a ruin covered with bushes. The restoration of this temple was started in 1897 and was finished in 1925. Despite its untenable grandeur, it was obviously nothing compared to Borobudur and so I took photos but chose not to go in. The garden of the modern temple had been more than enough for me.

I took a Grab to a lovely coffee shop (well, the coffee was terrible again) which sold pain au chocolat and this satiated my appetite enough. After this I wandered back to the digs, which were coincidentally less than half a mile from the coffee shop. I had a swim, in the rain, a rest, realised how sunburnt I was, and had a sort of sleep.

Later I went back to Langit menoleh for some Pad Thai, a drink or two and a cocktail. What a wonderful day it had been. One I will not forget in a hurry.

Jogja- Drinking Above the Plebs- 04-12-24

My night sleep was terrible. Firstly, I find it really hard to shut my brain down these days with the temptation to watch videos, listen to debates on religion or even watching old boxing matches. This world we have created is a world where boredom has disappeared- is simply not allowed- banished, if you will. So, in short, my lack of self-discipline led to me staying up way later than I should have. However, what made it worse was that I had chest pains in the night (not very serious ones) and I began to get it in my head that I was dying or was about to die of a heart attack. On top of this, I started to sense pins and needles in my arms (both) and the more I thought about it, the worse it became. I began to think that this might actually be psychosomatic but wasn’t sure. I changed positions again and again, but lay there waiting for the next pain, thinking ‘What will I do’? Run outside, scream for help. I guess I would have to. I did finally sleep but only managed about three hours and was therefore exhausted at breakfast. To further the woes, I noticed a strange mark on my arm which I have now convinced myself is an onset skin cancer. I think I am self-destructing.

Breakfast was delightful once more and I returned to the room full but unsure of how to spend the day. I had seen Borobudur and that was the main purpose of the trip. I was torn between a trip into the city of Yogyakarta and a temple trip to Prandaman. After a few minutes of thinking and resisting the urge to just go back to bed and catch up, I booked a Grab to the city. I was ‘templed’ out, as Rach would say. If I am honest, I made the wrong choice. Yogyakarta is a shithole.

I am usually loathe to ‘bad mouth’ a place and I am not saying that there aren’t interesting points to the city but, frankly it was like ‘poor man’s’ Hanoi: a chaotic, shabby madness without the charm. Initially, my taxi dropped me at Moliara street which is the most famous street in Yogyakarta. Located in the heart of the city, this is the main street, and was once the ceremonial avenue for the Sultan to pass through on his way to and from the Keraton. It is really nothing special now, at all. There are numerous horse and carts there waiting for tourists but few were forthcoming. There are several interesting batik shops which I might have shown more interest in, if had not been accosted, only seconds after getting out of the taxi.The chap who insisted on walking with me, started, typically, as a top man and he spoke great English but it wasn’t long before he was pointing towards his shop and talking about his wife, who was off shopping! I am not sure why this was relevant but another chap in the mall across the road said almost the same thing. Was he trying to bond with a bro? I didn’t quite get it!

I decided to walk to a coffee place called The London Coffee shop which had 4.9 as a rating on Google but which was distinctly average. During the walk I began to get a flavour of the city and the key word is busy. Thousands and thousands of mopeds growling their way along the roads, almost as busy as Hanoi in Vietnam but with wider roads that were not built for pedestrians. The pavements just disappear at times, the zebra crossings, like most of East Asia, mean nothing and you have to walk across the road wherever you are and be prepared to take your life in your hands. I am used to this and so, was quite relaxed, where others, more virginal, might have 'shit' themselves. The pavements are in desperate need of reparation and fences dividing roads and separating walkways from traffic zones, are falling down, or at best, rusty and bent out of shape. Occasionally, you come across a jem; a charm or exciting oddity, like the life sized remake of a terracotta warrior that stands outside of a shop or the fascination the city has with stone lions- Buddha style.

I crossed the bridge where the Progo river runs passed the houses- this area has so much potential. In fact, if they took a Malaysian-Melaka approach, it woud be great. Two factors spring to mind however- the first is obvious- money! It is clear that the city needs a serious injection of cash. The second, however, is more contentious- booze! In Europe, or Melacca, Thailand and more, entrepreneurs would see an opportunity, by this river, for bars and restaurants, but the desire, need or inclination is not here in Indonesian culture; this is an islamic country, perhaps even more so than Malaysia- its cousin. Ironically, the booze is usually on the top floors of hotels, with grand entrances and once again, I found a bar where I had to be escorted to the top by a lovely young lady, to the bar, where I could look down upon the plebs. I thought it was exceptionally ironic as surely, if drinking is a naughty habit, we should be forced underground into the cellars, not put on high to hierarchically (no pun intended) enjoy our naughty juice from the heavens.

I had two Bintangs and then had an unfortunate moment in the toilet where there was some advanced button system that you pressed to your arse to be cleaned at the front or the back. Unfortunately, it would not turn off , no matter how much I tried and so I had to jump up and stand at the edges of the cubicle, whilst the water sprayed out everywhere. I left quickly, paid and ran off, into a taxi. It was time to go home.

I slept a lot of the journey home- the previous night having caught up on me but was awake to catch the occasional busker, singing and strumming an acoustic guitar, but at the lights, where the traffic was roaring through and beeping a lot more than in Malaysia. Clearly, the art culture is coming to Yogyakarta but it was about entertaining the drivers, not the tourists! Most comical, amongst those trying to make money at the lights, was, initially, a chap, who was blowing a fourway party blow horn so that when the paper extended simultaneously, he briefly looked like the predator, when it was attacking, and hissing for blood. However, the prize winner was the almost naked chap- he was wearing a rag around his nethers; painted completely silver, from head to toe, and wearing silver glasses. He rattled a tin and encouraged people to drop money in. I am not sure what he was claiming he’d achieved, as there was no art, no dance, no acting, no magic tricks. He was just silver and I suppose people were paying his courageous desperation.

I rested back at the digs before booking a taxi for the airport trip on the morrow and then headed out to Langit Menoreh again, for a thai green curry and a couple of beers. I walked home to make sure my steps dropped over 10000 and jumped into bed for some Wagner (don’t ask) and some rest. My fingers were crossed that I wasn’t going to die of a heart attack or cancer during the night.

Chiang Mai- Elephants, Temples and Beer

01-04-24 to 05-04-24

I had never heard of Chiang Mai. In all the years of living in the UK, places like this never even crossed my mind and yet, once again, we were heading out to new and distant lands, except they weren’t distant and the flight was only about 50 quid! We were flying in the afternoon which was ideal and I had eyes on a few beers on landing (more on that story later). 

It has become tradition for Rach and I to share a couple of beers, sneaked in via our rucksacks into KL airport and so we did exactly that, which would have made the waiting for a plane partly more bearable if it wasn’t for one small child. You know how when you tap into a sound or a behaviour or a smell even, you cannot escape it as your mind becomes fixated. Well, that was me. This particular annoying moment was, in my defence, not subtle but was in fact a child of around six or seven screaming ‘chase me, chase me’ ad nauseam, initially at a slightly older child, possibly a sister or a family friend but later at his mother and indeed anyone who was within 100 metres of him. Not once, not twice, not even double figures but well into the triple digits! What was even more infuriating was that when we finally embarked the plane, he continued. No one spoke to him. No one said, ‘calm down’ and I mean I am no grump: I like messing about with kids (you know what I mean) but this kid was not getting the fact that he was pissing everyone off. The mother did nothing.

The flight to Chiang Mai was around 3 hours and it was very easy on arrival. We had a few problems as before with our malaysian bank cards but it was temporary and soon we were heading into the city centre to discover the wonders of our hotel. Rach was in quite a lot of pain, after the flight and needed to rest on arrival but me being me, jumped straight into the hotel pool: small, cute and looked down upon by an ancient stupor. I was very happy and after changing, I decided to head out for a reconnoiter whilst Rach rested. 

We were near the walls that encircle the old town but as I strolled through the back streets, it was deceptively quiet and there were stunning lanterns everywhere gleaming and glowing in the post dusk. After about a quarter of a mile or so, I found my way to the main road and the canal that runs alongside it. I was immediately taken to Holland or Bruges, in my mind. Soon, I reached the historical wall which dates back to the 13th century although they were rebuilt in the 19th.  It was bustling here with people selling street food and various trinkets. Many people were taking romantic looking photographs in what was effectively a stunning square. I listened and watched for a while but eventually passed through the old gate and wandered through the old city before finding a nice bar that sold a huge range of craft beers (something very exciting when you live in Malaysia) called Renegade. I sat at the bar, tried several beers and enjoyed a delightful pad thai. On the way back, it was once again quiet, once past the central square. I marvelled at a woman whose shop was closed- it was past 11 and she was sitting outside it, washing her hair in a plastic bucket. As I glanced into the shop, I was reminded of Vietnam- cramped and full of such detritus that you wonder how they find anything but it was clear that she lived and slept there amongst the objects and artifacts of the shop.

I returned home and Rach was feeling a little better. We both slept well on another very comfortable bed- far better than the lumpy, hard mattresses of central asia. 

The breakfast was outstanding in our cute hotel and I enjoyed really flavoursome French toast and cinnamon apples whilst Rach chose the equally delectable banana pancakes. 

From here we wandered through the quiet streets, much less busy than those in Hanoi and so we were able to stop occasionally and glance around ourselves at the dodgy electric cabling or the bisu second hand bookshop selling books written in English. Most impressive for me was the graffiti which depicted a stunning butterfly. We made our way along the canal to the Phae gate which was different in the day and much busier. We sat next to the canal and 'people-watched' for a while after purchasing some water from a cannabis shop. In the square there were thousands of pigeons, a little like Trafalgar square in the 1980s and we noticed some people with bottles attached to sticks which they banged on the ground periodically. It took a while but we realised that couples and families were having their photos professionally taken, often in culture regalia in front of the ancient gate and that the banging device was to make the pigeons jump and fly away at the moment of the click, in order to create a romantically perfect, though highly contrived photograph. 

The old town is rich with temples and culture and it was difficult to walk far without seeing another fascinating Thai site. Rach was struggling in the heat (around 40 degrees- surprising as Chaing Mai is in the mountains) so we stopped in a wonderfully shady garden in the grounds of a golden buddhist stupor. It was a nice calm moment and thankfully I purchased some Chang beer from the cannabis shop and so we sipped away, albeit sacrilegiously.  

We strolled a little further to the grounds of Wat Cedi Luang (there are a lot of wats or temples and so I found myself, perhaps less than humourously repeating the word ‘What’, at every conceivable opportunity (I am still quite clearly a very small child). Before heading into the wat, we popped over for some more beers at a restaurant accross the road and I ate a cashew nut dish which was really tasty and Rach had wontons (a first for her I think). After we were fully refreshed we headed into the grounds of the temple- the oldest in Chiang Mai. 

This place is a wonder- stupors galore, golden statues gleaming, old houses with sloping, curved roofs and in the centre of the complex the main temple which dates back to the 14th century and was finished in the 15th century in the reign of King Tiloraj. At the time it was eighty two metres high and had a base diameter of 54 metres. Rach and I took a slow walk, in the heat, trying to stay in the shade of the lush trees that protected the pathway from the sun. Around the central part of the temple and at the top of the steep staircase are several elephants (five on the South side) carved in stone. It is clear that there were once many more. The temple then reaches out into the sky but is in a state of ruin. Many discussions have been had as to reconstructing the spire or top of the stupor but noone seems to agree about what it should look like. I loved the half completeness of the building. 

Rach took it all in on a bench under a tree whilst I wandered more extensively, taking in several stunning houses and of course, the city pillar of Chiang Mai named Sao Inthakin- and now housed in a property with elaborate chinese style golden dragons curving off multiple layers of roofing. Stunning. The pillar itself  was first erected by King Mangrai at the founding of the city on April 12, 1296. Other fascinating highlights of the interior of the temple include, the Phra Chao Attaot which is an eighteen cubit Budda, cast in the 14th century and a reclining Budda. 

I returned from my snapping of various wonders to find Rach chatting with a chap who came from Ao Nang (where we were heading next) He was a top bloke and told us quit a bit about our next destination. 

From the temple, we managed to grab a tuc tuc at the side of the road to limp our sweaty bodies back to the hotel. Tuc tucs are always fun and at one point we hit a considerably deep pothole, and I felt for a moment that I might have dropped an internal organ outside of my arse. Thankfully, I was ok.

Once back at the digs we enjoyed a swim in the very green hotel room (perhaps because of the jade coloured tiles. The pool was a little too cold but we got used to it and we certainly needed a refresh. Later, I booked us an elephant tour to see these magnificent animals in the wild. After a short rest, we headed back to Renegade and enjoyed some tasty cask beers. We played pool but Rach not feeling it this time and after a couple of drinks we meandered home, picking up a bottle of wine from a 7/11 shop before indulging in another evening swim and a glass or two before bed.

We woke early and Rach had eggs for breakfast. The breakfast area was ute an intimate as a space with the swimming pool as our view, which was a very pleasant way to start the day. I stuck to the cinnamon french toasts. 

After eating we were picked up by our guide who ushered us on to a mini bus and whisked us off on our journey to see elephants in the wild. It was on this trip that our pretty-cool, guide explained to us that the beer we had been drinking, Chang, simply means elephant in Thai. How apt that we had been smashing the stuff since arriving in Thailand.

We spend our time with three very particular elephants on a beautiful sanctuary, where we were able to feed them sugarcane, make them their lunch, wash them in the river and walk alongside them. Elephants are huge when you are up close and personal and these chaps, named Balsey, Boulty and Boja were nothing compared to an African elephant. Boja, the largest of the three, was just shy of five tonnes in weight. 

Rach was still struggling with her health and so we didn’t complete the walk but we looked sharp in our denim-like tops and sunhats and I have to confess to being awe struck as these magnificent beasts wandered around us. Whilst here, one of the guides told us some amazing facts about the elephants, including that two of them were 45 years old and still going strong and perhaps more interesting was that elephants can apparently hear and smell thongs 1r4 kilometres away. Around the central gathering area was an array of plants including pineapple plants, chillies, jackfruit and eggplant, all of which we aren’t used to seeing. 

Lunch was an eclectic diet of sticky rice, with bashed up bark, seeds and tamarind and we were not only able to make up the elephant feed but were asked to bash out the bark and tenderise it like a piece of steak. The visit finished with a river swim with the elephants and we we washed them. I had to confess that I began to realise why elephant guns are needed to knock an elephant down as their skin is like armour. 

The river was very refreshing, considering the heat of the day and I allowed the strong current to take me downstream until I noticed everyone fleeing the water and I assumed there was a problem. I followed suit and suddenly realised it was because the elephants had taken a dump and the elephant faeces were heading towards the swimmers at quite a speed. 

Lunch was  a beautiful pad thai- one of my favourite dishes and the crunchy topping is a winner for sure. 

The journey home was interesting as we passed by many other elephant sanctuaries and we saw some sites we had never witnessed before: the hedgehog van being one. It was, in reality, an ordinary van but there was almost an entire field of sugarcane balancing upon it and sticking up like the needles from a giant hedgehog. Around another corner, a young boy, perhaps 12, was casually riding an elephant as casually as people ride horses, along the roadside. On the outskirts of the city, we passed numerous wats, which triggered more terrible jokes from me but perhaps funniest of all, a college which was simply entitled, The Pleasure and Knowledge college. I raised my eyebrows to think what my be taught at that place. 

After a relax back at the hotel, Rach and I walk out to a restaurant along the river, with the relatively unimaginative name, River View Bar. It does what it says on the tin! It was quite a walk and Rach did very well. She enjoyed a hot and sour soup which was delightful and I had some strange pork chewie things that were exceptionally spicy. The waiter brought us a firelight which also kept the food hot but it was so furious in nature, that the soup was on a permanent boil.

The next moments were quite comical as I tried and failed several times to put it out. I reached in with a spoon to cover the flame and even poured beer upon it, but to no avail. In fact, I seemed to spread the fire to a point that for a moment, I thought I might be responsible for burning the place down and had visions of me being imprisoned in a Thai jail. 

It calmed down by itself eventually. Thankfully. 

On the way home, we grabbed a bottle of wine from a 7/11. We initially tried a wine shop where the bottles were over fifty pounds each and so we sloped away after pretending to look interested. The 7/11 was much more reasonable. At the hotel we had one more late night swim, a quick read and then a really good sleep. 

The french toast the next morning was a must and I appreciate I was becoming a little too predictable. I noticed I had been bitten quite a bit the previous night, perhaps whilst I was sitting by the pool and these bites were pretty horrific looking, a little like buboes and for a while I wondered whether I had contracted the Black Death. 

After breakfast, we headed out on foot passing the oddest of shops with a large plastic lion standing outside it and a medieval soldier. Apparently, it was a gun shop! In this quarter of the city there were more shops that were people’s houses too and in one such place, we stopped to buy some Chang (or elephant beer) from a delightful lady. It was half the price of the beer in the main square or bars. We slipped the cans into our backpacks for consumption later. We trekked down to the river and crossed the busy bridge over the Ping River. It was hectic here and exceptionally hot. There was a policeman pulling people over at random but what was unusual was that there was no argument or issue. In fact he seemed to be laughing along with them whilst he chatted and the whole moment was very low key and relaxed. 

We were seeking a place called the Riverside and were so relieved when we found it, given the intense heat but the relief turned to despair when the owner told us the place was closed until 6.00pm. Thankfully, there was a somewhat incongruous french restaurant across the road and a peaceful garden where we able to enjoy some beers. I was sweating, even in the shade but the beer certainly helped. From here we took a Grab to a place I found on Google called Rivercruise which also does exactly what it says on the tin. We wandered passed an enormous golden stupor which was part of another Wat complex, to the river bank and a small shaded hut which sold tea and coffee and some local snacks but also cruise tickets. 

The trip up the river, which was just Rach, myself and boatman was peaceful, serene even and we passed under several bridges and some fascinating houses and land which the boatman tried to talk about, with slightly stilted English. What was clear, was his disdain for the filthy rich as every posh house we passed he pointed out and said only ‘rich’ people can live here but each time the venom and revulsion in his voice seemed to grow. 

Finally we stopped at what was a riverside cafe- one we would never have known was there; set in a stunning garden, with mangoes, lemongrass, tamarind, coffee, cashew nuts and padang growing in abundance. On one of the side walls of the cafe was the complete, genuine skeleton of an elephant that was eerie and emphasised the sheer size of these animals- the skeleton somehow seemed bigger than the full animal. We had ice cream here and ginger cordial/tea which was served in a beer glass. I didn’t miss the booze as this drink was far more refreshing than it sounds. 

After returning, to the start point, we took a taxi home, swam and cooled down and then popped out for pizza and wine. The italian restaurant was excellent and the wine, top notch. We were able to look out over the street from a balcony and the waitress was exceptional. On the walls of the restaurant on the way up the stairs, there were testimonials written in chalk and I had to squeeze my signature in somewhere. On the way home, we bought some Hong Thong for old time’s sake and I managed one last cheeky swim before bed, as the moon hovered above the ancient stupor that accompanied me.

The next morning was a lazy one as we were flying that day and so we were trying to preserve energy. I had avo on toast which needed a touch more salt, in truth but was otherwise delightful. From here we checked out, walked to a pub called the UN irish pub which had a fascinating history with multiple owners, including a german, a canadian and once, just once upon a time an irish woman was the wife of the first thai owner. This was where the irish link ended. Hence the name, the UN irish pub. I had three pints of cider here (love cider as a change sometimes). We booked a taxi to the airport, full to the brim with appley goodness and though there was a slight delay we were able to eat a Ko Soi at Chiang Mai airport which was delicious. The airport itself was much better than KL, considering it is much smaller and we didn’t mind the slightly prolonged wait. 

Another great trip completed.

Ao Nang Krabi 1- 05/04/24 to 06/04/24

The flight to Ao Nang was super short- perhaps the shortest flight of my life.  From the airport our driver shot off to Ao Nang. He was a lovely, chatty fella and was keen to tell us that although Ao Nang was a ‘cool’ place and somewhat beautiful, the locals suffered a low standard of living. These moments, which we have experienced all too often, always bring us back to humility and a realisation of our privilege. I know people talk about this a lot these days but I have witnessed it; felt it and know it to be true. If you grew up speaking English, in the west, you have a very good start in life: stay humble and appreciate what you have. 

The sun had disappeared when we arrived in Ao Nang and we were able to witness a little of the night life on the strip, as we approached the hotel. We checked in and took the stairs to the main courtyard where there was a pool, perhaps bluer than any I had ever seen before and our apartment, conveniently opened out onto it. 

Rach and I were both hungry and needed some grub and a beverage or two, so we wandered down the strip towards the beach. It was lively and there were plenty of coloured lights, more restaurants than you can imagine and most dramatically, the pungent aroma of cannabis permeating, near flooding the air. I think as the days went on, I began to become accustomed but it was startling on first arrival.  It was perhaps three quarters of a mile to the beach and as it was dark, we couldn’t be bothered, and so settled on a tandoori restaurant where we were able to get a beer and a curry. The restaurant was run by indians but like almost all of the eateries along the strip down to the sea, this place served Thai food and pizza and pasta too. Gordon Ramsey would have had a ‘field day’ but what surprised me was that all the food seemed to be of excellent quality. Wow.  It was also extremely busy, with the restaurant stretching far back off the road and I began to wonder if the chef was some sort of crazy octopus and Food braniac. The place even served cocktails- the margaritas were great!

Rach and I were distracted mid-meal by a boy of perhaps three or four who was outside on the street smiling in the cutest possible way with supreme confidence at the passers by. At first, we laughed and made some cutesy ‘ahhhh’ noises but after a while we began to wonder, having noticed his mother, whether this was some sort of trained act, as he kept running up to strangers and they were there for a long time too. That said, I didn’t see any money pass between any hands, so maybe not. 

With full bellies bubbling and digesting, we wandered back, stopping to buy some Hong Thong, which we had first discovered back on Phi Phi, a couple of years before. It hadn’t changed: cheap, cheerful and strong in liquor. We also passed a place that sold cannabis gummy bears, which reminded Rach of her time in Holland with her friend Donna. 

After the anesthetizing effect of the Hong Thong, we both slept very well. 

There was supposedly breakfast at the hotel and we did smell bacon, but for the whole week, we never discovered an eating area. I think the wafting scents of delicious breakfast came from  other establishments beyond the wall that surrounded us and our pool. We stopped at one such place and enjoyed a wonderful brekkie, with great coffee; pausing to wonder at one bloke who roared by on a motorbike- he was the whitest person I have ever seen: like a giant stick of chalk. I was struck by the waitress (and I think owner) with the way she greeted us and I am still not sure what she was saying. As the week progressed, the sound was repeated by many of the shopkeepers and bar staff and sounded like a nasal extended vowel with a loud piercing note on the end. 

We walked the two thirds of a mile down the strip, passing the indian restaurant from the previous night and finally arriving at the coast. The sand was beautiful and soft and the sea, stunning and turquoise. It is also worth noting that there were no sunbeds, which surprised me but was a relief: whilst the row on row of sunbeds might be convenient, they are a major eyesore. We found a place under a tree to sit on towels and I, as usual, took a dip in the sea, somewhat quickly. The experience was oddly disappointing: it was a hot day and the sea was supposed to be a refreshing experience but this was the warmest sea I had ever swum in and not at all cooling. In fact, there was barely any difference between the sea and the air!

Thankfully, a chap came round selling beers fairly early and before long I was lying on a stunning beach, sipping beer and working my way through Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens. We whiled away quite a few hours in this way, stopping only to grab some lunch at a seaside restaurant. Rach was wound up about how so many women had so much hair but she recovered and we headed back to the hotel for a pool swim- argh- it was warm too. Very warm. 

I realised that I had burnt my belly and legs despite the cover from the trees and we discussed the power of the sun to fight its radioactive way through shade- not something we ever worried too much about in the UK. 

In the evening, we ate at a lovely italian place called the Spaghetti House- beautiful ravioli! The owner chatted to us for a while and he explained the corruption in Ao Nang and how the law had tightened up on restaurants, which pleased him as he said most of them were super corrupt. On the way home we stopped for more Hong Thong for the throat and Aloe Vera for the burnt body.

Both bottles were equally effective. 

We woke and after a morning swim in the impossibly blue pool (which was also too hot and not at all refreshing) we wandered a few metres up the road to Much and Mellow for brekkie. We initially sat outside but some chaps turned up to dig up the drains and pneumatic drills are not what you need, when supping your morning coffee, so we scurried inside. 

Imbued with energy post breakfast, we walked to the beach and purchased tickets to Railay, a famous and beautiful cove. The boat trip was pleasant and the natural structures that reached out from the water were imposing and beautiful in equal measure. In the water, we saw endless jelly fish which was somewhat disconcerting and this was a theme of our trip to this part of Thailand. 

The scenery from the crowded and lively Railay beach bar we stopped at was impressive- beautiful water and stunning sand. So much so, that we stayed beyond the beers and enjoyed a cocktail or two. Rach picked up on how many people were wearing waterproof hoodies, seemingly as a fashion statement, as oppose to anything else, as it certainly wasn’t raining! The two of us spoke of Adam and Eve and Pangea and the idea of how far humans would have had to travel to populate the Earth. It got a bit deep for an afternoon session. 

Back in Ao Nang, we shared a delicious, and mellow yellow curry. Rach was a little low, thinking about her birthday and getting another year older so we talked it out and filled the evening drinking in a tequila bar. 

As you would expect, sleep came easily enough.

Ao Nang Krabi Part 2 - 07-04-24 to 12-04-24

The following day was Rachel’s birthday and Rach had decided to have an early morning swim to celebrate the occasion (well, the pool was only a few steps outside the door!) We had met a chap staying next door, all old leathery skin, swear words and football thuggery but to be honest, not a bad lad, when you got to know him. They had obviously had a fun night as we had heard him and a lady friend coming home in the early hours and when Rach came in from her swim, she told me there were bathing trunks in the pool, bikinis (plural) hanging over the chairs outside. The manager was complaining about someone having been sick in the lobby and our neighbor was in a little trouble. I have a lot to thank him for this, as I spent the morning and early afternoon writing a poem explaining the whole exciting affair which I entitled, ‘What’s it all about?’

Later I got chatting to the chap at the centre of the scandal and he was an interesting fellow. He had been staying in Thailand for quite some time (several months) and I asked him how he managed to finance such a life- (I would have put him in his early 50s). Turns out that the chap ran a bin washing business and had done so for several years, meaning he could finance his very relaxed lifestyle whilst two young lads did all of the work for him. He had me wondering whether spending years getting qualified, going to university and sitting exams was actually worth it. Top entrepreneur obviously.  

In the early afternoon we were picked up outside the hotel by an open air van, which whisked us off to a horse riding centre. This area was much more like a malaysian kampung with a diverse array of plant life, tired looking, but colourful bungalows, burnt out mopeds and even an abandoned boat or two. In the middle of all of this was a ramshackle horse riding organisation. 

I hadn’t ridden a horse since I was 10 at Tilton camp in Derbyshire and so should have been nervous but strangely, all was well. We had excellent folk riding with us as one of the horses was young and a touch skittish but the ride was a lot more fun than I thought it would be. I felt a little sorry for the horses on the beach as their hooves sunk into the sand, making the task of moving an oaf like me, all the harder. 

In the villages, barefoot children called out ‘hello’ to us and adults gawped as if they had seen an alien. I suppose they had. Rachel really enjoyed the ride and I was very pleased to see her on a horse again after all of the injuries and surgery.

The lovely young taxi-man dropped us back at the hotel and I popped out to buy some bread and cheese although it was a hell of a job trying to find the latter. We made some sarnies and ate them by the pool whilst reading our books. I was really getting into Our Mutual Friend- wonderful writing. Love Dickens.

After some down time, we took a taxi to Napporat beach where there were far more locals and where there was less booze and far more trees. It was very relaxing and I fell asleep under a tree with a warm breeze tickling my face and the leaves of the tree above me. It was a very peaceful moment. After forty winks, we strolled out on to the beautiful sands and the sea was out- it reminded us both of Marazion. We strolled for a while here and enjoyed a lot of crab action- hundreds of tiny ones racing across the beach and then scurrying into impossible, near invisible holes in a milli-second. It was fun to watch these fascinating creatures but there was the smell of beer in our nostrils and so we took a taxi to an irish bar we had found on trusty Google. The gentleman driving had his daughter with him in the passenger seat and she explained that she was sort of supervising him as it was his first time driving a ‘proper’ car and he was only used to the tuc tucs. It was very cute and the smiling father did really well and with a broad smile painted on his face. 

The irish bar was rough around the edges but not in an irish way although the landlord was irish, at least (he was a nice chap too). We had a couple of beers and I think Rachel endured the somewhat substandard, cold wine. I was very disappointed with the chilli, as it was not at all spicy which was strange for Thailand and it was also so umami that I thought I was eating soil at certain moments. The young thai girls who served us were curious- very happy and friendly but oddly white! In fact, they were whiter than white people! In Thailand, it is interesting how some girls wear so much whitening make up, that they look like ghosts and, even more bizarre, is the strange conundrum of how white people wear tanning lotion to look darker and darker skinned people wear stuff to make them whiter or even more frightening, some strange whitening implants or something. Why can’t we just be happy with who we are?

We grabbed another taxi, who messaged us and told us he was parking a distance from the bar to avoid the Tuc tuc mafia. This conjured up all sorts of odd ideas like something from the Godfather but with tuc tucs. I began to wonder what sort of violence went on behind the scenes. Once home, we chilled for a while before heading back to the local tequila bar for cocktails. There was a delightful lady at a stand next to the bar who I flirted with, and who was selling tickets for the 4 island tour. It sounded fun so we purchased two tickets for later in the week, before heading home with a bottle of wine, which we drank under the glistening pool lights.

We slept well and knew we could lie in, come the morning.

I awoke first and headed out into the heat alone, to look at the local mosque. An imposing and beautiful building, which is salmon in colour and is on the main street just a few hundred metres further from the beach than our hotel. This religious building is part of the muslim quarter and represents the Muslim community that makes up about 34% of the population in this part of Thailand. There are four tall minarets, on each corner of the building, each topped with a small bulbous golden dome. At the centre of the Mosque there is a vast golden dome. I took some photographs and smiled before wandering down the road for some brunch at a beautiful little back packers’ place, where most folk were sitting on cushions on the floor. The food here was outstanding and I was really flagging, so needed the sustenance.

I wandered slowly back to the digs, and found Rach sun-bathing. From here, we both had a very lazy afternoon, soaking up the sun, swimming in the pool, and I read more of Our Mutual Friend and wrote some poetry. Rach finished her second book of the trip before meal time and we returned to our tandoori place from night one for another great meal. There was a brief moment where the waiter brought out a smoked dish which didn’t just smoke the meat but the entire restaurant causing a domino effect of coughing in front of the painting of Ganesh, which reminded me of the frozen Han Solo in Return of the Jedi- with a trunk. We had a laugh with a chap and his family who were from Birmingham, as a bell rang and another smoked dish came out causing yet more hilarious poisoning of the air.

On the way home, we breathed in a differen type of air, which reeked of ganga before stopping for Hong Thong and relaxing with a nightcap back at the digs, before bed. A lazy day indeed.

The next day we did even less. It was delightful and the first time in ages that I felt completely relaxed. I finished my poem but other than that, simply lay in bed, swam, sun-bathed and waited until the evening for cocktails and a pleasant Thai meal. Delightful and much needed rest and recuperation.

After two exceptionally chilled days, we were both ready for a trip out of Ao Nang and so the 4 island tour was just what the doctor ordered. We were picked up at our hotel and jumped into a shared bus-cum-van with no seat belts and with many of us crammed into a small space. We commented once again on how travel teaches us that the rules are so varied. In the UK, there would be no chance that we could travel this way. I have to say- I like it. I know it is more dangerous but I do like it!

We travelled via speedboat, after quite a lengthy walk along the sandy beach, so soft that it was tiring and our feet sank quite deep on every step. The captain on board was formidable and very strict- borderline rude but we kept ourselves to ourselves as he piloted us to a secluded part of  Railay called Pranga beach. It was a beautiful stroll from the boat to the beach via an ancient valley below cliffs that towered above us, some with caves and very picturesque. When we finally emerged from the jurassic like walkway, we saw many climbers scaling the, and I am no expert, challenging cliff faces along the main Pranga beach. I watched for a while and was impressed by the bravery of one woman in particular who maintained a position on the rocks that I can only describe as the ‘splits’ for far longer than would ever been considered comfortable.

Although the area was teeming with tourists, it was still stunning and the water, crystal clear with undulating overhanging rocks, giving just about enough cover from the ferocious sun. It was gorgeous swimming here and no jellies so all good. After a wander back we fizzed off to another stunning island where we snorkeled, although disappointingly, there were no fish. This particular island had lots of places for families to sit and picnic as well as places to grab drinks although oddly (it was Thailand) and annoyingly, they didn’t serve beer. Rach and I had dropped a couple of cans in our backpacks before leaving the hotel, but we smashed them at beach one and so had to suffer. I say suffer but the green curry we enjoyed as part of the trip was beautiful and the watermelon was perhaps the juiciest I have ever eaten.

From here we motored across the water to look at a place called Chicken island- a bizarre structure that did indeed resemble a chicken sticking its head up in the air. After some photgraphs we stopped at an island that was basically a sandbar- still no beer! Rach was hot and tired and irritated at the lack of beer so sat grumpily but I walked across the sandbar connecting two small islands and had a bathe with some jellyfish which, in fairness, were ok as these were large and telegraphed their appearance with their colour and so they were easy to avoid. Rach, feeling hot, did brave a brief dip but we were both ready to leave when it was time to head back to Ao Nang. 

On landing, we stopped for beers and cocktails at our favourite, regular tequila bar and then back home for rest. Later we strolled out for pizza at a place overlooking the adventures of the street. The feta and watermelon salad here was one of the best salads I have ever eaten and Rach couldn’t resist the banana fritters for dessert. We enjoyed wine back at the digs and a cheeky, post curfew swim in the pool which we got away with and both of us managed to keep our swimwear on, unlike our neighbour and friends a few nights ago.

The next day was our last and so, after a nice brekkie at the quality hostel place I mentioned before, we headed off in search of nutty shirts and sexy dresses. I agonised, at one point, over a shirt with a cat smoking cannabis and another that depicted hell and all its devils in a gaudy and cartoonish fashion. I chose wisely, and walked away. The shirt with the vibrant mushrooms was a step quite far enough, I feel. We stopped in an awful dingy place called O’Malley’s which was as irish as Vietnam and a sad place too: no Guiness- nothing irish on the menu and no windows. Grubby and lost. We left after one and stopped at an outdoor restaurant by the sea overlooking the giant and imposing statue of the sailfish along the coast. Here Rach had a wonderful green curry with coconut. 

We witnessed a stunning sunset from this restaurant before heading to the Tequila bar for the last time and then back to the digs. Oddly, the booze led us into a deep and at times difficult conversation, which was not the best way to end a wonderful trip to Thailand. 

We were both still in a little mood the next day and hardly spoke for the morning until midway through breakfast at the hostel. From here, we warmed back to each other and grabbed a taxi. The airport experience was easy but humorously, we were stopped for trying to bring a tin of tuna fish through customs. We are naughty. 

Vietnam Part 1 Hustle and Bustle in Hanoi 8th and 9th December 2023

When you mention Vietnam to people in the UK, they would probably think of the Vietnam war and have visions of Rambo charging through the jungle looking for victims. Yet like most of any preconceived thoughts, that view or limited thought about this place is exactly that…limited!

We were flying in the afternoon which was very civilised and although Rach had a bit of a cold, we were ok and she bravely soldiered on. Having learnt from previous experiences at the airport we were sure to pack our ruck sack with beers and so, having arrived early, we sat together like a pair of hobos on the floor of the airport supping Special Brew. Despite the wait, we were pleased to see that the flight had been brought forward by fifteen minutes and we were able to board promptly.

This was our first Vietnam airways flight and we were super impressed. The cabin crew war the traditional garb of the country and the women wore the oddly attractive conical style vietnamese hats. Perhaps the most humbling and strange moment was when the crew positioned themselves down the aisle in a line and gave a synchronised bow to us all. I have experienced the bowing from some of our students and in Cambodia the deference was sometimes uncomfortable but this was the first time I had witnessed this on an plane. Just as we were working through this moment of huge respect, they repeated the gesture.

The food on Vietnam airways was wonderful (a beautifully vibrant, aromatic and tasty noodle dish). Unfortunately, Rach was not eating again and I became very stressed. Thankfully I controlled myself but was less than relaxed by the landing of the flight as it seemed to take an age to slow down. I had visions of being in a documentary, ‘Flight 9347 Vietnam Airways had a huge malfunction on landing, sending the plane careering into the airport and killing everyone on board’. It was fleeting and thankfully the brakes did work, after all. I wonder if the pilot was teasing us. I hope he was, in a way.

Immigration was a bit of nightmare and the queues were huge. That said, I was pleased to see the old style post office queues where you, as a human, are forced to compete with others and join a line you think is the correct one. The passport control staff were happy, and friendly, which is always important for setting your expectations of a country.

Once outside, we commented on how much cooler it was than Malaysia, which was pleasant a and a bit of a relief from the constant humidity. It was an short ride to Maydeville hotel. The journey itself, as is often the case, was full of intrigue and culture. Here, there was far more beeping of horns than in Malaysia but mercifully less than in Uzbekistan but what surprised me most was how much more liberal Vietnam seemed to be (more on that story later) compared to relatively conservative Malaysia. At one moment, I looked out of the window and saw three scantily clad (super short mini skirts) young ladies driving on one motorbike and 'beasting' their way through the red lights, as if on the way to some extemely important liaison. This is not a sight that you would ever be likely to see in Malaysia.

Once we approached Hanoi everything suddenly became far busier, particularly after we crossed the not inconsiderable bridge across the Red River (don't worry, no blood). The first thing that jumps out at the eager tourist is the swarm of mopeds and bikes, more than any I have ever seen before, racing their way along the narrow streets, overtaking, undertaking and driving around pedestrians but simply not stopping, no matter what the obstacle.

There is a sort of pavement along some of the streets but shops have their wares sputtering out across the space and there are plastic seats owning the front of every restaurant; as well as works materials and of course, parked bikes and mopeds. You have to walk on the road. My first impression from the car was that this was a very dangerous place. 

Maydeville is right in the heat of the old town madness and is quite posh. Our bags were collected and the staff were very polite, smiling, bowing and exceptionally accommodating. It wasn’t long before we were safely installed in our digs for the next two nights. Unfortunately, there was no window, which I had asked for, but the bed was comfortable and I was relieved, as always, that we now had a safe space. Rach was still struggling with her eating and I didn’t deal well with the emotion of it, despite my best attempts to do the right thing. I hoped the next day would be better.

Breakfast was very pleasant and as usual catered for all palates, with curry, salads, pastries, nasi lemak, nasi goreng, pho, fruits, eggs, pancakes and more. Rach managed a little bit. The view from the rooftop restaurant was fabulous and you could really get a sense of the delightful dilapidation of the city with its buildings almost growing on top of one another and the abundance of red and green tin roofs interspersed with arches or columns and rooftop gardens. There are very few skyscrapers and so it differs from Kuala Lumpur and Bangkok and the geographical influences have a China-meets-french colonialist vibe which is not surprising considering the history of Hanoi. The quaint balconies adorning narrow high rise flats and shops are particularly parisian. 

The city itself has had many names that have been often related to dragons and most exciting of all, for me, ‘Dragon Belly’. 

Leaving the hotel and walking in the belly of the beast can be an overwhelming experience, almost like walking in the crowded streets of some cities in India.The bikes, from the safety of the car, were scary but when you are on foot, even more hair-raising. Sometimes, you feel like you simply need to keep moving and I think you could possibly close your eyes whilst the experienced inhabitants of Hanoi go about their business and the obstacle of ‘you.

We thought we would die several times as we searched for a cashpoint but were soon well endowed with money (after doing the mental arithmetic and realising that 10000 vietnamese dong was actually 30 pence). The blaring horns were common place outside the cash machine as we were at the crossroads next to the entrance to the Hoàn Kiếm Lake, also known as Sword Lake, which sits proudly in the heart of the old town. We crossed into this area which was more pedestrianised but equally busy with old ladies fishing, or wrapping snacks up in banana leaves to sell to the public. Others pushed carts along filled to the brim with sugary delights not dissimilar to doughnuts whilst other peddlars hung mangos, and other exotic fruits from the sides and the top of the bars of their carts. There were quite a few tourists, pop up food places and even one chap dressed as a bottle of aftershave to market the latest olfactory offerings from some Vietnamese company. On a personal level I was delighted to see quite a few traditional hats, called the Non La. 

Rach and I enjoyed the pleasant stroll around the water’s edge, which is very pretty and in the middle of the lake, there is a Confuscian temple on an island, which at night (I later discovered) looks stunning with the numerous lights sparkling and glimmering across the mirror-like waters. The temple is called Ngoc Son and we were certainly keen to visit but initially were distracted by a wide street that took us up to a statue of a learned fellow called Ly Thai To who was apparently a celebrated acaedemic in the 10th and 11th century. There were lots of people taking photos here and some publicity shots with men and women dressed in full traditional Vietnamese regalia, strangely carrying umbrellas.

It was a lovely distraction but we finally crossed the pretty Huc bridge to the temple although before setting foot on the bridge we were captivated by The Pen Tower and The Ink Slab, impressive stone features contributed by Nguyen Van Sieu. On the slab it says ‘Writing on the blue sky’ in Vietnamese and the pen tower itself is supposed to represent the a nib pointing upwards to the sky above. I think there is some idea about thinking big -’blue sky thinking’ I suppose but remaining connected to the earth and therefore having humility.

The bridge is visually striking with its vibrant red color and contemporary Buddhist architecture. It reflects the cluster of sunlight, which is believed to bring hope, luck and happiness apparently and both Rach and I were feeling a lot of that as we walked across.There are a couple of pleasant pavilion gardens, with gorgeous views across the lake and some exotic plants and flowers in delightful miniature gardens before you reach the temple itself.

Ngoc Son Temple consists of two main sections, with the internal devoted to worshipping Tran Hung Dao and Van Xuong De Quan. The statue of Tran Hung Dao is placed on a 1-meter long pedestal, portraying the majestic commander with his courtiers. Meanwhile, the statue of Van Xuong De Quan depicts a composed philosopher who has grasped extensive knowledge of humankind.

There is a third statue of Amitabha, a holy Buddha. Like Malaysia, Vietnam is a diverse place with religions sitting happily alongside one another and this is one of the most wonderful aspects of life out here in East Asia. Inside one room are three mummified ancient turtles and they were huge. There is a stor that connects them to the establishment of Hanoi which I cannot recall in its entirety.

Rach spent a little time composing herself in the pavilion gardens and we wandered around lazily, taking some great snaps and chatting, before leaving the temple and taking a slow walk around the lake. We found a place for a beer on the far side of the lake and sampled the local Hoian bia, which was pleasant enough. Well, it is a lager and as I often say there isn’t much difference between lagers around the world. The real craft is held by the artisan brewers of ales, as far as I am concerned. Nevertheless, we had a second Hoian bia to be sociable before seeking out a place for a snack.

We walked quite a way to a ban my place (a vietnamese style sandwich shop) and grabbed some food to go. It was ok but Rach didn’t like it at all. We wandered back to the digs and I ate a mango which had been part of a welcome pack, when we arrived at the hotel- Rach tried some too. It was sweet and unctuous. After some scran, we walked up to the rooftop swimming pool which looked appealing but was freezing cold. In truth, it was several degrees cooler in Vietnam than Malaysia and the pool was in shade. I did two lengths to save face and happily removed myself. Later, some german tourists went through the same experience much to my amusement although one couple braved it and stayed in for a long time. I was mightily impressed- viking blood possibly?

From the rooftop, the views over the capital were even more spectacular and as I was glancing across, my eyes caught sight of a very narrow and tall art gallery across the road from our hotel which looked a lot of fun and certainly intrigued (more on that story later). After a little relaxation we headed back out into the hustle and bustle of Hanoi in search of the Water Puppet Theatre.

The theatre was only a few minutes from the ‘digs’ and quite close to the lake so it was easy to find. The exterior of the water puppet theatre stands out due to the tall rectangular column with the pagoda style roof and in the evening this tower glows with green lines. Up the middle of the column are pictures of various puppets that have presumably starred there over the years. We bought some tickets which were very cheap and had about 90 minutes to ‘kill’ before the performance so we wandered to a speakeasy type bar which sold great cocktails (my first rusty nail). In the backroom of this bar there were many glass heads on the wall and some ‘pop art’ style paintings of Salvador Dali, Barack Obama, Van Gogh and Einstein. I have no idea why but they were impressive pieces of art. I thought of the 4 horsemen of the apocalypse momentarily and then thought what a great dinner party it would be, with those four guests. 

It was a delightful ambience here in the cocktail bar but we paid up and headed back to the theatre, passing a restaurant that made us chuckle a lot called Fuk Lam. I don’t think it was an imperative.

The water puppet theatre is compact and bisu but all the more intimate and wonderful for that. The stage is a small rectangular lake and positioned on either side of the lake were several musicians and singers, who told the story, spoke for the puppets and provided the exotic and ethereal music that accompanied the story, which was basically how Hanoi came to be.

I was a little irritated at first as some folk kept talking at annoyingly loud volumes and whilst the performance was in Vietnamese and therefore nonsensical to me, it still diminished the art and this was very annoying. Thankfully, they settled down. 

The musicians were highly adroit and particularly the theremin player. This instrument is mesmerising and captivating and at one point I closed my eyes as this virtuoso took me on the most incredible journey. This was all before the puppets arrived. The puppeteers were in the water but behind the set and they manipulated the water puppets with consummate skills. Some highlights include the fire dragons who breathed fire whilst moving through the water and the water squirting puppets. At one moment there was great humour and laughter in the audience as the the artists simulated sex between swans before a baby swan swam solo across the lake to cute sighs from the audience.

The puppets were beautifully made, painted and were outstanding examples of art in their own right. I love the sea turtles, which we had seen in the temple earlier in  the day and which we could now witness in puppet form. At the end of the show, the puppeteers stepped out of their hiding places and took bows whilst standing in the water. They were very impressive.

The streets outside the theatre were crazy busy and there were live bands bashing out some tunes, pop up street food places and seemingly even more bikes than earlier. Hanoi at night is a feast for the senses and it would be easy to be overwhelmed by it all. We tried some food at a restaurant before heading back. Rach had not eaten again and I was upset and emotional. We had some wine in the room before bed.

Halfway through the night I was snoring pretty badly so I ended up sleeping on the floor in the shower, curled up uncomfortably.

Vietnam Part 2- A cathedral, a train line and an art gallery- 10-12-23

I had breakfast on my own in the morning and my limbs were agony after the shower curl-up. I took the book ‘Little Big Man’ to breakfast, ate fruit and some pastries and bashed on through it. I was so close to the end and it had been an amazing read so far. Rach came round after an hour or so longer in bed than me and we headed off on foot in search of St Joseph’s cathedral.

The cathedral itself was in a little square full to the brim with pedestrians, bikes, and tourists and once again it would have been easy to become overwhelmed but neither Rach nor I was hugely impacted and we simply stood and soaked it all up. The cathedral looks quite dramatic from the exterior and was built in an architectural style that resembles Notre Dame in Paris and was yet another example of the french colonial influence in Hanoi. It was constructed in 1884 and is the oldest church in Hanoi. Whilst we were there, the bells were ringing out for the Christmas period and they were loud enough to jangle above the chaos below. Rachel was very impressed. On closer inspection, I found the exterior to be some sort of cement, as if it had just been plastered on and was far less impressive than proper stone churches and cathedrals in Europe.

We had a wander around its relatively spartan interior and there are a couple of pretty stained glass windows. I have to be honest and say that its aspect was far more dramatic than its reality with a grey, almost black bluestone sheen like those churches in Brasov, Romania. I was however, drawn more to the gaudy Christmas nativity scene, made of cardboard and painted with bright, iridescent colours that seemed almost like there had been a nuclear plant leak just outside Jesus’ stable in Bethlehem. I was a little disconcerted by how many sheep and lambs there were, almost outnumbering the humans and angels. Behind the scene and almost blocking the view of the cathedral was a very tall Christmas tree, which you could walk underneath and look up to the top.

Oh, I almost forgot- There was a very humorous moment inside the church. Whilst wandering through the pews in that typical wistful way that one does in a church, I noticed a man with his head in his hands sitting on a pew at the far left side of the church on the first row. It made me quite distressed to watch him as he was shaking a little and looked broken as if something terrible had happened to him. As I strolled past one of the columns I was able to see a few feet along this particular pew and it dawned on me that this was a confessional box and the chap with his head in his hands was the preacher listening to the confessions. There was a box with a small aperture between a veiled lady and the man of God. However, what made me chuckle inside was there was just a piece of wood, or maybe even cardboard and this was all that separated them. If they both stood up they would see each other immediately and everyone else in the church could see both of them. Very amusing.

From here, Rachel and I took a relatively lengthy stroll to the famous Train Street of Hanoi which is exactly what it says: A street with a train line running through the middle of it. It is hard to work out how, or why this would have been constructed this way but the french built the line in 1902. Halfway between the cathedral, and train street Rach and I managed to find a courtyard with a bar, selling several draft beers and we stayed here for a while. There was a celebration advertised for the evening and an impressive sounding jazz band were rehearsing upstairs which we enjoyed- we also enjoyed the Hanoi beer and the Saigon (the Hanoi was better).

It really is an unusual and fascinating sight and as a result, it has become so popular that the locals are now becoming irritated- it is a residential area after all. That said, almost all of the buildings along the street have been converted into coffee shops, often serving the local speciality Egg Coffee.

Many folk, looking for the ultimate holiday snap have been known to lie on the line itself or perform a variety of other gymnastic acts and for a while the street was closed as it was considered too dangerous. It is open again now, but I did get into a bit of an argument with a lady who stopped us entering the street without explaining why. I became annoyed that other tourists seemed to wander through with ‘gay abandon’ but after a short while it dawned on me that we had to have a local restaurant/coffee shop owner to take us through as a customer. This was, I think, a way to reduce the numbers along this short stretch. I behaved like an idiot and am not proud of it, in retrospect.

We finally found a chap who took us to his coffee shop and we had a beer or two and managed to take some excellent photos. I was really needing a wee but hung in until we had left the place. Probably through desperation for the loo, we stopped at a Beef noodle restaurant where the food was distinctly average. Luckily. I managed to urinate.

On the way back to the ‘digs’, We stopped at the art gallery previously mentioned before entering the hotel. The gallery was very impressive and on three storeys, as seen from our hotel roof. The art work was phenomenal and we bought three very pretty pieces of outstanding embroidery, depicting a range of vietnamese scenes. On the highest storey, there was a little balcony which hung over the street. I stepped out on it but was terrified and didn’t stay long. I felt like at any moment, the balcony would fall.

Rach rested once back at the Maydeville and I strolled out into the old town on my own, initially in search of the Red River but ultimately failing as the traffic was ridiculous and the crossover to the river was almost impossible. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the stroll and saw quite a few vietnamese moments such as the dad and lad playing chess on the street outside a greengrocers. Further down the street, another greengrocer staggered me as it is the biggest one I have ever seen, bulging with veggies and fruits I had never laid eyes on before. There was a beautiful little temple on one street (probably Temple Street) which was set off the main drag and houses a delightful courtyard. A mother and daughter were painting together inside the temple and the mother asked me to take their photograph. I took a moment here to breathe it all in and it was very serene. Almost immediately after rejoining the street, I was asked by a local if I wanted a ride on the back of her moped but I was very close to home and declined. Maybe I should have accepted.

I enjoyed a wine with Rach on the top floor of the hotel, on my return.

In the evening we went to a fabulous restaurant with paintings of Vietnam on the walls, and a wonderful swinging chair as well as perfectly ambient lighting. The waitress was very pleasant and helpful and we enjoyed a couple of cocktails. Rach had pomello and prawns and I have to admit to falling in love with pomello: succulent and juicy and like a grapefruit but not as sour. I had banana leaf fish and it was juicy, tender and full of flavour.

We took a rickshaw on the street at Rachel’s request, to what our friend who lives Hanoi, calls Christmas Street. This place was insane and one of the busiest places I have ever seen. It was actually called Hang Ma Street and there were thousands of folk in the numerous, overcrowded shops and yet mopeds still dared to enter this zone which even now I find unfathomable. Imagine a zombie apocalypse film such as the opeming of The Walking Dead in Atlanta and you might be close. The Christmas shops had every shiny seasonal object and decoration you could ever conceive of and then more. If Santa was real, and had a grotto holding all the christmas presents in the world, I still think he’d be jealous of this street. Insanity- pure xmas madness. It was a wonderful place to take photos but we certainly wouldn’t be shopping. At one moment a moped almost killed me and I launched into a tirade of ‘how does nobody get killed here’ but of course, maybe they do. I was only there once.

We had beers in the room from the mini bar and slept well. It had been a very interesting day in Hanoi.

I

Ha Long bay-Two nights in Paradise- 11-12-23 to 13-12-23

I had breakfast alone again but grabbed a banana for Rach. We checked out from the hotel and were picked up by a minibus and driven to Ha Long Bay. I slept on the bus, as I often do but had a couple of gaps where I was able to continue reading ‘Little Big Man’. We hurtled through the countryside passing amazing bridges, paddy fields, and stretches of jungle with churches popping up in surprising frequency. 

The resort at Ha Long bay was odd and possibly unfinished. Some parts looked like Hollywood boulevards and other parts were dilapidated and reminded me of Uzbekistan, where wonderful ideas had been either half made or left to fade away. Before too long, we were delivered to a restaurant by the port. We had cleverly brought a beer with us and sat cheekily enjoying it whilst waiting to board a boat to go on the Ha Long cruise. There were many people scurrying around carrying boxes of vegetables and numerous beers, salad leaves and more. It was a hive of activity. 

After about thirty minutes we were invited to step on to a boat that would transfer us to our cruise ship. There were many large vessels only a few hundred metres from the shore but we motored past these out into open waters. A chap wearing a microphone spoke to us all (about 40 tourists) and made a joke that it was a four hour transfer and I am sure some of the tourists believed him, at least fleetingly. He was a cheeky so and so. I couldn’t quite understand why he had a microphone on as we could hear him all too clearly. Little did I know that this microphone was not just for the speedboat (more on that story later).

About thirty minutes after leaving the port, our Junk came into view. For the uninitiated, a junk was originally a type of chinese sailing ship from many centuries ago. Over the years they evolved as various dynasties came and went and similar junk sails were also adopted by other East Asian countries such as Vietnam. The term ‘junk’ was also used extensively during the colonial period to refer to any large-sized boat.  Thus, this ‘junk’ was not a sailing vessel at all but it certainly looked colonial with three levels, a rooftop terrace and balconies for several of the rooms. As we approached the vessel, the staff of the ship, who had no doubt just sent the last flock of tourists flying, were facing us dressed in whites (very colonial) and waving with the broadest smiles imaginable- as if they had been painted on. Behind those smiles, these waiters and cleaners and managers were no doubt seething as another wad of affluent former colonialists and the like sailed towards their vessel. Or maybe I have got this wrong.

Once aboard, the fawning continued and we were ushered through to the dining room. Here, our host spoke to us of the basic rules aboard and explained what was happening that day. So- the microphone! Yes, he kept it on for the whole time. The room wasn’t large and it would have been very easy to project your voice but instead his rasping mic (not of high quality) made him sound like a cross between Darth Vadar and Stephen Hawking. He was lovely by the way. I was particularly amused by his pronunciation of ‘area’ as he used the short ‘a’ sound and almost rolled the ‘r’. As usual, I picked up on this and throughout the cruise I used this pronunciation to try and make Rach laugh. Sometimes, it worked.

Lunch was pleasant and served by colonial style submissives in suits and pleasant dresses- the highlight though was the tattie salad: common as muck! After lunch we were shown our rooms which were classically colonial also, as if from perhaps the early twentieth century- distressed copper pipes in the shower room and even an ornate golden elephant trunk for the water to pour from. The balcony was a lovely touch but it was odd that only one chair was placed upon it and so we had to struggle with the one in the room and manhandle it clumsily outside. I was initially annoyed that there wasn’t a bath as there had been on the photos I had been sent but I soon got over it. First world problems!

The views from here were majestic as the junk drifted serenely passed the numerous monolithic limestone rocks that appear to sprout from the sea and sometimes even float upon it. Halong bay was formed in the carboniferous period around 340 million years ago- a time when arthropods and amniotes were the dominant creatures on the planet. What a world they lived in and it is incredible that we can still enjoy it and we certainly did. 

Although it was a wonderful experience being on the cruise in Ha Long bay, both Rach and I had to rapidly get used to the pace of the trip, for it was only a matter of moments before we were interrupted by the sound of someone banging on a microphone loudly, as if to test if it worked. It flippin’ did and nearly made me jump out of my skin. Then followed a loud announcement that we were all to meet upstairs for a kayaking trip. It was the chap who never took the mic off. In fact, I don’t think I heard him speak without a mic for the entire trip. 

We were ferried out on a smaller boat to an area for kayaking and Rach and I made a good team. Strangely I couldn’t seem to stop my legs from hurting, no matter what position I put them in. Rach is an excellent oarsperson so all worked out well and we managed to kayak our way out to a small island. It looked stunning and there was a small beach but as soon as we stepped out of the kayak we found ourselves standing in a swamp, almost up to our knees. We didn’t stay long. 

After rowing back to the kayaking area we both had a swim, and the water was colder than I expected it to be. There was a Pirate’s bar here but no booze, which ‘kind of’ isn’t a bar right? We were relaxed however, as we had wine back in the room that we had bought some from the small ‘smoker’ boats that race alongside the ship selling all manner of bits and bobs. We negotiated over the side of the ship and even though we were perhaps fifty feet high, the industrious lady in the Non la simply pulled out this fishing net on the end of a very long pole. She put the wine in the net and held it up to our balcony. We dropped the money in the net and she skillfully brought the net back to the boat. It was still expensive, as these guys know all too well what the cruise ships are charging but it was half the price we would have had to pay and so, well worth buying a couple of bottles.

Thankfully, when we arrived back, it was happy hour and so we sat on the top of the junk, as the sun came down, creating black shapes against the disappearing light. It was stunning to watch how these amazing natural structures were slowly erased by the absence of light. We had three cocktails each and were feeling very relaxed, interrupted only by the cooking class. The young man doing the teaching was a chap who looked about 12. He was showing us all how to make spring rolls and Rach had a go: in fact had a go doesn’t do her efforts justice as her spring rolls were easily the best! We joked with some of the indian ladies who had made some dubious looking ones. I even had a bite of one of theirs and they laughed at my expression- they weren’t great spring rolls. 

After happy hour, we had our evening meal (5 courses). The food was mainly very good and the highlight for me was the sea bass in passion fruit sauce. Now, that is not a combination I would expect to work but every day is a school day. It is one I will try to recreate at some point. After dinner, Rach enjoyed a bottle of wine on the balcony and chatted about everything and nothing- including how school leaders can really ‘fuck up’ a school.

The bed was super comfortable although I was less than pleased to be woken up at 5.45 or somewhere thereabouts by the sound of Mr Mic man. The banging on the mic itself was like a grenade going off in your dreams and I almost jumped out of my skin... again! There followed the announcement that Ta Chi was taking place on the top deck and of course, the instruction/invitation had to be repeated. Why wouldn’t it be?

We grabbed an hour or so longer, not fancying the tai chi, before heading to breakfast. It wasn’t that good, in truth. At 8.30, we were taken by a small boat before being transferred to yet another, middle-sized boat, where we met our guide for the day- Tony. He was a fascinating guy and very knowledgeable, although he really loved to talk and he went on and on and Ariston (you won’t get this unless you are my age- sorry).

Eventually the boat moored itself at a very small island where we were given cycles. Rach bravely tried the cycle but gave up fairly soon and took the electric bus put on for the cripples, the lazy and the old. Haha. or maybe the smart! To be fair, the cycle ride wasn’t too hard and mostly flat or downhill, through paradise-like scenery: inland waterways, vibrant flowers, overhanging trees, tunnels and open farmland, with mountains in the background. After about twenty minutes or so, we arrived at an old Vietnamese village. I was the first to arrive so my fitness must be ok, right?

We were beckoned into an area where there was ‘fishy feet nibbling’ and it was my first time. One chap had hundreds, possibly thousands around his feet but most folk dropped their feet in, squealed a little and pulled them back out. Rachel did the same. I have to confess to the experience being super odd as the fish appear to almost suck at your feet which is initially ticklish and certainly a sensory experience you have to adapt to. You need to have willpower to stick it out and tell yourself that you aren’t being harmed and that you definitely won’t have zombie feet when you remove them from the water. I mean, they are not piranhas.  In truth, it is a little like having pins and needles and if you stick it out, you can get used to it. I did and was secretly very happy with myself.

Tony gave us a wonderful, though perhaps slightly too long, talk about Vietnam, the culture and the industrialisation of the country after its insular past and the devastation caused by the war with America. Apparently the roads were almost untraversable and so tourists would not come. The rate of change was fast and Tony was proud of his people and rightly so. 

From here Tony took us to an old vietnamese mudhouse which was said to be the oldest building in the village. There were some ingenious parts of this dwelling including the way hot water was on tap via a fire that heated a piping system. An old lounge had been dressed as it would have been before the America, Vietnam war and sported a large poster of the communist revolutionary Ho Chi Minh. In the garden behind the mudhouse was an area where, locals were selling their wares. It was for the tourists of course but very interesting and for Rach (a fellow vintner) and myself, perhaps the most exciting part was the wine tasting- a variety of sakes with all sorts of different flavours. I think Rach tried them all, including Snake Sake- which is exactly what it says. There was a bottle of sake with a whole snake proudly sitting and marinating inside it. An indian chap made a joke with his son, who was perhaps 16 or so, claiming he had to drink this, to help him to become a ‘man’. We laughed together. We purchased some snake sake and a bottle of a beverage that looked like a rose wine but kicked like a mule. I have no idea of the percentage but it was certainly high.

I cycled back and took some great photos of the fields where farm folk were picking the sweet potatoes. I really enjoyed this moment of the trip and Rach was waiting for me when I arrived back at the dock, having once again travelled via electric bus. 

We had a beer when back on board which was very much needed in the heat but before long we were disembarking once more for yet more kayaking. I was dreading the pain but this time, I was pain free. We rowed towards a hole in the cliffs of one of the limestone elevations. We thought it might be a cave but it opened into an area that reminded us both of Mirror Lake in  Ipoh though larger and perhaps more impressive. Once in this serene place, you could imagine that you had travelled through time and that you were now in a prehistoric place where a pteranodon might swoop down at any moment. Thankfully, one didn’t. Under the water there were thousands of discarded fishing baskets which we found curious. On our return to the boat both Rach and I swam out to the cutest beach I have ever seen- tiny and seemingly in the middle of nowhere, if that makes sense. Rach was brave again and swam with me, despite rumours of jellyfish. We survived. Other youngsters had fun throwing themselves off the top of the boat into the water. I sun bathed here for a while and managed to finish ‘Little Big Man’, briefly pausing to nip down and take some beers from the fridge. 

On the way back to the junk, we passed stunning scenery which Tony talked about (of course). These included rock formations that looked like many other things, including: a jumping frog and the face of a man (which Tony said was western because its nose was massive). I had a great shower on our return and after a brief rest returned to the top deck for happy hour. The music was much louder than the previous night and we discussed why so many places think unnecessarily loud music means happiness. It really doesn’t.

Dinner was a disappointment apart from the first course. The meal seemed like an afterthought as most people stay one night and we had stayed two. Afterwards, we sat on our balcony in the room, drinking wine and reflecting on the day and listening to the terrible karaoke performed on several of the other boats anchored in the vicinity. At one point we realised that though the sound seemed to be coming from miles away, it was actually on our top deck. Sound moves in very strange ways sometimes. 

We both slept well after what had been a full and thoroughly enjoyable day.

Meeting friends and a day in Ninh Binh- 13-12-23 to 14-12-23

The next morning I awoke with a nasty headache- one of those throbbers that you can’t ignore and so I was grumpy as hell. I felt a little sick and was clearly dehydrated- which I tried to remedy as soon as possible. My bedside manner for others is terrible and I am trying to improve all of the time but Rach is wonderful and she looked after me as I continued to moan and complain throughout breakfast. 

We managed to complete the paying of our bill despite a little faffing about by the chap in front of me who must have tried about four methods of paying before succeeding. We were soon leaving the junk and on our way to the port that we had left two days before. We were sad to be leaving this place, which is simply, a natural paradise. 

We caught a lift back to our digs in what was a retro bus with golden seats and a plush interior that made me think of a posh pimp mobile. There was a TV too but it was silent and repeated the same song video over and over and over again. Rach and I were tired when we arrived back in Hanoi and after some chilling, we popped out to an indian restaurant called Zaika’s which was excellent and mega cheap.

In the evening we wandered to the lake to see the glowing lights and the red glow of the bridge that crossed to the temple. After this we found a pleasant cocktail bar and sat out watching the street below, which was oddly opposite a Santa’s grotto- bizarrely incongruent in this space. The scenery of snowy trees and reindeers with frozen noses simply didn’t fit with the shorts and t-shirt weather we were experiencing. Amy and Rich, friends from KTJ were also in Hanoi and dropped by for a couple of drinks. It was fun.

We left relatively early and were ready for sleep, once we arrived back at the hotel.

The next morning, I had breakfast alone once again as Rach was not really awake enough. It was quite early and she wanted to get things packed as it was our last day in Vietnam and we were being picked up for a day trip to Ninh Binh. Our flight was late and often it is difficult to relax when you know you have a flight to catch but our decision to go and see the stunning Ninh Binh was one of the best we’d made for a while.  

Our translater and guide picked us up from the hotel and she was delightful. We chatted freely in the car and I found her fascinating as she taught me a lot about Vietnamese culture. She pointed out random, lone graves sitting peacefully in the middle of various fields. She explained that there was a burial culture amongst the farm folk and the working classes, whereby relatives are often buried only a few metres from where they lived or on the land they worked. Perhaps more surprising was the culture of digging up the bones of said relatives years after they have been buried and then asking the grandchildren or certainly youngsters of the family to polish the bones and then re-bury them in several smaller boxes. The mourning process in Uzbekistan dragged on for some time but in Vietnam the mourning goes on for years. There are also anniversary mourning occasions where the family meets to remember the relative who has died and mourn once again. 

It was also very interesting to hear this lady’s view of American people and indeed her perceptions of many countries around the world. Given the war between the US and Vietnam, one would assume that Vietnamese people would naturally be none too fond of the Americans but not so. In fact, many Vietnamese people look up to and admire the Americans and their culture. Curve ball coming at you: they also like Putin and Russia. I explained how British people didn’t necessarily like Americans that much and that there is a special relationship borne of necessity. She jumped on this concept explaining that that is how they feel about China. 

We went on to discuss family life and how there were almost no care homes in Vietnam as family looked after the elderly- and there is necessity as many folk do not have pensions or whatever provision that is made, falls woefully short. She explained how more women work now but that the traditional family structure was still very much dominant and we briefly touched upon language and how many Vietnamese words are of one syllable only.  

It took two hours to arrive at Ninh Binh but as you can see, we had plenty to chat about and I enjoyed the journey except for the fact that Rachel was car sick for a time and when we finally arrived, she needed to sit down for a while before we embarked on our boat ride. The tour guide fetched her a banana as she hadn’t eaten and I think this was the main problem. 

Ninh Binh is stunning. Like Ha Long bay, there are limestone rocks covered in trees and greenery of all shapes and sizes by the river edge and sometimes in the water itself, rising like granite ghosts from the water. We were able to get a ride with a lovely oarsman who took both ourselves and a young german couple around the Trang An course which weaves its way along the river and past many small and impressive temples. The scenery was incredible, serene for the most part and very relaxing. Rachel was feeling a lot better and we both enjoyed going through some of the caves, although the rocks were dangerously low at times and I almost clonked my head on a stalactite or two.

We passed high mountains, and followed the winding course of the river, admiring rock formations that often resembled man-made structures, like something out of Lord of the Rings. 

The ride was broken up with three temple visits, all very interesting and the turtle theme was ever present, with statues and sculptures of the animal all over the place. There were many tombstones at these temples with no names on which seemed slightly eerie and odd plaques like grave etchings which apparently stated when a tree was planted.

The trip lasted about three hours and I heartily recommend it. 

We headed for a lunch at a place where we had traditional vietnamese pho, which I have to be honest and say was ok but a tad too salty and, not as good as the one I tried in Cambridge (so often the way). The lady who served was lovely however and there was a very cute puppy here which Rach fell in love with. Funniest of all was the sign just down the road that said ‘drive slowly’; there are women and old people about. I didn’t realise women were so vulnerable. 

We dropped into a large temple on the way to the airport called Bai Dinh and the guide took us on a short guided tour. The compound consisted of the original old temple and a newly created larger temple. It is considered the largest complex of Buddhist temples in Vietnam and has become a popular site for Buddhist pilgrimages from across Vietnam. We learnt about the step that seems to be at floor level in every doorway in Vietnam and sometimes in Malaysia. Our guide told us, it wasn’t about floods but about ensuring that everyone had to look at the ground to watch their step forcing everyone to have their heads lowered in deference to Budda. 

Our minds however, as they inevitably do on flight days, were returning to thoughts of the plane and making sure we didn’t miss the journey out of beautiful Vietnam. The trip back via the outskirts of Hanoi , where we dropped off our excellent guide, was surprisingly easier than I thought it would be and we ended up arriving at the airport with four hours or more to spare. I remember being struck by how young the driver was when we alighted and were removing the cases from the boot of the car. 

Rach and I managed to find a place for a beer and what was a terrible pizza (should have had pho) so were able to at least relax a little and look at some photos we had taken during our magnificent time in Vietnam.

The flight to Istanbul was easy enough and I managed to bash my way through a book called ‘Corporate Rebels’, which my Principal had asked the senior team to read over the holidays. I slept a little and the food was good. The transfer at Istanbul was steady enough and we were able to enjoy Efes before zooming off into the sky again on our way to Cologne, to see my parents and enjoy the Christmas markets.

Almost a week on 'Party Island'- Gili Trewangan Part 1

08-10-23 to 10-10-23

It was great to be flying at a reasonable hour and thankfully, therefore, no requirement to peel the eyes open in the middle of the night. In fact, I had a leisurely morning watching David Mitchell’s ‘Kings and Queens of England’ and listening to which monarch was more appalling, morally, than the next. William the Conqueror certainly didn’t cover himself in glory, in David’s eyes, and I have to agree with him.

Ganesh arrived just after lunch and we dropped the small cases (not quite backpacking but close enough) into the back of the car. The airport experience was easy this time and we were able to head straight for the gate using the app on our phones. We managed to find what I think was the only bar at KLIA2 and enjoyed a couple of small, rather expensive Tiger beers, whilst sharing a mediocre caesar salad which was also massively over-priced considering they had all but left the bacon and chicken out- even the salad leaves were floppy and a bit pathetic. I giggled when ordering at the chap serving who pronounced the Caesar with a ‘Ch’ which is the common way of pronouncing Cs here but it did make the old roman emperor sound like a ‘cheese addict’- although in truth, the Caesar salad was actually created by Caesar Cardini in the early 1920s whilst he was working in Mexico. I digress…

We briefly bumped into Rich and Amy who were heading out to Lombok island and so they joined us for a quick one before the flight. The place was called the ‘Refinery’ but it wasn’t very refined. What was also bizarre about this place was the obsession with ropes- they were everywhere, blocking all of the ways into or out of what was otherwise an open plan restaurant. The concept was like the stanchions used in large airport queues to control the masses but here, it was peculiar as we were the only customers in the restaurant. I found it hard to imagine a time when the Refinery would be inundated and need queue control and so, when we left, we simply lifted the rope and escaped. I wanted to limbo but at my age!

The flight was around three hours and Rach and I had to sit separately which upset her a little and I found this cute- she obviously still likes me a bit. I slept quite a bit on the plane and before long, we were into the madness of Indonesian customs. We bought a visa on arrival using our credit card- the Malaysian one didn’t work again! I had downloaded some QR code for the customs control but when we arrived, it was a melee of cases, baggage carriers and huge boxes. There was no queue as such but it was a free for all. What made it worse, was that there was no indication or signage showing what we were supposed to be doing, at all. As Brits, we felt the compulsion, ingrained over the years through socialization to stand stoically in whatever type of queue this may be but we did not move and very few others moved either. After ten minutes or so I found the inner Uzbek and barged through to the counter at the front, showed my QR and was waved through. What a relief!

As we approached the outside space and Indonesia itself, we were reminded of Tashkent. At the bottom of a small flight of stairs we saw hundreds upon hundreds of taxi drivers waiting for potential fares. I took a deep breath, preparing myself to swat them off but a beacon of light, a shining star, if you will, caught my attention almost immediately after the breath: our chap was the first person we came to and my name was sported proudly on his little piece of card. Wonderful!

The driver was a top guy called Al, who spoke outstanding English. It was dark and the journey was almost two hours which didn’t help Rachel who was feeling queasy. We passed through Mantaram, one of the main towns on Lombok and it was particularly manic as many folk were returning from watching the sunset. From the windows, I was impressed by the supermarkets that were in stark contrast to the little huts and simply constructed shops. Indeed, they were glamorous, bright and colourful structures with columns, and sculptured wood- a far cry from the likes of Sainsburys and Tescos.

The roads outside of the main town were terrifying as there was no light at all. Al said the government had them all switched off to save electricity. Along these trecherous roads, the driving was insane and some guys took considerable risks. During this stretch, Al told me that he sometimes drives like he is in the film Fast and Furious, which wasn’t comforting! Hilariously, he followed this with, ‘but don’t worry, I am safe’.  

True to his word, he delivered us alive to the port, where we had a night boat over to Gili Trewangan. Our man, Handsome Thony, and no I am not winding you up, was waiting on the pier. He was a lovely chap and his name really was Handsome, although as we got to know him, the joke was certainly not wasted on him. He knew. What was funny was that his co-workers and friends all called him Handsome- that is his name, I hear you say but it was funny in the same Captain Darling in Blackadder, is funny.

Handsome managed to pay for a horse and cart (there are no cars on the Gili islands) to whisk us somewhat bumpily to the Cantika Villas. On arrival and at check-in we were given homemade coconut macaroons and refreshing homemade lemonade which was very welcoming after the long journey. Handsome was an encylopedia of Gili T knowledg but we were keen to get to our room so, despite his kindness and charm, we secretly wanted him to shut up. 

Eventually Handsome (notice I am doing it now) took us to our room which was two-tiered. The bed was exceptionally comfortable- luxurious to be honest. The open plan staircase with no rail and a sheer drop was scary and Rach spent the entire week bum-shuffling up and down them. Of course, an old Angkor veteran like myself danced up and down them, without fear. Haha.

Outside there was a private salt water pool with overhanging cherry blossom like flowers but Rach tells me they aren’t actually cherry blossoms. I have no idea. Rach was exhausted after the journey and hormonally a bit of a mess so she went to bed- it had been a long day. As usual, I had to get out amongst it and it was only just before ten, so I needed a beer.

The back streets were quiet with a couple of restaurants open but within five minutes I was on the main street which was also still, considering I had been told that Gili Trewangan was the party island. I was walking North, although I had no idea at that time this was away from the noise and party life but there were several shacks along this stretch: the sort that looked as if they might be blown over by a big bad wolf. All of them were advertising ‘Magic Mushrooms’ which is odd in a country which is very strict on drugs. Not here obviously. 

I chose a small bar hut with some outdoor seating which wasn’t advertising the mushrooms and I asked the chap behind the bar (stereotypically, a jamaican looking fellow with dreadlocks) for a beer. He turned and picked up a silver container and unscrewed it with a care one might give to a cylinder of plutonium and then carefully he revealed the contents to me. I half expected for him to reveal the spores of some awful virus but inside there were several bananas leaves wrapped around mushrooms. He was selling the drugs too! 

The conversation ran:

“ Erm, no,. I want a beer”

“No fly”, he said.

“ Just got off the plane mate. Happy on the ground”.

He turned and poured me a beer.

I thought this would be the end of the matter but immediately after he had poured me a beer::

“You want spliff”?

“No- beer’s good mate”

I took a seat. It was quiet and still and there was less light than I thought. As I sipped my beer, I listened attentively to the sound of the waves coming in. This sound always grounds me and I felt happy, relaxied and wondering what this place might look like after the sun comes up.

The chap from the bar asked if he could sit with me and we exchanged a few pleasantries before he said:

“You want ecstasy?”

“No mate-  Imight get another beer but that’s it.”

He didn’t seem keen to get me one so I paid up and wandered back to the Cantika. I had been offered three different types of drug in less than an hour. It was definitely time for a rest. I slept really well.

I wandered down the stairs the next morning and open the door to the walled space outside where the red cherry blossom like flowers and some delightful, pretty purple ones made the whole space alive and vibrant. We left the room once Rach was up and about and enjoyed breakfast in the foyer area. I had a muesli bowl but there was also omelettes and pancakes on offer. Toast and a fruit bowl came as standard and the fresh juice- mango, dragonfruit and papaya were pleasant although Rach had to settle for orange cordial which she didn't discover until breakfast day 2.

After breakfast, we walked in daylight, along the streets I had walked the night before. It took us about five minutes to traverse to the main coast road. The streets leading there had small houses (in one case, simply a single room) alongside some local shops, two restaurants and even house, on stilts, with a huge flag of Bob Marley flapping in the very light breeze. They love that guy on Gili Trewangan. 

Once we hit the main drag, we were immediately identified as newbies and encouraged to frequent a restuarant by a lovely young man (more on that later) so were soon sitting with a very early morning beer- 10.30am- and looking out to sea and the isle of Gili Meno. The sand here and across the island is stunning, white and the beaches are spotless. I, excited by the aesthetic, danced across the beach and jumped into the sea in my usual confident manner.

Big mistake! 

The water rippled atop the coral reefs, which were sharp, plentiful and not comfortable. This place was not a pleasant place to swim and I have to confess to feeling very disappointed, especially as I had been reminded of Phi Phi in Thailand, where swimming was paradise. It is actually an amazing snorkelling area but we weren’t there for that, at that moment, so we sat and sunbathed for a short spell. The views were gorgeous, with the idyllic Meno only a few kilometres away and the mountains of Lombok wrapping a large muscular arm around the islands. 

After beer we walked up on to the main street and hired some bicycles for a few quid. We were told we could have them for 24 hours. Yippee!!! Bargain!!! We cycled along the main street heading south. It is quite hazardous along this street with travellers wandering not looking at where they are going alongside horses and carts that race down the road with seeming gay abandon and even waiters wandering casually across from the beach to the bars sometimes followed oddly by scuba divers in full gear. It was fun riding the cycles but it took some time to relax and it wasn’t until a few days later that I fully enjoyed the experience. We were searching for a nice beach that we could swim at but the beaches further south, though picturesque and postcard perfect, were not ideal for swimming, due to the extensive coral and so without proper footwear and considerable courage, there was little to no chance of swimming here. Beyond the pier the south coast becomes quieter and it should have been delightful to just sit and have a beer, which we did, but Rach was clearly finding the cycling exhausting, despite the flat terrain, and she was thinking of relaxation, not adventure and so it was a little stressful. I wanted her to be happy and she wasn’t.

After a few silly, frankly pathetic and juvenile, borderline inexcusable responses (as all that was needed was some support for Rach) we head back up the west coast and found a nice bar with orange coloured beanbags outside on the beach- reminding me of the cocktail bar in Langkawi, where we had parasailed. Similarly, we had fallen upon ‘Happy Hour’ and so had 3 cocktails each, once more. The strawberry daiquiri is now one of my favourite cocktails and on Gili T (yes, I am now quite cool) the icy strawberry sorbet-like topping sits on top of the cocktail begging to be licked, caressed or something. Joking aside, it was gorgeous and the strawberry flavour was powerful and rich, vibrant and natural tasting. The fun is that you have to return to the glass often, as the icy mix melts in the considerable heat and overflows in the glass, if left for too long. 

In the late afternoon, we headed wearily, to the ‘digs’ and enjoyed a swim in our private pool (yes, I am showing off).

That evening, we initially ventured out for an evening meal but Rach was still a little anxious and as the evening wore on, my appetite also faded. Nevertheless, we did have a really good evening, returning to our cocktail bar but this time heading across the road from the beach end and playing pool. Rach, once again, played very well and should have won at least one of the two frames we played.

Almost!

Here, we ordered some nachos as a snack and they were soon scoffed. Post-Nachos, Rach seemed to find herself and relax- well we were on the cosmopolitans. After pool, we lay down on the tapchans, which reminded me of Uzbekistan, and marvelled at the fish next to us that swam through narrow streams inside the bar. We contemplated the cruelty of trapped fish but thankfully the conversation did bounce around a little as we became more and more drunk.

We staggered home and Rach was certainly tipsy- she flopped on the bed and I had a strangely prolonged swim in our pool, oddly contemplating time, the essence of life and more.

Once I finally hit the sack, I slept immediately. The bed was magnificent.

The next morning was paradise- waiting staff brought our breakfast to the bedroom at a very respectable hour of 9.30- fresh pineapple- exotic fruits and more. It was warm outside but not strength sapping and the water was gently lapping against the poolside as we ate al fresco. 

Rachel was less anxious and we had a leisurely stroll to the harbour, past the scene of the previous night’s cocktail-fest and also the hundred or more carts with horses standing patiently awaiting a ride. I had read that these horses are cruelly treated and that , in essence, using them in this way is a form of animal slavery, if you like (though I don’t see how we could open a bank account for horses). I have to say, I didn’t see a single horse hit, kicked or even shouted at- the drivers sometimes clicked their tongue with a sound to re-direct them whilst also making the occasional low moan which is best written as ‘ayyerrrrr’. The counter-argument to the animal protectors could be that we are trying to reduce carbon emissions and there are zero cars here on Gili-T. There is always complexity when it comes to ethics.

We stopped at one of only two ATMs on the western stretch of the island and struggled to get money as it was asking for a 6 digit pin (UK pins are 4, of course). We were hoping to get a ride over to Meno island (the island of lovers- oo-er) and I had read that there were no ATMS on the island. We were running short but after some exasperated sighs and shaking of heads, we gave up, but more on that relatively boring story later. 

Next to the horses was the harbour, which was packed with travellers arriving on the island or trying to purchase tickets for island hopping. We were a little overwhelmed and I couldn’t see where the queue started or even which queue was which. A chap sitting on the roadside in front of all the crowds seized his moment and asked where we wanted to go- and before long we had skipped the crowds and were on a private boat speeding over to the paradise island of Meno. The price he quoted seemed fair enough and the extra expense was well worth it to save us from the throng of tourists.

It took less than ten minutes to speed across the Lombok Straits. We jumped out on to the beach which was beautiful but as before, not easy to swim in the sea as it was full of coral. There were a few places to eat local indonesian food here but not much else and when I checked on Google I discovered that this was the quiet side of the island and that the regular foot ferry took you around to that other side of the island. We had limited money and wondered if that side might at least take a card- there was little evidence here on the white sands that we would be able to use visa!

We decided to walk across the island as there was a clear path which took us past a lake that was once used by tourists but is now closed up: apparently, the water isn’t safe. There were some odd open air properties on the walk and eventually we came across a restaurant/bar that advertised thus: 'we accept visa’. We were cautiously excited as there was very little evidence of any staff but as we wandered in, a chap made himself known to us and after a quick check that this was not false advertising we were sitting drinking a large and delightfully cold beer. A few more lads were also hanging around (all workers) and we had a chat with them for a while. It is interesting that on the Gili islands, almost everything is run and staffed by young men in their twenties. All over the islands, the bars, restaurants; the hotels; the boats- all men between 18 and 30. There were almost no women at all. I begun to wonder where they were or whether they even existed although I did see a few at the massage parlour calling out, ‘Massage’ followed by ‘Full body!’ which repels a shy fella like me. I am quite prudish when it comes to stuff like that. However, perhaps more disconcerting was when the man at the massage parlour shouted the same thing. At least he didn’t shout ‘happy ending’!

The bar we enjoyed a beer in was run by about five or six young men and was aptly titled: ‘The Brotherhood Bar’. It could just as easily have been called The Bob Marley bar as there were flags of Jamaica everywhere, endless pictures of spliffs and a giant cloth painting of the man himself draped from some raised wooden abodes at the back of the bar. It was clear that these young lads didn’t just work here but slept (possibly lived) there too. 

After beers we continued our walk which was fascinating and quiet as we wandered through non-tourist areas, passed little shacks, and even some women cooking in their yards, brushing the floor or weaving. Many smiled at us and nodded, which wasn’t a surprise as the Indonesian people we met were all delightful and friendly. The only interruptions we faced was the occasional horse and cart with a tourist being thrown around in the back. 

After about twenty minutes or so, we found our way to the other side of Gili Meno and the lane opened out on to the most glorious whitesands and the sea was a stunning blue. We pitched up at a lovely ramshackle place that served the best satay I have ever had and we had another beer, some indonesian rice dish whilst lying in the sun on the beds placed out for customers. The swimming here was what we had been hoping for and it was possible to throw yourself into the waves without risk of slicing your skin or breaking a bone or two. 

Unfortunately, we had planned for a pick up from our private boating friend and so we only had a couple of hours of relaxation although I was able to plough through a lot of ‘The Catcher in the Rye’. It is really just an old fashioned Ferris Bueller’s Day Out. 

We were in a hurry on the way back home and in the heat, I must admit to not fancying the walk back across the island and so we managed to grab a horse and cart back- which batted along at quite a pace. It was fun to listen to the clatter of horseshoes as the rhythmic backdrop to what was a prominent, almost tumultuous muezzin and certainly one of the most convincing ones I have heard since being in East Asia. It was particularly incongruent here as the island which was otherwise so quiet and serene and yet this muezzin blasted itself like a biblical soundwind across the landscape. The gentlemen responsible for the call to prayer was kind enough to remind us of Allah’s greatness all the way back to the shore and the boat, which arrived just as the muezzin concluded- finally.

We had a fun boat trip back but were surprised that we had to pay again, as I assumed I had been paying for a return journey. The ATM problem returned but this time I did find one that worked and we were able to pay the man and head off back to Cantika. Rach had a sleep whilst I had a meeting with my solicitor regarding the eviction of our tenants. Thankfully, and I am pleased to report, that matter has sorted itself out but, in truth, at the time, the whole situation was stressing me out.

I was pleased to head out and grab some decent food, as we hadn’t eaten a decent evening meal for a couple of days and I really wanted some Indonesian tucker. The bowl of Nasi Goreng was delicious and particularly as we were sitting at a restaurant on the beach. Rach had spag bol (a truly international cuisine). We enjoyed the twinkling of the beach lights and the woosh and lapping of the waves and both of us felt much better for a decent meal.

We walked home a little earlier than we normally would, passing some chaps strumming guitars. In fact, that is a typical pastime on Gili Trewangan. When the heat of the sun rescinds (though the heat is still very close) chaps- usually young lads again- come out and sit either alone or more often than not in small groups, playing their guitars, strumming chords and singing quietly together. 

Once home, we jumped in the pool- me naked and Rach topless (which was nice). We had another beer and a chat whilst floating around in the water. It was a peaceful end to what had been a more relaxing day. 

Gili T-Part 2 Banter, Turtles, Marshmallows and onset Diarrhoea

11-10-23 to 12-10-23

We woke to another relaxing breakfast by our private pool. It was gorgeously warm again and after a decent feed, we headed back out to the ATM- now that we knew what we were doing!

We were far more successful this time and were soon sitting back at the beanbag beach place where the swimming was wonderful. I hadn’t realised this the day before, but it was here in this very spot where the swimming was perfect. I love lolling in the sea probably more than the average person and so, I did. Rach had a short swim too.

We had a little lunch here and a couple of beers as I pushed on towards the second half of The Catcher in the Rye. The novel is funny, for sure but I am not sure why it is considered a classic other than its rebellious, anti-establishment style, told through the voice of posh teenage-angst. Maybe I have just answered my own question.

After lunch, we walked north to Turtle Point. Here Rach settled down for more sunbathing on a beautiful and expansive wooden verandah, overhanging the sea. I wandered off in search of snorkelling gear and some essential coral shoes for wearing in the sea. Only two hundred metres or so from where Rach was lapping up the sun, I found a little shack that rented everything out for ‘peanuts’ to be honest. 

The walk from the wooden shack to the main area for snorkelling was not that easy to negotiate and I almost fell over a couple of times. I didn’t quite know when to swim and when to walk as the shallowness remained but the rocks and coral persisted. The buffeting waves didn’t help either but eventually I managed to reach an area where boats were anchored and a few other people were snorkelling. 

I put the goggles on, popped the snorkel in my mouth and dived under. Wonder- instantly. It was gob-smacking, beautiful, serene and completely alien. I had snorkelled in Thailand but this was another level. Now, the coral was everything I wanted- little nooks, crannies, undulations and caves of life. I saw fish of every colour imaginable and of many different sizes but also an octopus, crabs and some bottom dwellers and rock hangers that I wouldn’t be able to identify again, never mind name them. I swam for a long time, back and forth, through the coral and out into deeper water. Then it happened.

The sea turtle.

Right in front of me. It was swimming directly for me and perhaps only three metres away and so, I gasped in fear, and diverted as this wonderful creature, bulky and defended by a hard shell swam by me with a grace that seemed to defy all logic- like a tank flying in the sky.

After I gathered my breath and resisted the urge to return to the surface, I noticed two more sea tanks diving towards the deeper blue and I chose to swim behind them, observing them from above. Other snorkellers had spotted them and we became a little groupie crowd, fascinated by the creatures of this new universe. 

I stayed under the water for an hour or so, emerging from the water a couple of times to de-mist the goggles, and I was lucky to see several more sea turtles- one chap near me even stroked one and the turtle just gave him a casual glance to the side. They were very friendly. It was the ultimate mindfulness experience and I would recommend it to anyone

Rach stayed and read on her beautiful platform over looking the sea but I wish she would have joined in and shared this mesmerising moment with me. I enjoyed a beer on my return and we sat chatting. Rach commented on the sun being in a different part of the sky as we were now in the southern hemisphere and she is right. I had not thought about it or noticed it but we began to talk about how this was the first time that Rach and I had been in the southern hemisphere and it felt good! I don’t know why, but it did.

We had a little issue with the bill as they had added various foodstuffs that we hadn’t ordered but Rach sorted it with the waiter. We tried to pay with visa here and succeeded, eventually although the poor waiter didn’t know how to use the machine and Rach had to take over for him. Bless-.

We nipped back to the Cantika and once out by the pool, we were immersed into the world of the competing muezzin. There must have been at least three going for it, overlapping, sometimes accidentally harmonizing and other times creating a surreal dissonance that grated and intrigued in about equal measure. One of the muezzin sounded like a young lad in training- sort of a Simba character, perhaps sitting next to Mufasa and practising his roar. The young man was carterwauling rather than roaring and wasclearly in the early years of his training. Some of the more experienced muezzins were playing having fun on this afternoon, with moments that sounded like they would break into Al La Bamba such was the rhythms and melodies and one masjid had a long note playing that sounded exactly like the beginning of 'Shine on you Crazy Diamond’ by Pink Floyd. We discussed how funny it would be, though of course haram, to have one of the chaps flip out and start singing ‘Im too sexy for my shirt’ by Right Said Fred, over the loud speakers. Much hilarity followed but you perhaps had to be there.

The difference between these muezzins and others I have listened to was that one chap, would not give it up. He was like a man slowly dying and hanging in there, refusing to take his final breath. The call would end, and he would leave it perhaps twenty seconds or so before announcing a deep, resonant and instantly fading ‘Allah’ which to my ears sounds like ‘Wallah’ with an emphasis on the W and the ll sound. He would then continue with this for about five or ten minutes so that every time you thought it was over, he would remind you that it wasn’t, like a death in a melodrama.

We were in good spirits when we popped out for our evening meal and had decided to try the restaurant immediately round the corner, which had a cartoon chicken as its sign. It always amuses me when grinning (they always are) animals are used as signage for a restaurant that eats them. Cruel right? Sadistic? Or just fun? 

This place had a signature roast chicken dinner with ‘made from scratch’ gravy as its wow factor. Rach is a huge fan of roasts and so we thought we would give it a try. The food was delicious and though the vegetables were a tad too al dente, the gravy was fabulous. It was saddening that we were the only customers as the chef had obviously made a huge effort with the gravy and the roast tatties were wonderful. Rach wanted wine and negotiated a larger glass for the same price- she was massively on form that day, taking the lead in lots of things. In fact, she even wandered over to the chef to discuss how he made his gravy.

We left a tip, smiled gratefully and said our goodbyes, with full tums before returning to the main strip and our favourite beanbag bar. There was a live band on who were very good, with bass-guitars, drums, singer, keys and saxophone. They were taking requests and Rach was delighted when they played our choice of ‘Somewhere only we Know’. When entering this bar we were given marshmallows on sticks and encouraged to toast them by the fire on the beach which was just about contained by the metal bin it sat in. 

We arrived at a difficult time as the fire was raging and it was hard to toast the marshmallows without incinerating them or indeed yourself. Rach went for the- stick straight in the flames for two seconds- approach which just about worked: slightly overdone but it wasn’t Masterchef. As the night wore on and the cocktails and music was flowing, we spent some time people watching the other marshmallow toasters, as they arrived. We wondered if this would be a good way of discerning class. Young middle class types (whatever they are) spending mummy and daddy's money, seemed reluctant to go for it and their body language was awkward, as they danced around the fire, swishing their sticks across the flames as if doing some sort of grotesque ballet version of a firedance. Occasionally, a no-nonsense robust human would arrive who we designated as Northern working class- probably wrongly- who stuck their stick into the fire, braved the flames and came out smiling, sporting a golden marshmallow. No nonsense- anyone fancy a pint type.

Our conversation returned to the subject of the young men who seemed to run the island and Rach noted that there was actually an age-based system- sort of a Logan’s Run ‘stages of life’ idea. The young men were waiters, servers and the face of a business, and the middle aged men were the horse and cart drivers whilst the oldest men hired cycles out. I don’t know when they had to face ‘Last Day’, but I didn’t see any weird ceremonies, thankfully.

We had really enjoyed the banter, the band and the laughs and after one more beer by the pool, at home, a little swim and one or two final jokes and laughs, we went to bed. 

The routine of breakfast by the pool was becoming something I knew I would miss once this sojourn was over so I lingered a lttle longer before we headed out to the beach.

Rach positioned herself at the Savindia for sun-bathing and beers and I hired a cycle so that I could ride around the whole island. I headed south along the west coast, past the harbour, some wonderfully picturesque beaches and some far posher hotels than we were staying in, with elaborate pools, bars in the pools and indeed one hotel which had a life size front of a ship at its entrance. The cycling becomes easier as you drive away from the busy south west and I stopped at a bar oddly called Santorini for a well earned beer. I spoke to the waiter about having visited Santorini recently (ish) and we discussed the sign of the restaurant which was the white cylindrical church structures with blue domes, often seen in Santorini. He had no idea what I was talking about but he humoured me. I messaged Steve and told him I wished he was with me having a beer by the sea. 

From here the cycling was very pleasant, flat, of course but much quieter and less need to swerve around people, horses or scubber divers crossing the road. The East coast is pretty and I stopped for several photos as I made my way up to the North beach. Here I had to walk with the cycle as the sand was too soft and I spontaneously decided to jump in the water, fully clothed. It was very refreshing and cooling. Before long I was passing the same platform Rachel had relaxed on the day before and I knew I was only a kilometre or so from the Savindia. 

I arrived wet with sea water and sweat and gasping for a beer, which Rach ordered for me. I also had some gently spiced, and flavoursome samosas. The staff here (young men, of course) had looked after Rachel and were charming, attentive and professional- some of the nicest people I have met anywhere in the world- so far.

We rested at the Cantika for a while in the mid to late afternoon but walked to the north side in the evening to try an italian restaurant with excellent reviews. It was delightful and we sat overlooking the sea- though the sun was dropping rapidly- drinking wine (by the glass) at reasonable prices. This is quite a rare thing in this part of the world and particularly on Gili T. We mused about why we were eating italian food (I had a wonderful tuna steak) when we should be trying local delicacies but then countered this with the idea that now italian food is exotic. We eat malaysian, indonesian or chinese food all of the time, and we live in this part of the world. It is strange to see the european as exotic but now it is. 

We returned home and were both tired so drifted off very quickly. Unfortunately, during the night, I was up five times to visit the toilet. I had clearly eaten something I shouldn’t have and just hoped it wasn’t the italian place, as it was such a great restaurant. Our friends Rich and Amy had arrived on the island that day and were also very ill- so much so that they couldn’t get out of bed. I was crossing everything that I would be ok for the rest of the trip.

Gili T- Part 3- Tummy Gripes and cocktails

13-11-23 to 14-11-23

I struggled at breakfast and could only manage a few meagre mouthfuls- the thought of what would happen if I did scoff my food was definitely putting me off but, in truth, my body wasn’t craving food either and I have been told one should always listen to their body.

We had booked a trip to Gil Air (air meaning water in Indonesian). Handsome organised a private boat for us and everything ran smoothly. Gili Air itself is the smallest of the three islands and is busier than Meno but less manic than Trawangan so many families stay here and make trips to the other islands to suit their needs. 

I was feeling rough and was even struggling with a beer. Rach was super kind and took the lead which was great and relieved the pressure from me. She bought a beautiful pearl anklet from one of the hundreds of walking salespeople and I think she was happy about it. 

After I felt settled, we wandered along the beach, where the views are spectacular. Soon, we came across a beach restaurant and here I slept, waking to feel a little better but still very much off my food. The swimming here was refreshing and easy so we spend perhaps four hours between the horizontal sun-bathing position and the sea. Once again, the restaurant was staffed by only young men between twenty and thirty.

We took a speedboat back, roughing it with the crowds this time and after some minor confusion as to which boat to jump on, we did manage to get back to Gili T. 

I slept again once back at the Cantika and was still not feeling great. I hadn't eaten all day and didn’t fancy anything in the evening either. We, instead, wandered out for a drink at an irish bar, which was off the main street and amongst the housing estates. It was some journey to get to it down dark and labyrinthine narrow alleys which in the UK you would avoid like the plague. Here though, we strolled by many locals out playing board games, chatting, sipping coffee or playing guitars and singing together. Almost everyone we passed called out ‘Hello!’ They were super friendly and polite. A side note on singing: almost every local person sings all the time on Gili T- whilst they are working, conducting domestic duties or socialising. Very musical people.

You had to climb a flight of stairs to get to the bar, which consisted of one small room, two pool tables and dart board. As is often the case with irish bars abroad, it was anything but irish! Rach was disappointed as the music was loud and not well…musical, I suppose.  This was ironic indeed, given the singing nature of the people.

We played pool and Rach wasn’t in form this time which upset her a little but she didn’t let on too much. We plumped for darts instead, like we did all those years ago at sixth form college, when we sneaked off for a pint at lunchtime. On this occasion, we chose to play round the clock but on the same team. We were both equally average but it was fun.

I even managed to get a bull’s eye but when I was trying for a 25. It was later even more impressive as on closer inspection, we discovered that the bed of the darts board around the bull’s eye was so damaged and old that it was hard to push a dart in by hand. I was smug for a few minutes, of course. 

We headed out through the streets to Moomba’s for cocktails. On arrival, there was no-one there and though it was open, the lads were definitely hoping to close and when I asked for cocktails, they claimed to only have beer. I don’t know if it was our sad faces, our leaning the head back sigh or just a change of heart but one of the other waiters came over and said we could have cocktails, after all.

Rach was also off her food and a little queasy and so we sat looking up at the stars, sipping cocktails and enjoying the sibilant sounds of the sea. There was an interruption midway through our second cocktail, when one of the waiters, presumably, chose to put music back on- dreadful it was too- though not as bad as the music in the irish. The curse was following us it seemed.

We left happier than when we had left but I was ready for a sleep and this time, I was only disturbed once in the night. The day of fasting had done me a lot of good. 

It was our last day and we had dismissed breakfast for a lie-in. Once I finally braved the day, I wandered out on to the main street to buy a fridge magnet and grab some money from the ATM. As I came home, a little girl of perhaps three waved at me and said ‘Hello’, before showing me her chocolate bar. I said, “enjoy that”.  We both laughed.

Tony had organised our trip home wonderfully well and there was genuine warmth from him nd his staff (all young men, of course) as they shook our hands and said goodbye, waving as we bumped our way along the road on the back of a horse pulled cart. I was feeling a little better but not perfect and I was still refusing food. 

In our minds, we had five stages to survive: horse and cart- boat- taxi- plane- taxi 2. This is how we thought about it.

The first three stages were fine and we arrived at the airport about five hours before the flight. We were then faced with the lottery of decision making- are the facilities better before or after security? (this varies enormously). In this case, the answer was easy- rubbish in both places.

There was no beer anywhere.

We discovered that the international gate did not open for a couple of hours but we were allowed into the domestic flight area where there were some basic amenities. Here, we were semi-entertained, and at times tortured by a singer and violinist who was playing for the customers and who really shouldn’t have been. 

Once the international gate opened, we were excited but this soon morphed into disappointment, when we realised that the services here were even more basic. The most exciting thing in this waiting area was that a chap was wandering around who looked just like Slash, the guitarist from Guns N Roses. I finished ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ at this airport and tried to sleep a little. Time seemed to plod on laboriously but we did manage to alight the plane eventually- though the de-misters freaked me out at first as they made it look as though the plane was on fire. It wasn’t. Phew.

The rest of the trip was great and we even managed to grab some beers from a 7/11 store right at the exit of KL airport, thanks to eagle-eyed Rachel. Ganesh was a welcome sight and though he was sleepy all the way home and terrified me as he almost nodded off, he did manage to get us home safely.

Another country visited. Blu-tack under the bum. Sorted.

Malaysian Road Trip Part 1- April 9th to 12th 2023

I love the drama and adventure associated with a road trip. One imagines route 66, an open topped sports car, a couple of hot ‘chicks’ and an open road, I suppose. This was different- yet far cooler than that: a Malaysian road trip with Rach and I and a couple of the funkiest party going adventurous pensioners you could ever wish to meet- my parents. They had arrived only a couple of days before but were rested enough for the first stint of our journey which was a 45 minute trip to Kuala Lumpur. Now the capital of Malaysia is fairly familiar to us, having lived in Malaysia for the best part of a year but the jungle city is still fascinating and to the uninitiated, quite a sight.

We arrived at the hotel without any obvious distractions and parked up, after agreeing to meet a chap about our apartment in the lobby. This room, was a private apartment, rented out by a separate company but housed within the structure of a fully fledged four star tower block. We were told parking was free but were surprised that after checking in with our man, we returned to find the car clamped. It was not a great start and I was less than pleased. In the UK this practice has been outlawed but in Malaysia the clamp is king. After some calls and a little negotiation, we managed to have the clamp removed and the chaps who ran the apartment paid for it. This was not the end of the madness but more on that story later.

We cracked open a beer once in the room before heading out, via a taxi to the Pedana Botanical gardens. Rachel was unwell almost immediately which stressed me out a little but she recovered later. These gardens are delightful, blessed as they are with exotic flowers (at least as far as we are concerned) stunning fountains, a couple of lakes and nature-adorned walkways. The backdrop is incredible too with towering skyscrapers dwarfing everyone who cares to look up. Indeed, Kuala Lumpur can easily be characterised by the odd and strangely complimentary blend of trees, jungle vines and flowers interweaved with giant modern towers and dynamic, sometimes abstract architecture. We stopped for a fanta at a small café, which was a relief as it was already very hot!

After a short walk we took a ‘Grab’ back to the digs and popped up to the infinity pool which was incredible. The views across the city were wonderful and the water was the perfect temperature. Dad was still adjusting to the height and his fear of them, at least when he is on a tower. I get this, as at a lower level (no pun intended) I have the same fear which I am hoping will not grow. We relaxed here for a while with a drink before heading back and changing.

We headed out to Pinchos for an evening of delicious Tapas and whilst this place isn’t cheap, it is full of atmosphere and style with moody lighting, an outdoor area, and some wonderful delicious mini-bites. After a few drinks and some banter we wandered through a part of Chinatown, as we tried to find a decent place to be picked up from by a taxi. On one of the backstreet, I thought we had wandered dangerously into a James Herbert novel as the road teamed with rats racing across the road and partying in the rubbish dumped outside the restaurants. Strangely, we weren’t frightened but fascinated. One rat would make me squirm, or flee, but hundreds running only metres away from me was not at all scary.

How odd we are.

Beyond the backstreets, Chinatown thrived with colour, glowing lanterns, murals, streetsellers and packed restaurants, from which emanated wonderful sweet, smoky and exotic aromas. The place was bustling with life but I was pleased to stop and purchase some mango and bananas for the next day’s breakfast. After some patient foot tapping, we managed to get into a Grab taxi and wend our weary way home. Wending is always weary, of course. I slept well although dad didn’t. It was becoming a problem for him.

Rach was struggling in the morning and was clearly going to struggle in the heat of the city. She decided, sensibly, to grab some more rest at the hotel, whilst mum, dad and I headed out. Quick thought: the mango I bought in Chinatown the night before was juicy, succulent and perhaps the most delicious fruit I have ever eaten.

We walked from our hotel to Merdeka Square, which was a mile and half (enough in the heat). This part of the city is teaming with colonial style, whitewashed architecture. It is known as independence square and is the space where the Malaysian flag was first raised to recognise the state of Malaysia as a sovereign nation, in 1957. Mum, dad and I were able to see the ninety five foot flagpole across the road from our position as well as the Selangor club, which had once been the meeting place of the movers and shakers of colonial Malaysia and which was founded in 1884.

We strolled around the Sultan Abdul Samad building, with its pleasant gardens, arched walkways and white columns. At the centre of this building is a 41 metre high clock tower topped by a shiny copper dome-like hat. We took some great snaps here and discussed India and the similarity between this place and the architecture of that wonderful land. We were soon super warm and so took a taxi to KLPacc park, which is a delightful central park full of trees, flowers, a paddling pool (which was sadly closed for renovation) and a wonderful view of the staggering Petronas Towers. In the centre of this park stands an old tree that looks like something from a mangrove swamp but is on land: gnarled and twisted with thick vein-like tree branches, interwoven and intricate.

We were keen for a beer and stopped at a Japanese owned place by the water, looking out at the fountains in the park. It was a glorious setting, but we were still shocked by the price of the beers which were at least three times what we would have expected to pay. We may have stopped for two or three and even some food but we were quickly put off and decided to head back for a cooling swim at the digs.

Rach was feeling a little better and joined us for swimming. Dad was braver this time and jumped in although he stayed well away from the infinity edge of the pool. After some refreshment and a beer or two we had some down time before heading out to one of the major eating quarters of KL. We happened upon Gravy Baby, which we had thoroughly enjoyed ourselves in Melaka and which we hadn’t realised was a major chain. The food here is good and varied and there is every type of booze you can imagine as well as cocktails and delicious desserts. I had a few negative thoughts based around how we were going to westernised places when we should be indulging in the Malaysian specialities but I must confess to having a great night. We drank a lot, ate heartily and the waiter was a bit of a dude. Both my parents enjoyed the vibrant and lively atmosphere. It wasn’t the cheapest night out I’d had in Malaysia but we had a lot of fun and retuned happily inebriated.

I had a great sleep as always and although Rach wasn’t back to normal the next day, she was prepared to give the day trip to Batu caves a good go. Dad had slept a little better which was a relief. The day’s saga didn’t start too well as we found that we couldn’t exit the car park. It was a further complication post-clamping incident and, as before, the issue was that the receptionist wasn’t interested as it wasn’t their apartment, despite being in the same building. He dismissed me, which brought out the rage and I didn’t behave as well as I should have. I tried to contact the agent we were working with and he wasn’t available and it seemed the only way out was to pay extra money. I did consider simply parking the car in front of the entrance until they opened the barrier but I realised I was throwing myself into a hole. After some toddler tantruming and some sensible words from dad, we managed to get the barrier open and were on the road towards the impressive Batu caves.

What is perhaps most amazing about this Hindu temple is its aspect: At its entrance there is a statue of the great Murugan which stands 42.7 metres high and was built by the tamil Malaysians. It is a staggering golden statue and one of the tallest  in the world. Beyond it is a flamboyantly coloured staircase of 272 wooden steps painted vibrant yellows, reds, greens and more. Pride would love to have their month here. Rach didn’t fancy the climb with her slightly weakened left side. Thankfully, there is quite a lot to do at the bottom of the steps and within the complex itself: there is a museum, some smaller temples and some lurid tall statues of Hindu gods. Perhaps most unusual is the snow house, which you have to pay to enter.

We didn’t.

A tree near the main steps was alive with hundreds, possibly over a thousand pigeons and we marvelled at this for a while whilst others fed them. That was obviously why the birds were there.

Soon mum, dad and myself were at the foot of the steps and contemplating the journey up- it was far easier than I expected but I was so impressed with mum, in particular. Amazing energy. ‘Batu’ means ‘rock’ in Malay and it must be stated how impressive this cave is, perched on the cliffside, thought to be 400 million years old. This temple is one of the famous ten Hindu cave shrines, four of which are in Malaysia.

Once inside the cave, it is easy to be slightly underwhelmed, as it is in essence, a cave! There are some statues and some smaller temples inside and yet more steps up to an upper temple, equally simple but there is an ethereal, almost spiritual feel at the top and an opening to the sky which is quite impressive. We lingered here for a while and made our way back to the ground level. It was easy for me, after experiencing the terror-steps of death, in Angkor.

We managed to catch up with Rach and stopped for a beautiful Ayam pancake, which is a sort of mix between a puri and a crepe and it was delicious, served with brown palm sugar and coconut milk. It was warm inside with no air-conditioning and the mango juice, was not enough to quell the heat despite being delightful. Local Indians were eating sweet, spicy smelling thali and I was jealous but everyone was keen to move on to the next destination so after grabbing a fridge magnet (vital) we made our way back to the car and set the coordinates for the Genting Highlands.

The genting highlands have a slightly cooler climate and we were happy to get out of the car at the Cable Car station and feel a little less hot and bothered. We were confused for a while but soon found a booth to buy tickets which would take us to somewhere higher up. One chap, behind us in the queue, sold us his tickets and we managed to get a better deal as we didn’t have the correct change. 

We hovered up a couple of escalators and were soon at the entrance to the cable car, which was initially not too busy. As I was first, I strolled into the queue with no bother, despite seeing the sign that you had to wear a mask.

I didn’t have one. 

Now, I have reached the stage where I have had it with the covid and i no longer feel any oddness or guilt or strangeness about not wearing a mask when the rest of the sheep do and so I didn’t care. Mum, dad and Rach arrived a minute or so after me and were stopped by the guard who had ignored me.

They didn’t have masks either.

Dad was told where to get them which was, inevitably, back on the bottom floor, where he had just come from. I kept in the queue whilst dad headed off to purchase the masker maskers. Unfortunately, whilst he was gone, bus loads of tourists took their place in the queue and when my dad arrived, I was sitting in another space and time! To add to the issue, the queue was set up like an airport with metal bars segregating folk like cattle on their way to a slaughterhouse. 

I arrived at nirvana- the boarding platform, unchallenged (despite being the only person without a mask) about twenty minutes before the others but I hung around and eventually, they joined me. Finally a member of staff mentioned that I wasn’t wearing the essential mask and I nodded and walked on. He said nothing more. 

We jumped into a car and were in the air, hanging from the precious cable wire in moments. None of us were now wearing masks. As we passed other cars coming the other way, it seemed, no one else was either. When will this madness end?

The cable car journey over the jungle was longer than we expected and below we saw plant life and trees, in particular, that I had never seen from above- the jungle landscape was a wonder of green. We had hoped to witness picturesque views once at the top but the cable car terminated at a hotel or at least, a hotel complex. It seemed that most people came here and stayed inside. Initially we were disappointed but it wasn’t long before we found a jazz bar for a couple of beers. I say ‘we’ but in truth it was Rachel who found the bar. This was a peaceful hour or so and decadent as the place was designed with colonial style decor and the waiter wore a white suit.

We left satisfied and bought some pastries and cakes from a bakery in the complex. The trip down was fun and we were soon on the road; thankfully in the car, as the heavens opened and the rain pounded down in torrents, making driving difficult. By the time we had navigated our way home, I was shattered and had a headache. 

After some rest we headed out in a taxi to The Hungry Tapir, a vegan restaurant that sells fabulous food. Mum wasn’t sure, as the food mimics or tries to take on characteristics of meat and yet is not. I agree that this messes with the senses but this place served delicious food, for sure. The service was excellent and the interior decoration was very impressive, like the inside of a jungle with dark green-hue lighting and hanging vines. It is no surprise that The Hungry Tapir is always booked out. 

Once home, we enjoyed a glass of port and had an early night. It had been a long day.

Malaysian Road Trip- Part 2- The Cameron Highlands April 12th-16th 2023

I woke up and my headache remained which was slightly concerning. Perhaps I was dehydrated. Considering my pounding head, I remained sociable and drove well- if I do say so myself. We had a good three and half hour journey to the Cameron Highlands and despite the pain in my head, I was excited as I knew that Rach was happy to be heading up to the higher ground. The temperature dropped considerably in the hills and I think we all desired a little break from the intense humidity.

The drive was hair-raising at times and the last 60km in particular was on the most bendy road I have ever traversed, swinging one way and then the other every few metres. On arrival at the digs, I was very depressed. The place was on a building site, which will one day be beautiful but it certainly wasn’t. The parking was a problem initially as we couldn’t find the space that was booked for us. In Malaysia, each individual space has a number and you must park only in that space. 

We eventually worked it out but I was not in a good mood.The apartment block looked like a 'loony bin' from a previous age, with grimy white walls, bars over the windows and long dimly lit corridors like something out of a horror film. I half expected someone to jump out with an axe and shout "Here's Johnny!" The room itself was adequate but the balcony looked out on to a car park and the noise of the building work was as annoying as an industrial woodpecker. There was a slightly musty smell, a sort of old person’s house whiff and I was less than impressed by the numerous dead flies on various window sills. If alone, I wouldn't have minded but when you plan a trip, you take the responsibility for the experiences of others, upon yourself. 

It was clear that we would need a few supplies and the wine stocks were certainly lower than I had hoped. I found a supermarket strangely called Billions and it was in a mall so it was quite an event to visit it, park up and negotiate the endless shops. This is how they do it in Malaysia- they love a shopping mall! 

On our way to the shops, we passed a quirky museum entitled Time Tunnel (I know- a touch cliched). It looked like it was going to be a room or two of junk but as we made our way curiously around the inner realms of the tunnel, it became apparent that this place was actually many, many rooms of junk but far more impressive than we had first thought. It is true that the structure of the museum is unusual and very random but there is a charm to that- artifacts from the bombing of Hiroshima, lie alongside childrens toys from the1930s through to the 60s, an old hairdresser’s chair that looked more like a decommisioned electric chair such was its state of disrepair; some comical posters waxing lyrical about the health benefits of smoking; and lots of other trinkets, tools, bicycles and even an old car lie within its chambers. It is like a scrapyard of historical artifacts and we spent quite a long time there, strolling around. Unfortunately, whilst there, I had an episode where I almost fainted and I couldn’t work out why I felt so fragile- my headache had never really left me either. 

I recovered enough to manage the visit but when we arrived at Billions, I elected to stay in the car,drop the seat back and have a sleep whilst the hunters went in search of food. Back at the pad (which I was beginning to have an affection for) mum cooked pasta and I had another sleep. Once recovered, it was wine o’clock and the strange moment, which Dad put down to stress and pressure brought on by the demands of leading the trip, was soon over, and I was back ‘on it’. 

We scoffed some food which Rach knocked up and then headed for the indoor swimming pool- the large one was freezing but the jacuzzi small pool was lovely and warm and we had a couple of cans of beer and lingered in the bubbles for an hour or so. Mum stepped into the pool gingerly but was courageous as ever and Dad, though initially reticent, changed his mind and it was good fun. 

After the swim we wandered back down the asylum corridors to the apartment and Dad and I shared a port or three on the balcony as well as some Special Brew. 

The bed was oddly unlevel and the mattress, musty but I still slept well. 

Dad cooked scrambled eggs for breakfast and this was a nourishing start to the day. Once we felt refreshed and ready, we headed out to Boh Tea plantations which the Cameron Highlands is famous for. My parents had seen tea plantations in Sri Lanka but it was a first for Rach and I and it was great to pass workers in the fields and even on the side of the road, filling their bags with tea clippings. All around this area, the almost velvet-like landscape undulates. The Cameron Highlands was named after the british explorer William Cameron who was commissioned by the government to map out the Pahang-Perak border in 1885 but little did he know what it would become- a sort of health spa and naturally peaceful holiday destination for those wanting to escape the heat and high humidity of the lower lands of Malaysia.

The walk from the Boh Tea car park to the tea shop and museum was quite a climb but worth it. All around, tea grew encircled by exotic flowers and trees with a stunning backdrop of the mountains. The cafe here is very popular and sells tea grown in the fields that it overlooks. There is a wonderful outdoor terrace and a part of the cafe that juts out from the land over the hills. We enjoyed some golden leaf tea and some delicious cheesecakes and strawberry scones; we also laughed at one of the smaller terraces which was called ‘Tristan’s Terrace’. I didn’t realise I had one. 

After wandering back to the car, we drove to the Lavendar farm, which was a delightful place and not at all what we expected. Was there lavender? Of course but so much more and so many stunning flowers and plants. Rach was a little tired and rested in the car but Mum, dad and I wandered the garden for a while and walked up to the elevated purple castle, which looked like a sort-of cheesy disneyland type construction for kids but attracted many adults. I guess we are all still kids inside. There is a strawberry picking part of the farm but it was the wrong time of year to indulge. 

When we returned Rach was feeling better, and it was a good job as we were heading to the cactus farm and Rach is a huge fan of cacti. From outside the farm doesn’t really impress but inside there are more cactuses (cacti and cactuses are both acceptable by the way) than I have ever seen. One of the fattest ones seemed almost impossible, bursting out of the soil like a bulbous torture implement from medieval times. Others, cuter and sitting happily in their pots were succulents, so I am told, that you might proudly sport on your windowsill. Rach bought several and put them in a box to take home (more on that story later).

I was surprised to be enjoying nature so much and I think my dad too. It was such a contrast to our experience in the big city of Kuala Lumpur and so, in that sense, very refreshing. 

We were ready for a beer and managed to find a Brewhouse which is a local chain of bars, big on pork, much to the dissatisfaction of the Muslims. After quite a day, we decided to have a night at home and Rach cooked a creamy mushroom ‘thing’, which was lovely. We spent the night watching hilarious Youtube clips and drinking (as usual). We were starting to really enjoy the Cameron Highlands. 

I enjoyed fresh pineapple for breakfast before heading out to The Big Red Strawberry Farm, perhaps the largest of the self-picking places in the Cameron Highlands. The drive to the farm was meandering and the curves terrifying like something from a formula one race. Stray dogs are common in Malaysia but we were surprised to find that wherever we travelled in the Cameron Highlands, there seemed to be a dog sitting, sleeping or lolling on the corner of almost every bend. How unusual. 

The Big Fed Strawberry Farm is huge and although we were out of season for strawberry picking, it was still pleasant to walk around it with tarpaulin covering strawberry plants and gorgeous gardens as far as the eye could see. Half of the complex was closed but there was still plenty to see. We stopped at the cafe here and were so pleased to see the variety of desserts supposedly available. However, the hopes engendered  by the advertising and the vibrant photographs were lost when it was clear that there were almost no desserts available beyond a dry scone. I was hungry and managed. We all had tea and chatted. Next to the cafe were a couple of photo opportunities such as the stick your face in a strawberry which looked like a strawberry version of the Scream mask. How odd.

After a brief stop for beers at Rain Forest cafe, we drove to the Lakeside for lunch. This is a super posh and quite expensive hotel which serves expensive but delicious food and better still, the house overlooks a majestic lake. The place itself is mock tudor with picturesque wooden beams throughout and a beautiful garden where you can enjoy the stunning views from. It was a lovely pause in the day and if we weren’t driving, I could have happily got drunk here. 

After lunch we drove to a butterfly farm which, though not as impressive as the one in Melacca , in terms of diversity and number of butterflies, had much to see. We walked down some steps to enter the garden, which we thought would be small and relatively insignificant. The entrance was guarded by an old crone ( i mean really, really old) who grinned a toothless, gummy grin and looked as if she belonged on Shutter Island. We bravely pushed on through and into the garden of butterflies. 

Inside there weren’t that many of the creatures but one, in particular, impressed: a malaysian butterfly called the Rajah Brooke and which startled with its extensive wingspan and stunning purple blurred lines across a shining black backdrop. Very emo!

Like many places in the Cameron Highlands, you are surprised by how vast the complexes are and what seem like rustic, old ten minute joints open out into wonderfully rich, stunning abodes of the exotic and fascinating. Once again, there were cacti everywhere as well as animals, eye-catching flowers and trees and fish. It was real value for money although I was not impressed with the condition of the guinea pigs who had clearly been ripping out each others fur and were scrawny with a lack of food. It was clear that they had not been ‘mucked out’ for a long, long time and they were eating their own faeces which Rach and I found upsetting, especially as we had once been guinea pig owners. 

After the butterfly farm we drove back to the digs and relaxed for a while before heading out to a local restaurant within walking distance of the apartment, called Kensington. Like a lot of places here in the Cameron Highlands, they were trying to celebrate Britishness and it was fun to be put in the position of witnessing other people trying to ‘ape’ your own culture- this must be how asian people feel when they witness our hopefully not too feeble attempts to bring asian culture to the west. 

The exterior of the Kensington is decorated with abundant flowers, dramatically so and inside there are posters of strawberries and the promises of clotted cream and English tea (always makes me laugh as I have never seen tea growing in the UK) as well as netted doillies and pastel colours everywhere. The waitresses wear black with a white pinny like something out of the 1930s and some wear little cotton bonnets. Very cute! 

The restaurant menu was very limited, in terms of britishness, which was fine by me as I didn’t want it but after all of the effort with the decor and the restaurant name, it was a little incongruent. I was half-expecting to see roast beef and yorkshire pussing, shepherd’s pie or the like but as I say, only half-expecting. It was a bit of veggie roulette with the order and although three of us ordered non-meat dishes, two still came with a sprinkling of meat- it is only a little bit! Ha ha- there really is no sense of vegetarianism despite the large indian population in Malaysia. Thankfully, it was mum’s that came without meat and so we were in luck. We had a very strange apple crumble for pudding which we all enjoyed but which was, in no way, an apple crumble- uncooked apples with a sprinkling of biscuit mix on top.

It had not been a great meal and no booze was served- also not very English but it was sort of Halal English so fair enough. We walked back up the slight incline to the apartment and had some well earned wine before bed.

Malaysian Road Trip Part 3- Penang 16-04-23 to 21-04-23

We had thoroughly enjoyed our time in the Cameron Highlands but I was excited when I woke that the next stop was Penang. It took us the best part of four hours to dirve there and the scenery on the roadside varied enormously from little abandoned shacks and beautiful roadside vegetation, to limestone rocks which humans had cut into strange and pointed shapes, and finally to the old town of Penang and one of its famous bridges connecting the island to the mainland. Rach drove the first part to give me a break but once we were on the super fast roads, she was happy to pass the baton. 

My first impressions of George Town were mixed, with high rises that weren’t particularly attractive alongside old colonial architecture, busy roads and little temples and mosques that hide away in the nooks and crannies. We arrived at a small shop/market where our contact had agreed to meet us and after a short phone call he arrived, as promised, smiling and happy and I immediately liked him. He showed us to our parking space, numbered, of course and then we took the lift to a very pleasant two-levelled apartment. It was a beautiful space and the view across the sea, with both of the land bridges in the distance, was stunning. My only slight irritation was that the windows needed a damn good clean, although I imagine cleaning these high rises must be some task and not for the faint-hearted!

We took a Grab into the centre of George Town, soon after arriving and after consuming a quick beer that we’d cleverly brought with us. The city's name comes from the original British settlement that was named in honour of King George the third although the area has also been named ‘Tanjung Penaga’ due to the abundance of a tree called penaga laut. 

We had no idea where we were going, in all honesty, and so I just type centre into the taxi app. When we were first dropped off, we were like fish out of water. The roads were insanely busy and we had no idea where to walk to. I was feeling the pressure of my phone not-working as was losing charge which meant that Google maps wasn’t working too well. It did cross my mind that so many people for decades travelled here without Google or indeed before the internet was even invented. How reliant we have become upon this technology.

Eventually we managed to find our way closer to what we perceived to be the old town. The place was shabby or as I like to say, ‘shabby-chique’ almost like a rich English gentleman, who sits on a fortune and wears smart clothes but badly and with holes and many creases. Whilst we took in the old buildings (well about 150 years at most) around the same age as our house back in Chesterfield, we came across a place I read about which looked like fun: the Glow in the Dark Museum. It isn’t the sort of place I would normally go into but we did and I thoroughly enjoyed it. The place is what it says on the tin and is basically flowers, butterflies, trees, chariots and more painted in UV and glared at by UV light. The first room was a reconstruction of parts of Pandora from the film Avatar but as we ventured deeper in we came across some wonderful angels’ wings to pose at and even a desert landscape with glowing stars. It was captivating and we took some startling photos as well as some humorous ones. 

We had only walked a few metres down the street after leaving the museum, when we came across the Upside Down Place. We had been in one of these in KL but this one was far better. We took our shoes off at the entrance and wandered in. At first, I was irritated by the numerous staff who were simply everywhere. I couldn’t understand why they were needed. Then, it  dawned on me. They were the photographers. At first, and somewhat typically British, I wanted them to bugger off and let me take photos as and when I fancied but once we allowed them to be involved, we realised that they knew the best way or best positions to make the best comedy. The result was a lot of hilarity. 

We left the Upside Down place laughing and soon found ourselves in the Armenian quarter where we happened upon Momokaka, a craft beer place with a huge range of fine ales- somewhat rare in Malaysia and though expensive, definitely worth the stop and the sup. There were seats outside and we were able to watch the world a little as well as sample some street food from some ladies who were next to the bar selling Vietnamese bread filled, with all sorts of delicious goodness. Rach loved it and we managed to get some photos with the gorgeous ladies in their traditional gear, and the prominent conical hats. 

We left here, passing a chap who said he was travelling the world and was engraving key rings at the side of the road, to make a few ‘bob’ before the next part of his adventure. A few metres from Mamokaka is a range of street art, most famous of which is the picture of a bicycle and a boy. We took some photos before stopping at The China House for some food. I had Laksa and we paid a lot for wine but it was well worth it. The waitress here was bubbly, chatty and excellent at her job- she reminded me a little of my auntie Marie. We even had desserts, with our lovely waitress taking mum and Rach off to choose from a range of cakes and puds. Rach had so much fun here but was tired and she had done so well. Penang was suiting her. 

We took a Grab back to the ‘digs’, enjoyed some more wine and had an early night.

We scrambled some breakfast together from bits and bobs we had lying about in bags and the fridge before heading out to the Snake temple. This curious place is now situated at the side of a major route through the city and presumably when it was built, it was a serene, quiet, spiritual place where one could contemplate life and the existential matters most pressing to them but now there is simply the crowds (though not too heavy whilst we were there) and the vroom and whoosh of vehicles racing towards their vitally important business. My great uncle had visited here many years ago and my dad remembered him talking about it. In some ways it was a little saddening to think how different it must have looked back then. 

Despite its current location, in amongst the high rises and the glaring sheen off the whitewashed walls of local businesses, The Snake Temple or the Temple of the Azure Cloud as it is also known, is still appealing and if you can blot out the exterior and use your imagination it is possible to transport yourself to a previous time. It was built in 1805 for Master Qingshui, a deified Buddist monk whose good deeds were legendary, particularly those stories of him healing the sick and giving shelter to snakes. The story goes that when the temple structure was completed in the 1800s, snakes appeared by themselves and were given sanctuary.

We wandered around the outer part of the temple initially and took in the enchanting incense of ‘sacred smoke’, apparently used to dull the ardour of the snakes, making them sleepy and therefore less dangerous (although apparently the snakes have been de-venomed). As we wandered into the inner sanctum, we did see a few snakes draped which i thought looked like fake ones, such was their stillness but on closish inspection, they were certainly real. Aside from the snakes, two brick wells known as the Dragon Eye and Dragon Pure Water Wells are located inside the temple together with two giant brass bells. In 2005, a snake breeding centre was set up in the temple and there is a central garden of apparent nothingness, but like those puzzles where you look closer and a picture emerges, we peered in and began to find the snakes. There were dozens of them!

It was a fascinating place and we were all glad to have seen it but after a comical experience at a local supermarket where we had to go deep underground to find the shops, we drove back to the apartment for a swim. There were no sun loungers at all but we all swam and I personally had no desire to ‘lounge’ at all.The temperature of the water was lovely and just what we needed. Next to the swimming pool was a hotel gym with absolutely no one in it (good, I thought). Who goes on holiday to go to the gym? Odd habit that is, as far as I am concerned. I took some photos of me drinking beer from a can and sat on various gym equipment, primarily so I could send them to my friend Godber, who is a gym addict.

After a refreshing swim we headed to Georgetown to see the fort of Cornwallis. The taxi dropped us right outside the entrance which was important as it was very, very hot and humid. We bought tickets and were told that there was a promotion on, so we all received free beers. I thought the vendor was joking but the beers were handed over and we entered the grounds of the fort with a bounce in our step. 

We sat at a table and enjoyed the beers and Rach was pleased to finally see the Far Out bird. A little context for the uninitiated: Rach first heard the Fra Out bird when we arrived in Malaysia- so called because its bird call sounds like an Aussie calling out ‘Far Out’. Until this moment the bird had not been visible to the eye but on this day Rch witnessed it for the first time. She was excited. 

Fort Cornwallis was built by the Britsh East India Company in the late 18th century and is named after the then Lieutenant-General The 2nd Earl Cornwallis (1738–1805), the Governor of Bengal at the time of the fort's construction.  It is the largest standing fort in Malaysia but never saw combat during its operational history. The building is the earliest roofed structure surviving in Penang from the colonial era.

In the inner fort, there are a number of rooms that you can enter but sadly there was absolutely nothing inside them. They looked as if they were being restored so that could be the reason or it might be that the trustees of the establishment have no imagination but, having supped the free beers, I find that hard to believe. In the gardens there is also a statue of Sir Francis Light, the founder of the British colony in Penang. The story goes that there was no picture of him to use as a basis for the statue and so they used his son’s face. 

We walked up some stairs to the higher ramparts and from here you can see the old victorian clock on one side, that dominates a roundabout in the centre of the town and the sea on the other side. Old cannons decorate the fort and we took a few obligatory photos here.  Along from the main fort wall in the North East corner is a 21 m (69 ft) skeletal steel lighthouse which was erected in 1882.  It is the second oldest lighthouse in Malaysia, and although you can climb it, we elected to move on. As it was seemingly even hotter than when we arrived and we were all tired; Rachel in particular. 

We took a Grab to the Chew Jetties which is one of the more significant of the six clan jetties that sit on the waterside of Penang. These places are over a hundred years old and are woden shacks with timber floorboards that jut out into the sea. They were once owned by clans who charged people fees to moor their boats. Various chinese families still live here but it is all about tourism now, with a little fishing on the side. The floorboards creaks as you walk out to the sea passing various trinkets stalls and shops. There is a temple at each end of the jetty and a lot of busy tourism between the two. A few chaps had caught some fish and were busy descaling them as we passed. What was most upsetting was that the fish were alive as this cruelty took place and I was happy to walk on by.

Nevertheless, there were some lovely shops here and despite the sea pong, which was pretty pungent, there was much to marvel at. Rach bought a lovely dress and some delightful earrings. 

We left the chew jetty in search of a bar and found it. The Hong Kong bar, which had apparently been open since 1920. When we arrived however, it was closed. How ironic! We were gutted. There was a bar next door which was also closed but as we stood outside contemplating our next move a lovely Chinese lady arrived and spoke wonderful English. She was the owner of this neighbour bar which was called The Mona Lisa and sported a copy of the famous painting just outside their lavatories. She said they were closed but if we wanted a drink, she would open and she duly did. The beers here tasted great. I think we were tired and in need. 

Down the road from the Mona Lisa there was another Gravy Baby. I was disappointed as I wanted to eat local but everyone seemed pleased so we wandered a few metres down the road to this establishment. In all fairness, the night was lovely again. We ate heartily, drank merrily and Rach picked up the tab. Mum and Rach enjoyed some great cocktails too. Just as I was about to leave, I noticed that I couldn’t find my glasses but I had already ordered the taxi and so, despite protestations from my well meaning folks, we jumped in the vehicle and headed back to the hotel. I rang Gravy Baby but there was no sign of the glasses.

We listened to music via Youtube on the large TV and everyone went off to bed leaving me all on my own. Just as I was contemplating the short walk up the wooden hill to bedfordshire, I received a phone call from…Gravy Baby. They had found my glasses. I guess I have always been a lucky guy.

It was a great bonus on what had been a fun day. I slept with a smile on my face. 

Once I crawled out of bed the next morning, I noticed that there were many more ships out on the water than there had been previously. It was like the ships were getting busy in the night and giving birth to little boat babies. Whilst everyone was mooching around the flat, waking up, feeding themselves and such like, I decided to take the lift to ground floor and pick up some beers from a local shop. We weren’t starting early- don’t worry! I knew we might be out and about and short of a place for a beer in the day so advanced planning was required.  

In the lift, I shook my head in disdain and disappointment that there were still signs in the lift insisting that you wear a mask. Covid restrictions were released here in Malaysia about six months ago. When will people move on! Grrrr!!!! 

Once outside the hotel, I accidentally photobombed two korean girls making a tick tock video. I apologised but was fascinated to notice, as I walked away how seriously they were taking hte experience. They were shooting several takes of every moment, every movement and focusing on body language. It was like they were two Stephen Spielberg’s in the making. However; they were also wearing their masks- imagine me shaking my head once again. 

We left soon after dropping the beers off in search of Monkey beach which is on the far North Western tip of Penang. Here is a National Park and you can, if you feel hardy and stout of heart, stride through this jungle in order to get to the beach. We however, decided to take a very reasonably priced boat around the headland. Monkey beach was beautiful and almost deserted. On close inspection, there is the usual problem of litter but it was quiet and the sea, delightful. We all had a swim although whilst mum and I were chatting and letting the water lap against us, Rach and Dad had our first serious monkey encounter. Monkeys are not cute. They are pests!

One massive monkey sat opposite Rach, who was trying to drink a beer, displaying its huge testicles and looking Rach right in the eye. It made snatch for stuff but Rach is a past master at dealing with monkeys and soon, she’d sent it packing. Apparently there was some back and forth growling and baring of teeth- I wish I had seen Rach doing that! By the time I came out of the water, there were a group of monkeys lurking, with intent, nearby, but they never quite plucked up the courage for an all out assault. Thankfully!

We took a gentle boat trip after a bite to eat and some more beers and then drove down the coast towards Batu Ferringhi- the premier beach of the North of Penang. We swam here.

I love the sea and this beach, though not the best that I’ve ever been on, was quiet enough and after a short reconnoiter, I managed to find a jamaican bar- a jamaican bar that sold...carlsberg. Sighs of exasperation.

It had been a pleasant day of sea, sand and sunshine. We headed back for rest but were soon out again at a local indian restaurant which sadly, didn’t sell booze. This is quite common here in Malaysia and whilst, as Brits, we are used to curry and lager, here it is usually sweet teas or lassi. Not fancying the sweet, I plucked for a lemon tea which was also sweet but delicious and aromatic too. The food here was of excellent value and reminded me of indian homefood as oppose to restaurant food.

After filling out tums we headed off to a place called the Heritage garden for our fix of wine and banter. Mum knocked a glass over at one point but the evening flew by without too much incident and we had full bellies, clear heads and glowing hearts when we returned; it was the perfect way to fall into slumber.

I slept particularly well but sadly Rachel was not herself in the morning and needed a rest day. Mum, dad and myself headed off in search of Kek Lok si temple which is the largest and possibly the most dramatic temple in Penang (Buddist).  The entire complex of temples was built over a period from 1890 to 1930, an inspirational initiative of Beow Lean, the abbot. The main draw in the complex is the striking seven-storey Pagoda of the late Thai king Rama VI, which structure is known as the pagoda of Ten Thousand Buddhas with 10,000 alabaster and bronze statues of Buddha, and the 36.57-metre-tall (120 ft) bronze statue of Guanyin, the Goddess of Mercy. 

We loved walking around the many interiors of several smaller temples, and slowly working our way up to the pagoda. This was an amazing structure, a sort of rapunzel tower, but in odd stages of architectural fancy- the lower port being chinese, the middle section, Thai and the upper section being Burmese. As you climb the spiral staircase it is so easy to keep thinking that you are at the summit, only to find there is yet another level. The views from up here were spectacular and it was easy to get a sense of how vast the footprint of this sacred place actually is.

We left the temple in search of a place that looked wonderful on Google Images, called Itam Dam. After taking a steep off-the main road turn, we were soon up in the hills on roads that became increasingly windy, bumpy and frightening to traverse. Mum started getting nervous and was making a few ‘Ooo’ and ‘ohhhh’ noises and I think both dad and I could see we were on a ‘hiding to nothing’, even though we were actually very close. I parked just around a bend and Dad and I checked out a footpath that seemed to be going towards it but it was a kilometre away, and there was the promise of a huge downpour in the air and part of me, although I wanted to try, was frightened that we might be assaulted in the deeper part of the jungle by powerful, hungry monkeys. Begrudgingly, we changed our plans, turned the car around and took the journey down the rollercoaster-like road. We drove through some local villages passing many food courts, pharmacies and shops. We laughed heartily at one of the most surreal and odd signs I have ever seen, simply titled- ‘Beware the fake Buddist monk syndicate’, above one of the most popular food courts. I have no idea why or what the fake syndicate of buddhist monks did and why we should be wary. 

We stopped for a while for a beer but we made sure to stay away from the danger of the ‘said’ sham monks. After some beers and fun chat, we headed home to see if Rach was feeling better and thankfully, she was. She had been watching The Mary Whitehouse experience (worth a watch if you haven’t seen it) It is a little dated now but still very funny. 

We chose to head back to China House and hoped to see our Auntie Marie-like waitress. Once again the food here was excellent and the desserts stunning- Dad and I chose them this time. This night will forever be the remembered as the night we first tried Soju a distilled clear beverage from Korea ranging between 14 and 20 percent in alcohol and coming in just about every fruity flavour you can imagine. My dad typically went for the plain or basic soju- in truth- experience won the day as it was by far the best of the bunch. Most impressive of all was how cheap it was and it made a huge dent in our bill for the night. Auntie Marie didn’t appear for the first half of the meal but made a happy, giggling appearance towards the end and amazingly remembered the names of both Rachel and my dad, which was impressive.

We dropped into a bar just below our hotel apartments as it was Alan’s birthday and we were all a little reflective and emotional. We rang Emma and all had a whisky to remember him.

We had a very lazy morning and it took us a while to get ourselves out of the flat. We  drove into George Town to see the St George Anglican church which at 200 years old is one of the oldest buildings in the city. The church is built with a combination of Neo-classical, Georgian and English Palladian  architectural styles and it was built almost entirely by Indian convict labour- indeed there is a huge colonial influence to the area and the white, almost sparkling purity of its exterior is blinding in the Malaysian sun. In the garden, there is a memorial pavillion which was erected  in 1886 in memory of Captain Francis Light during the Centenary Celebrations of the founding of modern Penang. 

The interior is typically anglican and in truth, a little boring but there was a lovely chatty lady inside who wanted to tell us everything. I managed to escape but Rach was caught in a long, long conversation. It was extremely hot and we were all relieved to see Rachel emerge from the sidedoors.

From here we wandered into town towards the Pinang Perenakan Mansion which once served as the residence and office of a 19th-century Chinese tycoon,Chung Keng Quee. The house has a dramatic pastel green exterior and is like the tardis; far bigger on the inside. The mansion contains thousands of Peranakan (the first wave of chinese people to relocate to East Asia) artifacts, antiques and collectibles, as well as showcasing Perenakan interior design and customs, such as the typical grand long dining table.

In the main dining room, I was surprised to see tired tourists taking a rest on what appeared to be the original furniture, unchallenged as this would never happen in the UK. From here you could keep walking into a courtyard, where there is an open ceiling and a well where many people had their photographs taken. I couldn’t be bothered to stand in the queue.  Other rooms downstairs displayed ancient clothing, old paintings and jewellery but perhaps my favourite space was the room of drugs- that is my title to be fair- where bongs and drug cases, pipes and the like were on show behind glass display cases. It was funny to think of our image of heroin addicts today and compare them to our romanticed notion of the exotic rich chinese opium addict, all those years ago. 

The house has its own chapel which was a serene and beautiful place to pause, during your trip around and you can also wander around upstairs, as long as you take your shoes off. Up here, I stood out on the balcony for a while to watch the world go by and soak up some more of the heat. We left the property having been surprised with how interesting it was and took a photograph of the cute sculpture outside the exit of a little boy made out of wood, with a twin-visored cap sitting on a chair in front with a bunch of flowers in his hands. 

We wandered from here back towards the jetties for beers and found a waterside jetty food court. This was a posh one- far more westernised in terms of food offered and even a platform or stage in the centre of the court for, I presume, singers or other performers. I had some pineapple rice here which was lovely and far better than anything western on offer. From here we swung by the atm for cash and dropped back to the digs for a swim, which was very refreshing. 

In the afternoon, we drove out to see the Bankting Floating mosque, which like the one in Malacca, juts out into the sea, hence its name. It was in built 1967 and it was expanded in 1977 so that it could accommodate 500 worshipers. With increasing population, it soon became too small for the local Muslim community. There is a pleasant rectangular white tower near its centre with with large windows that reflected and gave off a blue tinge. Next to this is a large blue dome- of course. We looked out to sea and the little fishing boats, taking in the ambience before nipping back to the beach.

It was a nightmare trying to park as it seemed that the only way to the beach was via a hotel, meaning we would have to drive through barriers and take parking tickets. At one point we drove into a school playground and rightly received some of the the most astonished stares I have ever witnessed. 

Eventually, we found a side street and parked up, forever concerned, of course, that there might be a wheel clamp lurker, watching and waiting. We took the risk and before long were swimming again. I had a wander down the beach and found a bar which served very tasty food and I managed to get my eastern food ‘hit’ which was much needed, in the form of a malaysian style curry. Yum!

The journey home was fraught with madness on the roads and a range of attempts at suicide. I managed to extricate myself out of several close calls mainly from ‘scary-ass’ dudes on mopeds and we were soon resting in the hotel. 

It was our last night in Penang and it had been a lot of fun. We finished the night with some cocktails which were rudely interrupted by a singer who desperately needed auto-tune turning on. It was too loud and too bad. We didn’t stick around for long and headed back, for sleep. 

Malaysian Road  Trip- Part 4- Ipoh 21-04-23 to 23-04-23

We left Penang with some sadness in our hearts as we had come to love the place. However, the cave temples of Ipoh awaited and so we successfully gained our deposit back for the room and drove towards the mountains surrounding Ipoh. It was much quicker than we thought to get there although I was putting my foot down.

The city is the capital city of the Perak region was very quiet when we arrived. I had been here before with Matt and the girls but it was far busier then. We wandered confidently into a shop which is where we  were told to go to grab the keys for the apartment and this procedure was very easy indeed and before long we were in another lift ( I have never been in as many in one year, in my life) and heading towards our room. The apartment itself was pleasant and spacious and we were all more than satisfied.

We were craving a beverage so headed to a local food court which was, like many of these places, rough as rats but cheap as chips (see what I did there). As we walked in, my eyes met those of a elderly chap, who we later worked out was a regular. He stared at us with the startled expression of an opium addict. I just said ‘Hi!’. He didn’t reply. We drank special brew here at the food court and it was a delightful hour of chat and booze. One of my favourite moments of the trip, to be honest. 

It wasn’t far from the food court to the main historical part of the town so we wandered slowly in search of Concubine Lane. There are several historical streets here and initially we found the wrong one but after a quick scout around I found it. This lane is fanous as it was gifted by a chinese tycoon to one of his concubines over a hundred years ago. While the area used to be rife with vices, today it is teeming with famous Ipoh eateries and coffee shops, cool cafes, and dessert houses. Last time I was here, it was hard to move down the street but this time it was far quieter. It is rare to see a narrow lane in Malaysia and it feels more European, if I’m honest. Rach stopped in one of the shops and bought some jewellery before we headed out to Plan B- a super cool restaurant which is modern, with elements of the west but which is set in amongst the Malaysian plants and the old houses. We had wine and a super lunch (one of the best we had enjoyed) although, for me, it was the macadamia cake that was most memorable.

We took a taxi back and then I wandered out to the pool area which was very pleasant. Unfortunately, this moment became a bit of fiasco. I jumped in with my shorts on and a guard, dressed officially like a police officer shouted at me and told me to get out, telling me that swimming in my boxers was not acceptable. I put some shorts on and leapt in. He called me out again and pointed to a visual, pictorial interpretation of acceptable swimwear. I really didn’t understand the problem and there was obviously a language barrier, so my criticism is perhaps a little unfair but he lost his temper very quickly and became quite dismissive and arrogant, which doesn’t really work with me.

It seems that it wasn’t the shorts but the fact that the material wasn’t swimwear. I was very irritated and hot and really needed a swim (we had paid for the pool as part of the apartment). Rach arrived to find me flummoxed and shaking my head in disbelief. In some parts of Malaysia, you have to cover up in accordance with Muslim traditions and Rach had worn a light white garment over her swimwear. She jumped in but was called out immediately. He had a problem with her swimwear too. There was a moment of Kafkaesque madness in the dialogue that followed but basically it was like this: he was angry because he was security and because he was frustrated that he didn’t understand me and that I wasn’t going away; I was frustrated as I was trying to explain to him that Rachel was being respectful of Islam and that we weren’t being deliberately obtuse and Rachel was frustrated because he was speaking to me about her and down to her. At one point, he shouted at Rachel and I jumped to her defence telling him he was not going to talk to her like that. It became unnecessarily aggressive. The supervisor came out and he spoke much better English. We concluded that the rules were odd- they were happy with Rachel swimming in a cozzie but I needed a different material. I explained that I had not had this problem anywhere in Malaysia until this day.

Later my dad tried with swimming shorts that he’s bought as ‘swimming shorts’ but it was a no go again. What was lovely was that the owner of our flat, who I complained to, took me to the mall to buy some proper swimming shorts made of the correct material. I walked back to the hotel. Some two hours after my first attempt I successfully entered the pool without a problem. Rach joined me and it was lovely. 

We changed to go out and grabbed a taxi to Mila’s which we had read was a delightful riverside restaurant but which was sadly, closed. In fact this whole area reminded me of Tashkent city parks: wonderful parks and creative ideas but run down, unused and dilapidated. The walk along the river was nice but I could see some of us becoming mildly stressed about finding a restaurant. To be honest, I was really happy to be down at the water and took a few very pretty photographs. 

We managed to find a Brew House eventually and after a beer took a stroll to the irish bar, Healey Mac's. We passed through a park where there were some crazy loud hip hop beats blasting out but the park area is very stylish with some clever, albeit abstract sculptures and an arabic inspired clocktower. 

The night at Healey Mac’s was a lot of fun and we enjoyed several cocktails, decent food and lively banter. I tried a Torn Bra cocktail which was far less impressive than its title- simply a stand alone gin with a squeeze of lemon, I think. Rach was shattered and we were all ready for some rest so took a taxi home. I sat on the balcony completing my blog notes; and slowly one by one, we made our weary way to bed.

The next morning we drove the few kilometres to the road of cave temples- I think there are 5 here. Mum, Dad and myself did three and rach two- she needed a rest at one point so sat in the air conditioned car for a break. All of these temples are quite distinct, from the disneylandesuqe, lurid unusual charm of the statues and coloured arches and shapes of Lin Seng Tong temple, with its golden dragons and statues of the characters from the TV show Monkey, reminding me of my childhood; to the wondrous inner garden of Sam Poh Tong with its turtles and stunning chinese house that sits in the cleft of the mountains like a model and yet is very large in its own right; the outer gardens with the houseboat like chinese property and the wonderfully ethereal water gardens. We really enjoyed these temples but were slightly disappointed by the tea shop that didn’t sell tea. This was doubly ironic as the tea plantations were only a few kilometres away. We bought a coke to refresh and drove to Mirror Lake.

Mirror lake is a perfectly still lake just outside of the town and hidden in jungle like terrain. We did visit this place and it was beautiful but crowded. What was far more fun was Mirror Lake 2, which we visited first. A company had found the lake, which is located via a cave tunnel. They had cleverly put on short boat trips through the tunnel to visit this quiet, almost jurassic-like area. Dad, Rach and I braved the boat but mum stayed back, slightly concerned that her lack of balance might result in her falling overboard. 

The cave was fun and the guide/pilot was knowledgeable. This small lake was peaceful but I think what was most captivating was how a tunnel seemed to separate us all from civilisation. Here, time stood still and I honestly believe this place hadn’t changed for thousands, possibly millions of years. It was a meditative few minutes and we really enjoyed it. 

We drove home after the lakes and slept before nipping out to Tin Bar Bistro for a leffe and then Plan B for a meal. Dad took Rach home in the taxi as she was tired and Dad also happy to return to the hotel. Mum and I had some quality time back at Healey Mac’s , imbibing a few cocktails. I think we both enjoyed this moment. 

The drive home the next day was much quicker than we expected- only four hours. The roads were clear and fate on our side. It had been another outstanding trip. I was relieved, pleased, happy and blessed. 

Nine days in Thailand- 16-12-22 to 25-12-22

Once we boarded the plane, my self-indulgent whining thankfully passed. We were on our way to Phuket. Phuket is a rainforested, mountainous island in the Andaman Sea and has some of Thailand’s most popular beaches but we wouldn’t be seeing them.

The flight was short and we picked up a taxi very easily, which whisked, fairly easily through the landscape of Phuket to a hotel in the backwaters called The Blu Monkey. The place was clean, the bed comfortable and there was a cute bakery-cum-café at the side where people went for breakfast. After checking in, we walked up to the first floor and I tried to open a wall. You heard it correctly- I reached my hand out to grab what looked like a handle on the wall. I thought it was the door to our room but our place of rest lay adjacent to it. I tried a couple of times whilst Rach looked at me as if I was a total nutter. I think I must have been tired. Great mirth followed when I became aware of my stupidity.

We were in need of a beer and were so lucky to find a bar next door to the hotel- we didn’t realise how lucky at that point. It was a sidestreet affair, with a ramshackle roof and a little corner bar precided over by a chirpy barman. We had a few here and pathetically, my melancholy returned. Rach was brilliant again and used her counselling and therapy skills on me. What a team.

I was still hungry and Rach a little tired, so she headed back to the room and I strolled…and strolled…and strolled. I must have walked two miles out from the hotel and did not see a single restaurant or place to eat. Nothing was open whatsoever, except for a mini-mart, that was closing as I passed and a launderette, which was well attended, oddly. I was perplexed also by some custard yellow card machine, that I initially took to be cash machines but on closer inspection realized they weren’t. I have no idea what cards should be inserted- electricity top ups-phone cards- or something else, but there were a lot more of those ugly machines than eateries and so I arrived home tired and hungry. What made it worse was the mural on our hotel bedroom wall of a monkey grinning cockily, as if he knew of my minor troubles and delighted in them. I might be reading way more into this than I should, of course.

In the morning we wandered into the breakfast café, which was also a shop, open to the public. We had some coffee and some very moist banana bread- I think this was to fit in with the monkey theme. This place was just a stopover before the next adventure but there were certainly enough oddities and charm to keep us interested and the bed was wonderful.

We grabbed a taxi to the harbour and from there took a super-fast boat, hitting around 60kph to the idyllic island of Phi Phi. As we checked in for the boat our cases disappeared faster than I thought possible, whipped away like lightning and we hoped they had been put on the correct vessel. The speedboat itself was a little disappointing, as we couldn’t see where we were going, as the ledge or edge of the boat was so high. We were also packed in like battery chickens. As we crossed the boat continually leapt and slammed itself down on the water throwing us around quite a bit. That bit was quite fun but I could see Rach was starting to feel a little peaky and had turned a whiter shade of pale.

Once we arrived at Tonsai Pier, we were able to alight and were struck by the beauty of the island immediately. This small town juts out to the south of a narrow isthmus on the main island of Phi Phi Don. The pier itself is a thriving hub of large speedboats and smaller wooden, longtail boats. After taking some money out of a conveniently placed whole in the wall, we jumped on one of these longtails and were on our way to our rooms at the inviting and I mean very inviting, Beach Resort.

Here, the accommodation is a series of wooden huts that roll down the side of the hill, perched on stilts. We were placed halfway up the hill which was ideal as we still had a gorgeous view of the bay but it wasn’t too much of trek to get to bed at the end of each day. From our outside balcony we were able to wonder at the lapping of the clear waters. It wasn’t long before we settled and were swimming in those waters, teaming with tropical fish that encircled us very quickly.

We spent most of our first day soaking up the sun and taking a dip in the warm Andaman sea. Bliss.

There was a hotel restaurant with a great cocktail happy hour as well as some pleasant local and less local food. I did find it strange that despite the range of fish, clearly in these water, that there was no fish on sale in the restaurant. Isn’t the world a funny old place? Beside the outdoor restaurant, there were some decorations being erected for the New Year and Christmas. One such frightening and glaringly incongruous site was the strange sinister face of the most disturbing Santa model I have ever seen. We affectionately dubbed the chap-paedo Santa.

After a day’s relaxing, drinking and indeed drinking in the sites of this beautiful coast, we attended a fire show, which we later realized was a nightly occurrence and that the poor chaps who performed this ritual may have been suicidal with depression- I don’t know. Nevertheless, it was very enjoyable, as the young paduan lit both ends of a metal staff and spun it around somewhat dangerously close to the front row of spectators and at speeds that were hypnotic and mesmerizing. He dropped the staff a couple of times but he was talented for sure- I suppose he should be if he does it every night. Then came the grand master. He was faster, more ambitious, more controlled, error-free and exceptional. He threw the staff high into the air and caught it with his hands, his feet and even on the shoulder blades. He spun the flaming stick between his own legs and at one point had two on the go at the same time like some sort of Fire Jedi or a Sith Lord. Darth Maul would have probably nodded a head of approval.

We finished the night with a Jimmy Bean whisky and a few games of Popmaster in the room. I was terrible, as always, but it made Rach laugh that all of my answers, as usual were Take That.

We slept really well and were content.

Breakfast was delightful and diverse at the Beach resort and it was great to walk in, scoff what you like and then go for a swim and we spent the next two days, sunbathing, swimming, drinking beers and cocktails and reading. I was bashing my way through a book called The Ice Child- which was a pleasant enough read but largely forgettable. It is amazing how 'relaxing' actually feels when you finally achieve it, uncomfortable and laced with guilt, as if you should be doing something but eventually, when you achieve the blankness of mind required, blissful. I rang Georgia whilst on the beach and we happily ‘bashed’ the tories, which was great fun.

Next to the restaurant was a beach hut bar called Let’s See Bar. From here, you could certainly see an awful lot of beauty, as you looked out to sea and the island of Ko Phi Phi Le. The beer was slightly more expensive at this bar but it made a nice change. A waiter at the local restaurant made us laugh a lot with his high pitched giggle and his banter and I will never forget him pointing and giggling at our slightly twisted water bottle and calling it the leaning tower of Pisa, over and over again. Priceless.

On our third night in Phi Phi Don, we took a taxi boat back to Tonsai for a night out. There are hundreds of restaurants and bars here and the community is thriving. There was an unfortunate smell of excrement in the air, which was off-putting. Nevertheless, we had a reasonable meal by the sea, which was slightly marred by the mozzies and a couple of cats who wouldn’t leave us alone. Rach kicked one and thereby followed various comments about Rach being ‘Cruel for Cats’, which made us both laugh. I will say it was great that one of the waiters spotted us trying to swat the mozzies away and he brought us some spray which helped a little. On the way back to the boat taxi, we stopped at a shop and bought a caramel coloured fluid called Hong Thong, which promised alcoholic oblivion and it delivered.

Rach pushed the spirit into her handbag and we met our captain who had agreed to meet us. Once on the taxi, we were initially a little concerned when the chap couldn’t start the engine. He giggled, rather like the waiter who couldn’t get over the leaning tower of Pisa and we began to wonder if it was a ‘Thai thing’. He then proceeded to hot wire the engine, mid laugh, and all was well. The light on the boat wasn’t working properly but somehow we managed to arrive back at the resort without crashing and we were able to drink our rummy-whisky-brandy thingie in bed and chatting. We were soon zonked.

We woke up to a storm…seemingly incessant rain, pummeling down and it set in for the day. Nevertheless, it was still warm and I sat undercover after breakfast: reading, blogging and drinking beers as the rain came down all around me. I went for a quick swim in the sea and was surprised by the stares I received, as if I was unhinged. Swimming in the rain!  I thought about it this for a moment and realized that this very mindset was what was crazy. I mean, the thing about rain is that it is wet and the thing about getting in the sea is that it makes you…well wet!

After a swim, I decided to take advantage of a reduction in the severity of the storm and take a walk whilst Rach hung back at the resort. It was my plan to walk over the mountain (well, hill I suppose) and down to the beach on the other side. It was quite a pull up the hill but fascinating as I passed all of the posh and well decorated houses on stilts and the holiday homes before entering the outer realms- houses far less salubrious, with old rusty bikes and parts of cars lying in their yards; where goats and chickens scratched around for a morsel and passed mechanics, and other labourers going about their daily business. I also passed a water park- well, a man-made lake with a couple of slides, though it was closed- probably too wet. Ha ha!

Eventually, I left civilization and the path narrowed though became more level, which was good as I hadn’t brought any water and I was sweating like a pig! As the jungle trees and plant life became close enough to touch, I became paranoid that a monkey might jump out from the trees and pinch my wallet and phone. My anxiety increased a little as the downhill slope began. It was very slippy, full of potholes and my shoes had no grip. I kept imagining falling and being snatched by monkeys. It was an irrational fear.

After about half a mile or so, I managed to arrive at the nearby beach- Viking beach. I was keen for a beer but couldn’t find an establishment that sold them and so I settled for a latte and a banana crepe. My hunger was soon satiated and the walk home was pleasant.

Rach had been writing her diary and somehow we ended up in an emotional argument in the room about something I cannot even remember and as usual, it became far deeper than it needed to. We survived and popped out for a meal at the resort restaurant. I noticed that the world cup final was on and contemplated staying up to watch it. I decided against it only to regret when I awoke the next morning to discover it had been a 3v3 draw and that Argentina had won on penalties. To rub it in, an English chap we had spoken to a few times since we had arrived told me it was the best final he had ever seen. Typical!

After a late breakfast and an early beer we booked a boat trip for the next day and took a walk up the coast. We found a very pleasant and cheaper restaurant for lunch. Whilst there, I helped a woman escape from a toilet, as one of the staff had walked by and locked it whilst she was still inside. We ordered wine shortly afterwards and after waiting for an awfully long time, I realized that the waitress simply couldn’t get the cork out of the bottle. I wandered casually inside and asked if they needed help, taking the bottle and pulling the cork out. She was happy and I received a round of applause. It was clearly good Samaritan day.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of more cocktails, more swimming and a brief discussion about why dialogue was always or almost always rubbish in novels: either purple and exaggerated, wooden as Wickes or woefully inaccurate. It is almost as though novelists have a pact with playwrights to ensure that their dialogue never matches up to the scripts of plays.

The next morning, after breakfast, we took a boat trip to Phi Phi Le. It was glorious and the chap in charge of the boat was pleasant, though quiet. This area of the Andaman sea has a range of other islands reaching out and directly up to the sky- some seems to be floating. It was gloriously sunny and the captain pulled up a couple of hundred metres away from the coast of the island. He offered both of us snorkels and goggles and encouraged us to swim. Rach was struggling as she was worried that the goggles wouldn’t get over her glasses so she remained aboard. I leapt in.

The underworld around Phi Phi Le is incredible and there is a sense of the supernatural about it. I was a little shocked when several large fish brushed against me but I was soon at ease and drifting through the water, mesmerized by the colours, the movement of the sealife, which was in abundance, and the landscape itself which seemed to be some other planet, as far as I was concerned. In truth, I could have stayed there for hours but begrudgingly, I returned, with a smile as wide as the apocryphal Cheshire cat.

Once back  on board, we sailed to Monkey beach, which was full of…well…monkeys! We strolled along this beach observing and photographing the amazing animals. One alpha sat dead centre of the beach, proud, almost defiant of all other lifeforms. His testicles needed their own gravitational field, such was their enormity and he was clearly making a statement, legs akimbo and presenting the bulbous 'bad boys' front and centre. We laughed at him, but only from a coward’s distance and watched as he left his space when he realized that a lady was getting far too close to his babies, who were being looked after by one of his harem, I would think. He certainly appeared to have plenty to go around, judging by his enormous bollocks.

Macho monkey perched on a rock, rocking gently back and forth as if waiting for a moment to attack. The unfortunate woman taking the photographs, closed the critical distance and the monkey leapt on to her back causing her to squeal. She wriggled and he fell off but she was soon standing a long way away from the baby monkeys she had been filming.

We left here soon after this moment of simian agility, and continued to move through the water around the island. It is stunning here. Sheer cliffs with trees growing on them that seem to deft nature and more columns of stone that reminded me of the stunning world of Pandora from Avatar. One rock was vibrant shade of orange in colour, on its face, as if it had been painted. The trip back from here was choppy and the waves were certainly growing in size. We were glad to get off the boat. My head was wobbly with dizziness and I was moving a little like Captain Jack Sparrow. Rach was even worse, stumbling from side to side and feeling icky.

We tried to go out for some food but Rach didn’t recover and could only manage cashew nuts.

We headed home early that night.

The next day was super chilled. We had breakfast and I sat and marked some essays before swimming and sun-bathing. We popped to a restaurant further up the beach for lunch before returning to the resort for happy hour. We took a boat to Tonsai in the evening and ate at Pirates bar, ironic indeed after my Jack Sparrow moment from the day before. The atmosphere in Pirates was great, sort of like a Tortuga style bar but without the fighting. I enjoyed a great Thai green curry and Rach and I exchanged some pleasantries with a Norwegian couple on the price of booze in Scandanavia. For them, Thailand was party season, as they didn’t have to remortgage their house to buy a pint.

After a meal, we picked up some more Hong Thong, took a boat back and lay back on the bed, with a glass of the golden wonder, listening to Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds. It really is a brilliant piece of fusion music, with electro moments, orchestral strings, folk ballads and progressive rock thrown in for good measure. Richard Burton’s narration has such astounding gravitas, silky smooth, deep and resonant as if distilled in fine brandy and with the sumptuous appeal of melted chocolate. I even like David Essex on this recording.

We finished off the Hong Thong and the weird Oooo laaaaa sounds of the aliens began to sound more real. We slept well and thankfully I did not dream of alien invasions.

We had a late morning, probably sleeping off the narcotic effects of the Hong Thong. Rach had a lie in the sun whilst I walked across the island to Long Son beach. It was perhaps a mile and a half and suddenly all was deserted. There were a few construction workers dotted about although what they were constructing, I couldn’t say. The majority of them were lying down on their phones, which wasn’t surprising as it was very hot indeed. The beach itself was delightful and like something out of an advert, besides the litter that seems to pockmark many of the less frequented beaches of Malaysia.

I swam here. Alone. It was blissful. Sun, sea, silence.

After my swim, I wandered back but once across the island, I decided to walk further passed the resort and up the hill to the highest point, in order to get some photographs. From here, the photographs were very picturesque, with vibrant flowers in the foreground of beautiful timber houses, on stilts and mountains holding a gorgeous sparkling clear sea in its hands, whilst the occasional eagle swooped and dived. Stunning.

As I walked out of the resort and beyond, I saw huge, colourful dragonflies, leaves bigger than me and frighteningly spiky cacti. I was drawn in by the nature as it seemed to take over the housing. The timber constructions became more and more dilapidated the further I walked and the trees and nature, more and more dense. One of the most interesting observations was a small clearing where hundreds of old air con units lay piled on top of one another next to a burnt out car. It seemed so incongruous, a sort of air con funeral pyre waiting to happen. I think this area was far enough away from the resort for the locals to feel they could dump their rubbish. I walked further into an area of housing, all different shapes and architectural design and dotted around in what seemed to be a random way. I think people had just built houses wherever they wanted. It was also very quiet, as I walked through what seemed to be their gardens but was also public land. I think. Many of these houses were of wooden construction and had personalized touches, such as the one house that had carved what looked like a bar with a Viking longboat bow with dragon accessories. Another house had a swing and hammock next to a stone table; the sort of place you would expect to witness a human sacrifice. Another seemingly abandoned property had been constructed as three mushrooms, each slightly bigger than the previous one. There was a distinct waft of weed here and occasionally, though mercifully briefly, sewage.

It was difficult to know if these places were inhabited, or abandoned or perhaps lived in for certain parts of the year. Though peaceful and pleasant, I could not help but think of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre and wondered whether Leatherface or some new horror antagonist might seize me from behind and take me to the mushroom house for some sort of sprouting ceremony. Thankfully, all was fine.

By the time I returned to Rachel’s place of sun worship, I was sweating buckets and so downed the first beer as if it was the elixir of life. I had a swim and a chill before happy hour and in the evening we headed out to Atom over at Tonsai, for a delicious pizza, which was a lovely change after all of the Thai food we had been scoffing. The boat back was serene and I was hypnotized by the glittering shimmer of the lights on the ripples of the sea. We slept well enough.

I opened my eyes with melancholy eyes, aware that it was the last day of the trip. It was fleeting but it felt odd that time, as always had flown by in a heartbeat. I spent the morning finishing the Ice Child book that I had been reading. It was ok. Nothing much to shout about but enough twists to keep me interested. I convinced Rach to walk with me back to Long Son beach for a quiet last swim. When we arrived on the beach, we were surprised to see that there was a huge ship beached up on the shore that seemed to be carrying a range of foodstuffs. It had not been there the previous day.

We strolled to the far end of the beach away from the monstrosity and swam. Rach was initially put off by the excess leaves in the water but eventually she jumped in and it was a delightful way to spend an hour or two. We had brought some beers and a bottle opener but the said opener turned out to be terribly ineffective. It took an age, lots of persistence and I guess, a desperation to get the bottle open so we could enjoy a beer. We chatted for a long time about life the universe and well…you know.

Perhaps the funniest moment was when we began to consider how fast smaller insects and the like moved and how fast they were, compared to humans, in real terms. In a moment of hilarity, we did a live test after observing a hermit crab scuttling across the sands. We did some rough mental arithmetic and then paced out a distance on the beach for me to run and drew a line on a part of the beach the crab had to pass. Once the hermit crab started to move, I ran in the opposite direction, back and forth, back and forth until I had completed the run. I looked ridiculous – a fat balding man racing a hermit crab. I lost, although not by as much as I expected to.

We wandered back for happy hour and after changing, we took a trip to Tonsai and visited Atom again. We had another pleasant meal and came back early, in time for a relaxing sleep.

The trip home was very stressful and involved five stints on transport. Taxi boat- speedboat-taxi-plane and then a taxi at the other end. What made it very stressful was that Rach was feeling unwell for most of the trip and I was anxious about her. We managed to get on to Phuket despite Rach spewing in a bag a couple of times, and I noticed several restaurants at the side of the road, simply named, Muslim Restaurant. I mused on the idea of restaurants in the west, being called Christian Restaurants. It would seem odd.

At the airport, we were again surprised at the random nature of the rules: it was shoes off this time, but no problem bringing in sunscreen when it had been a huge problem when coming in from Bangkok. The flight was delayed, as usual, but this is Airasia. We both felt a little strange thinking it was Christmas Eve and we would have never seen ourselves spending this time, in this way.

Once in KL, we grabbed a taxi to the city. This ended up being a bit of disaster as Rach was still feeling pretty grim. I was pleased to finally see the silvery tops of the Petronas Towers and at least KL was less frenetic than Bangkok. Once we checked in to Big M, Rach needed rest and I popped out to get a takeaway and some Special brew (6.5%) rather than the UK (8%). I gave a huge amount of money to a beggar outside of the 7/11 and he looked aghast. Rach managed to recover a little through a sip of beer and I scoffed my curry at a desk.

We tried to go out and see KL in the morning but Rach was shattered and sick and so, on Christmas day, we took an emergency taxi home. I was gutted that the trip ended this way but we made up for it by making a great Christmas roast dinner, at home, in the evening.

What a trip it had been! Merry Christmas all!

Last Day in Cambodia and 2 days in Bangkok- 13-12-22 to 16-12-22

We slept well enough and Rach managed to survive my, apparently, incessant snoring. We shared a breakfast at the digs and it was very good- particularly the fruit bowl, which finally turned me on to dragon fruit. Gorgeous and fruity and far more taste than usual- even the papaya was sweet and juicy.

Chaewon collected us for day two around the majestic Angkor ruins at 10.30am. We were very much used to the tuc tuc now and we rode it like an old friend. I remember Rach and I giggled whilst discussing car horns. It was apparent that the bikes had high-pitched beeps; the small cars, also squealed like little puppies but the lorry horns were long, deep, like an electric didgeridoo. We wondered what would happen if the deep lorry horns were on the bikes and vice versa. It would surely cause chaos and panic amongst the local people.

After perhaps thirty minutes or so, Chaewon pulled up at the side of the road and announced that we had arrived at Ta Promh, affectionately known as the ‘Tomb Raider’ tomb. Isn’t it bizarre how much importance we give to a popular film. I have never seen it and perhaps many others haven’t and yet, this was the place where people wanted photographs. Uncanny. That said, I have to confess that I fully understand why the director chose this location. It is magnificent, with intricate weaving trees and roots crawling and becoming embodied within the fabric of the ancient stone, like arteries running through the ancient rock body.

Once again, there are headless statues a plenty here and carvings of gods into the fabric of the walls.

This temple is particularly wonderful as it is set in amongst the jungle, and I can only imagine what Henri Mouhot, the French adventurer who brought this wonderful place to the attention of the West, must have thought when he first came across it. There are several doorways, which somehow become more and more dramatic and each time you think you are at the climax, you are impressed just a little more. One roof of the temple has tree roots sitting upon it like some grey, multi-limbed alien, spreading and growing like a beautiful virus that you can’t take your eyes off. Perhaps the most famous of the doorways was the last we arrived at, almost completely usurped by vines, tree stumps and curvilinear vines but still visible enough to make the most memorable photograph.

Rach and I left this Bayon- built temple from the 12^th century- feeling that it was the most dramatic place we had visited, in a long, long time…maybe ever!

Chaewon took us to a great jungle restaurant for lunch and I was feeling a little faint so the food and beers (2 or3) really picked me up. From here we drove to Pre Rup temple. This place one of the oldest of all the temples and has its foundations in the tenth century. Here the turret columns were almost identical to those at Angkor Wat but much smaller. I really enjoyed walkinghere and I managed to climb the, as usual, terrifying stairs to the top. There was little at the top but what an amazing view of the jungle terrain. Once again I was terrified about coming down and had to fight my fears, remembering my dad starting to get like this as he aged. Maybe it is in the blood.

Pre Rup temple is a temple mountain of combined brick, laterite and sandstone construction and translated into Cambodian means ‘turn the body’ and so many believe this to be a place where funerals took place. Against the south wall, there is a block of heavy duty strips of wood, tied together and leant up against the ancient stone wall as a support. I have to say, it didn’t really look up the job: kind of like me trying to hold up Geoff Capes in his prime! The temple was dedicated or built in honour of the Hindu god Shiva. I have no doubt that she would have been very impressed, despite the wooden support.

It wasn’t long before we were back on the jungle road and passing the tenth century East Mebon temple, which we briefly paused at for photos but it was similar to the last one and we in the mood for something different. We certainly scratched that itch at the next temple: Preah Khan, which is a 12^th century construction and, like Ta Promh, has been left very much unchanged with the jungle slowly reclaiming it: wrapping great trunks around its fixtures and foundations. The temple is flat in design, with a basic plan of successive rectangular galleries around a Buddist sanctuary complimented by several Hindu satellites.

We strolled gingerly along the seemingly never-ending central corridor, moving from gallery to gallery and wondering just how long this temple complex was. I later discovered it was just over 700 metres. Quite some distance. We walked its length and were captivated by the history and majesty of the place, ameliorated by the close proximity of the jungle trees and the interaction the building has with the roots of nature.

I joked that Tarzan might come swinging through the trees at any time, as we walked through the stone works wrapped up by the roots.

On the other side of this lengthy corridor was the exit, which took us through the jungle itself and by the side of a jungle pond, which teamed with life. Like Langkawi, there were mangroves reaching with their gnarly roots from the water. We saw a huge termite hill, which we nervously circumnavigated and observed giant ants, perhaps as long as half a finger, going about their jungle survival business. The high pitched sound of the cicadas had returned and dominated the place with rising crescendos and diminuendos and yet it never disappeared, lingering confidently. Thankfully, I did not meet a cicada as I think it would have freaked me out as I have since looked them up and they are huge! 

We successfully exited the jungle and found that Chaewon was nowhere to beseen, We had taken a wrong turn but thankfully, he was a couple of hundred metres up the road and so it wasn’t too long before we were wending our weary way home. Back at the hotel, we were soon on the beers and margaritas and this was becoming a bit of a habit. I am glad we weren’t staying much longer as I think I would have drunk myself into oblivion.

After a few gentle ones, we headed back out into Siem Reap to a restaurant called The Christa. It was off the main street and very pleasant indeed. From the first floor we watched an odd security guard who was clearly bored out of his mind. He was standing outside of The Oyster Bar, opposite us, and had one of those silly Uzbekistan-style light sabers which he flipped around a little, directing traffic down the street, that he certainly didn’t need to direct. It was one of those situations where if he hadn’t have been there, everything would have been exactly the same. We all need work I suppose. He also had a habit of bowing at every person who passed, be they pedestrian, in a car, or even lorries and vans. I wondered if he bowed to low flying planes but we didn’t get to prove that particular case. After a while, we realized that he was looking after one very posh car and seemed to be a bodyguard or security for someone very important. At least, that’s the story we developed during the course of the meal.

We had a very pleasant meal here and a bottle of wine. Rach had a cocktail too. We didn’t bother Chaewon and managed to grab a tuc tuc from the street to get us home. We had one nightcap cocktail at the digs and hit the sack. We were shattered.

In the morning we had a late breakfast after a lie in and were on the beers at eleven. The sun was way passed the yardarm but I think it passes the yardarm pretty damn early in Cambodia. We had a good long swim in the fine pool for one last time, paid up to more bowing and fawning and met Chaewon outside the hotel. It wasn’t long before we were at the airport ready for our trip to Bangkok.

The airport experience was odd. We should have been really excited but we weren’t and I’m not sure why. Maybe, we were sad to be leaving Cambodia. At the airport we shared a pleasant Caesar salad: I had tea; Rach had wine. The flight was on time and quick and just before boarding we had a lovely message from Chaewon, thanking us for our business. Top guy! If you’re in Cambodia- call- +855 98951822. You won’t regret it.

We landed in Bangkok and tried to take out some Baht from the cash machine with little success. An American couple tried to help but ultimately, to no avail although it was great to chat to them. After a little wandering around looking confused, we worked out the ticket based taxi system and were soon on our way into the city of Bangkok. The high rise building here are incredible, more prevalent than Tashkent, London and even Kuala Lumpur. We felt dwarved in the taxi. Unfortunately, after our first feelings of excitement and wonder, we were simply left in a maelstrom of frustration as for some reason, unbeknown to us, the traffic was busier than anything I had seen since India- possibly even busier. We moved sluggishly and with ever increasing sighs from one traffic jam to the next. Our driver later explained that there had been a last minute public holiday announced which had caused havoc on the roads.

The drive should have taken 35 minutes but after an hour I was messaging Elisna, a friend from our Tashkent days, to tell her we wouldn’t be meeting her on time. The most depressing moment happened about ten minutes later, when we were within three hundred metres of our hotel, and the driver took a wrong turn, sending us into sprawling, web-trapped traffic. Later, we realized there were two hotels with the same name and he took us to the wrong one. After two hours, we gave up and asked the driver to let us out. He was super apologetic but we needed a beer and we were right in the centre of everything- a thriving restaurant and bar metropolis. Within seconds, we were sat with our suitcases and a pint of Kilkenny in The Blarney Stone. Fortunately, Elisna managed to find us and it was good to catch up and after a chat and some drinks, we realized that our hotel was within walking distance. We checked in to Alt Nana just before midnight. The room was very comfortable and the bed sublime.

Having arrived at the hotel, in darkness, it was a lovely surprise to wake up and look out of our high rise hotel window at the skyline of Bangkok, which is impressive. Like all of these huge cities, there is a concrete jungle element but when you see the variety and amount of tall towers in Bangkok, it is quite a site for the eyes. With an estimated population of almost 11 million, this city dwarfs all other cities in Thailand and there is a lot to explore. Unfortunately, our time was limited here and so we were keen to head out and see as much as we could. We tried to hail a Grab but failed and so were delighted to see that the hotel provided breakfast, which was included. The brekkie was the usual mix of eastern and western cuisine and not bad at all.

We were more successful in grabbing a taxi after breakfast as I downloaded the Bolt app we had used in Georgia and Croatia. It was less than three pounds to get to the centre, which was a few kilometres away. A huge difference to the cost of transport in the UK and particularly London. Our first stop was Wat Pho or to give it its full name Phra Chetuphon Vimolmangklararm Rajwaramahaviharn. Throughout the complex there are statues, steps, museums and even a massage school and a Buddist school for children. However, what seizes the attention of the tourist are the numerous spiky, bizarre giant-dildo like structures which adorn the complex.

The temple was built in the 16th century and has undergone several renovations over the years. It is home to the famous reclining Buddha, which is one of the largest Buddha statues in the world, measuring 46 meters long and 15 meters high. The statue is covered in gold leaf and depicts Buddha during his final moments before achieving enlightenment. It was here that we headed for first, leaving our shoes outside, of course.

When you first see the head of the reclining Budda between the columns, and look into its eyes, it is easy to feel like a Liliputian. You walk for some time down the length of this golden structure, commisoned by Rama the third and I have to admit to being gobsmacked. It was one of the most incredible statues I have ever seen.

We left the building and Rach was a little overcome with anxiety and so we rested a while by a beautiful fountain, with a range of statues in view. She recovered well and we began our tour of the inner part of the temple. There were more Buddhas in this place than I could count: rows and rows of them around every corner and adorning the inner four chapels, each dedicated to one of the first four kings of the Chakri dynasty.

What was perhaps more surprising was the Anthony Gormley statues on show. I do not know why. They did seem a little incongruous but quite impressive nonetheless. After some more photographs, we walked to a nearby rooftop restaurant, wandering down some narrow streets by the Chao Phraya River to get there. There was also a small market, a few trinkets being sold from less than salubrious dens and we received several looks of curiosity from the locals.

Once we walked out on to the rooftop, we were blown away by the view over the river, where boats sailed or powered passed. Across the river we could see several beautiful structures, including the Ayutthayam temple or Wat Arun. We enjoyed a couple of beers here and I ate some mango and sticky rice pudding with coconut milk. It is one of the most delicious desserts I have ever eaten- maybe the most! The rice was blue, which was odd but if you are in Bangkok, don’t leave without eating this!

We were confused for a while about how to get across to the other side of the river but eventually found a boat taxi, which we hopped on and took the five-minute trip. Wat Arun is perhaps the most famous building in Bangko and I can see why. It is another Buddist temple and the architecture is stunning and intricate.

Its central feature is a Khmer-style tower, which has a square base with steps leading up to the top. The tower narrows to a needle-like point about seventy metres high. Four smaller satellite towers surround it and all of them are decorated with floral patterns, murals and various Buddhas , all looking remarkably relaxed, considering they held their hands aloft above their heads, as if supporting the entire weight of the towers. Strong Buddhas!

You can climb to the top of the tower but thankfully, it was roped off, as renovations were happening. I say thankfully, as I think the stairs to the top were even steeper than those at Angkor- more like a ladder, in truth. It was scary enough climbing the steep stairs to the first level, about ten metres high. At Wat Arum there are even more Buddha statues than at Wat Pho and so we said no and headed back to the boats.

Whilst walking by the river, Rach was remonstrated with by a man for not covering her shoulders. She had removed her shawl for a matter of seconds and it was exceptionally warm. Fortunately, several people in front of us were also ‘uncovered’ and so we pointed at them and he ran past us like a man possessed, hunting them down. He left us alone after that. I said, ‘maybe they’re hot mate’, but realized immediately how pathetically uncultured I sounded.

We headed back on a boat and grabbed an expensive but super funky sixties vibed tuc tuc. It was the sort of vehicle John Lennon and Yoko Ono might have slept in for a few days or years.

We had planned to meet Elisna in the evening but booking a taxi was impossible and so we headed to an American bar Called the Tavern. We had a couple of lovely beers here and were occasionally drawn to the conversation between an Aussie and an American, particularly when the Aussie used the word ‘wog’ as casual as you like. It was quite shocking for our ears and we ended up chatting about cultural norms and expectations, particularly in terms of language. After some beers we ate out at Bully’s, finishing the meal with a beautiful Key Lime Pie- not at all Thai but delicious nonetheless.

We stopped at a bar called Bangcockney on the way home, which had more staff than customers but sold decent cocktails. There were a lot of locals and a pool table, which was free. We had a couple of frames and Rach played superbly well, losing only on the black ball in the first frame. She was happy and happier still once we’d had another cocktail.

We headed home through thriving, busy streets with many customers and night revelers just starting their night out. Many shops and bars advertised their cannabis blatantly and with pride which was in stark contrast to the strict attitude to drugs in Malaysia. There were also several folks out who had a trans vibe about them, some cross dressers and women (I think) wearing next to nothing. Bangkok is certainly a very liberal city and I felt right at home.

We avoided the drugs on this occasion and managed to grab a relatively early night.

After a lie in and a stint by the uninspiring disappointment of the pool, we had a couple of last beers at The Blarney Stone and the best sausage cob I have had outside of the UK before checking out of the hotel. We had forgotten to do that because my dad had messaged me with some tax matters and we had more problems with the house in Chesterfield. My head was full and we had chosen to talk the matters out at the pub, much as we used to do at The Baker’s Oven in Wrexham about thirty years ago. The late check out cost us a tenner but we had no argument so we paid up and grabbed a taxi. It arrived very quickly this time. In the taxi I was hit with a bout of personal sadness and couldn’t stop thinking about my age, weight and worries about the future.

The airport was full of people wearing their face leeches, which did nothing to cheer my mood. In fact, we conducted a quick straw poll and concluded that about 95 in every 100 people were wearing a mask. My melancholy really took hold at the airport and Rach stepped up, thankfully, and was a great support to me. We mused about the long vowel sound prevalent in languages of the East and then realized we were doing impressions- exceptionally and accidentally racist. We stopped.

Once we boarded the plane, my self-indulgent whining passed. We were on our way to Phuket.

Angkor and More- Cambodia- 10/12/22 to 12/12/22

It was another first for Rach and I. A month off over the Christmas period, a time where traditionally in the UK, you are so relieved to breakup from work, even for two weeks and drown your sorrows in copious amount of ‘grain and grape’, that you have to stifle the bulging cheer within. Outside, it would be cold, grey, typically and before long, the planning for the new term would begin. Yet here we were, three weeks before Christmas and already finished, well Rach had to go in a little longer but who’s counting? The weather, still warm, and the horizons bright.

The school, and indeed, Prinicipal’s driver, Ganesh, raced us off to Kuala Lumpur airport early in the morning, around 5.30am, so I was still quite sleepy, especially as I had been partying at friends the night before. Rachel was in good form and took the lead, which was a huge weight off my mind. Perhaps the most interesting observation at the airport, on this occasion, was the numbered urinals- very strange, like post office counters where you can make a deposit.

All was going well, as we almost flew through customs before even getting in the air. However; when we arrived at the gate displayed on our ticket, we realized it did not match the gate on the flight board. It was a bit of a ‘rookie’ error but fortunately we had time to correct it, despite the nearly forty-five minute walk back through security and to the other side of the airport, where the correct gate was.

Both of us drifted off for a short while and the time passed by soon enough. On the plane, I slept, as usual and no doubt annoyed the other passengers with my snoring, which as I get older seems to be, both more frequent and more warthog.

The flight was mercifully short, for both us and the unfortunate victims of my incessant snoring. Our first task was to pay for a visa on arrival which was much easier than I had anticipated (well, we always prepare mentally for the worst don’t we?) and soon we were outside the airport with our minimal luggage, trying to grab some local money (riel). The cash machine refused to accept, our Malaysian bank card but we managed to get some dollars and riel with my trusty HSBC Visa card, before negotiating a lift and alighting a tuc tuc, much quicker than we ever expected.

Tuc tucs are great. Sure, there is no air con and they are bumpy and you can be buffeted around like a cork on the high seas but the fresh air is a wonderful relief, a breeze is created much like when you are on a moped and there is something terribly decadent, old fashioned and traditional about the experience. Tuc tucs move at a very pleasant and calm speed, despite the fact that they are all motorized now and you can enjoy the surroundings far more than from the back seat of a car.

My first impressions of Cambodia were very positive- beautiful scenery and abundant nature, a pretty airport with some shapes and arches that are the ghost of empire but mostly, I loved the industry and the old shops that catered for everything you could ever want or imagine. After five minutes or so, the young man driving us, pulled over, removed his helmet and pulled out a large map of the area. Our hackles were up and I think we were expecting a hard sale but he simply offered us a service and a very good one- 2 days touring all of the temples of Angkor for the staggering price of twenty five American dollars a day. We booked him for 9 the next morning. He seemed pleased.

A few kilometres later, we turned off the main highway and bumped our way across some old style drove roads, twisting and turning until we arrived at our hotel. We were greeted by a very polite and slightly effeminate, pretty man, who stooped and bowed, hands together in a prayer gesture to greet us. I have to say that from a British perspective it felt like fawning and we are never comfortable with it. Indeed, all of the staff would smile, bow and place their hands together every time they saw us. I don’t feel like I am important and struggle with this, as I did in India, all those years ago. However; the service and the willingness to help makes Western Europe seem pathetically inadequate. This was not fawning but respect and a love of the service industry. I will also add that it was hard not to think of Michael Jackson when the deputy manager (for I think that was his position) spoke. I kept hearing someone repeat, ‘Hee hee’ on a high-pitched loop in my head.

The hotel itself was a set of extremely spacious rooms, that opened out on to the longest pool I had ever seen in a hotel. To make it seem even more special, there appeared to be almost no-one else staying at the place. The room wasn’t quite ready but it was warm enough and we slept, swam, sun bathed and drank (Rach was on the Long Island and I had a beer- called Angkor, of course.)  It was a delightfully relaxing morning and besides a brief exchange with some sizeable red ants, everything had gone ‘more than’ to plan.

Once we got into our room, I messaged our tuc tuc man (Chaewon) who dropped by to take us to Siem Reap for some food and beers. We swept by with the wind in our air, still loving the tuc tuc and smiling at the extremely glamorous and no doubt expensive hotels, with elephant carvings, statues of Budda and the like. I bet none of them had a pool like ours.

Chaewon took us to Pub Street, the heart of the old town of Siem Reap and where all the action is. This place is frenetic, busy and vibrant with noise, smells, music and colour everywhere. There are many...well... pubs of course, on this street as well as shops and restaurants. Rach bought a hat and I paid way above the odds for a couple of garish shirts.

There were some street artists weavers and even bakers plying their trade beneath the lights that hung across the street on some make-shift washing line. As the darkness came, so did the intensity of volume and the numbers of people doubled. Rach and I sat for a beer, probably two, and marveled at the sounds of ‘Footballs Coming Home’ blasting out of one of the little restaurants across from us. How incongruent, I thought.

We stopped for a curry at a pleasant Indian restaurant, just off Pub Street but Rach was hungry so we polished off and headed home. There were tuc tucs everywhere, but Chaewon found us almost immediately. I have no idea how.

The drive back was great and the place was buzzing with energy. Rach had an early night and I stayed up typing my notes for this blog. After a few minutes of thought and a brief pause to consider the enormity that I was off to Angkor Wat the next day, I also went to bed. As I put my phone on charge, I marveled at the Cambodian system of sockets that accept, two and three prong plugs- how very clever!

I slept as well as usual and Rach, perhaps not as well. We skipped breakfast and met Chaewon at the hotel entrance at 8.30am. He was very reliable and was sat happily (having bought a lot of water for us too), on his tuc tuc. We drove along the winding roads past children in the street who called out ‘Hello’ to us with huge enthusiasm. After picking some tickets up at a very glamorous office, where we had to present our passports again (something I am still becoming accustomed to) Chaewon whisked us off to the first stop of the day and the place I had most wanted to see, since arriving in Cambodia: Angkor Wat temple. Like so many astounding places, it is not simply the architecture and the history that creates the romance but the environment and the location. I have heard people say that the Taj Mahal, for all its beauty, is less impressive, as it sits in a scruffy and dirty place. Not so, Angkor Wat.

You walk down a long pathway, with guides touting for business on either side with the most perfectly mown grass, as well as trees and exotic flowers in abundance. In the distance, you can see some of the columns of the main temple but you first arrive at a large lake or moat and this is where you can take some wonderful photographs. Rachel, as is the misery of being a woman, paused to change clothes, covering up her knees and shoulders. Thankfully, she had come equipped with a scarf which looked lovely but was less than airy and Rach found herself over heating very quickly indeed, meaning we had to pause a few times to waft some air at her.

My dad had told me how vast this place was, so I had huge expectation and yet it exceeded even those. It is quite some walk, just to get to the temple: you cross the moat, balancing your way over a water bridge, which actually balances on the water itself; not an ideal place for people with vertigo or other balance issues. We reached the other side feeling a little drunk but we recovered quickly enough.

The outer wall of the main temple is a wonder in itself with its dimensions alone quite astounding- 1,024 m  by 802 m and 4.5 m high. The moat extends 1.5 kilometres from east to west and 1.3 kilometres from north to south. How this place is not considered one of the great wonders of the world, I do not know.

The inner face of the outer walls are adorned with bas relief friezes featuring episodes from the Hindu epics like Ramayana and the Mahabharata and they are miraculous.

Rachel and I walked slowly towards the inner temple with its majestic columns unlike any architecture I have ever seen. They stand, proudly reaching into the sky like five stone pineapples, with textured stone skin and they are said to represent the great Hindu mountain Meru with its five sacred peaks. Angkor Wat was built by the Khmer King Suryavarman II in the first half of the 12th century, around the year 1110-1150, making Angkor Wat almost 900 years old and it certainly exudes spirituality. Although originally Hindu, the Buddists took over the temple early in its life and there are many buddist carvings, statues and paraphernalia throughout the complex. We walked slowly through each of the three rectangular galleries and even explored the gatehouses.

Under the southern tower is a statue known as Ta Reach, originally an eight-armed statue of Vishnu that may have occupied the temple's central shrine.Galleries run between the towers and as far as two further entrances on either side of the gopura often referred to as "elephant gates", as they are large enough to admit those animals.

I was a little awestruck to be honest and was pleased to have time to sit and reflect in the central gallery, where we perched for a moment and contemplated the truly terrifying walk up the stairs to the highest point of Angkor or ‘The Temple of Blossoms’. Rach was very clear in her refusal to contemplate the walk but I had to go for it. The staircase is exceptionally steep (a 70 percent incline) and in the UK, there would be no way that the public would be allowed to climb them. Yet here, people of all ages and levels of fitness made their way upwards. Apparently, they were designed to remind the worshippers of the struggles of life on the journey up to heaven.

It was fascinating to 'people watch' here, which I did before climbing. Monks, dressed in their traditional orange robes, wandered casually up wearing their flip flops; one heroic chap almost ran up, stopping to take selfies and pose in various gymnastic postures; others clung on to the rail for dear life with fear etched in to every crease in their face. I wondered which I would be as I took a deep breath and threw myself into the experience.

It was terrifying but over soon enough and I was very pleased to make the top.

I deliberately took my time wandering around the innards of the upper vaults. The truth was that I was dreading the climb down but knew there was no other way. As I get older, I seem to become increasingly frightened of heights and as you reach the top of the staircase, it is certainly hair-raising. I grabbed hold of the rail with both hands and my heart was racing as I climbed ever so slowly back down towards the floor. In my defence, I witnessed a few people on all fours. An old Chinese lady gestured for me to go past her as she thought she was slowing me up. I smiled and said ‘No, it’s fine’. She arrived at ground level well before I did.

The most frightening part is that the staircase is less severe than the original stone staircase as they have built wooden steps on to the building. Climbing the original ones would be harrowing and if you had to do it daily, I would predict a very short life indeed.

We headed back through the lawns and gardens breathing in the fresh air and slowly meandering our way back to civilization until we spotted…the monkeys! The star monkey action was a mother cleaning the penis of, I presume, one of her sons. The young monkey’s expression was hard to judge put I would put it somewhere between arousal and disgust. The main moment was when the said mother appeared to clean his penis with her mouth.

Another monkey moment was happening a few metres away where a young boy was shooting his catapult at a very unfortunate fellow, who danced across the branches trying to avoid the sadistic projectiles.

Rach and I were both parched and headed back to meet Chaewon but as we did, we caught sight of a small café selling Angkor beer. We never expected it and we were delighted. It was a lovely peaceful fifteen minutes where we drank beer and reflected on what we had seen. In truth, I could have had a few more but time was of the essence and so we supped up and left.

We had much to chat about on the tuc tuc but within a few minutes we were at the south gate entrance to old Angkor, or Angkor Thom. Here, the gate is across an ancient bridge over another beautiful moat. Beyond is an archway like no other I have seen before with the face of Jayavarman the seventh in the centre. Whilst this is the centre piece (and one of four gates into Angkor), it is the bridge itself which I found most fascinating, a naga balustrade beginning with a massive stone carving of a seven-headed Naga (mythical serpent) being held by a multi-armed and multi-headed giant. On each side, there are 54 stone giants pulling on the body of the Naga serpent. I said they looked like they were having a tug o’ war but Rach more humorously suggested they were on a very long banana boat.

I imagined myself long ago, walking across this stately space and, as an atheist, feeling that this place, like no other, might make me believe in the gods.

Before exploring the inner workings of Angkor Thom we stopped for food and I had a spicy, fragrant dish I cannot for the life of me remember but I do recall the wonderful pineapple. Delicious. We were served by a waitress who was perhaps ten or eleven. Rach and I chatted about child labour and family businesses and didn’t really come to a proper conclusion.

Chaewon whisked us up the road after lunch to Angkor Thom’s central temple- Nokor Thom. This place felt more immediate, stark even and 'up close and personal' than Angkor Wat, which had majesty and reverence. This temple was more like a streetfighter than a grandmaster. We entered from one of four compass points- I think it was the East to be met with a sculpture of a very young Budda- almost a child. Beyond, there was a long corridor of doorways and labyrinthine pathways peeling off through the ruins.This place was a city within a city and it would be easy to get lost here. Many of the walls have faces carved into them and there are range of Hindu etchings in the walls, carved by hands that possessed skills we can only imagine. As at Angkor, there are many pillars but these are less ''pineapple and less textured or layered.

Angkor Thom itself was a fortressed city state built in the 13th century with multiple temples ad so, after leaving our first one, we were able to cross the road and head in the direction of perhaps the most famous of this group of temples- the Bayon. Along the road there were several small temples- usually a few columns around one central statue. We were beckoned over to one such mini-temple, that smoked in incense and was adorned with vivacious flowers. Here, an elderly man was giving blessings and before long, we were both hearing Hindu or Buddist prayers (I am not sure which) recited beautifully, to be fair. At the end of the experience, water was thrown in our faces and a lady was tying a bracelet of coloured string on our wrists. As I write this, we both still have them. I believe you are supposed to let them decay naturally.

Bayon was perhaps a couple of hundred metres further into the jungle from here and a large man-made lake lies magically in front of the historical magnificence of the temple. We had fun here, watching numerous monkeys jumping and play fighting in the water. They are so like human beings with parent monkeys remonstrating with the overly exuberant youngsters and groups of youths bullying the weaker smaller monkeys. We are not so different at all. A few moments later, Rachel was jumped on by a monkey, not once but twice. I have to confess to being really impressed with her. She swatted it off with consummate ease, as if it was a fly- not a squeal; not a shriek and there was no hint of freezing in the moment- certainly better than I would have done.

Another fascinating thing about this area is the noise. I thought at first it was human-made: a high-pitched whistle, the sort you might use as some form of torture, if you were a sadist. Somehow, we zoned it out, although it returned on day two and we began to realise it was insects: cicadas to be precise- large insects, much bigger than crickets and far ore tumultuous. Thankfully, they stayed out of sight but certainly not out of earshot.

To enter Bayon, you have to walk up another steep staircase, nowhere near as dramatic as the one at Angkor Wat but not one to be taken lightly. Rach did well here, particularly considering her balance issues. Once at the first level, we walked through the ruins which reminded me of a film set, with its ancient stone walls and many turrets, each with the face of Jayavarman the 7^th adroitly carved. Although some of the turrets have fallen, there are still over two hundred giant smiling faces remaining. The bas-relief carvings on the outer walls of the Bayon towers depict heroic historical tales as well as scenes of everyday Khmer life.  This temple was first built in approximately 1200 AD and is still magnificent. On first entry to the temple, one young male monkey appeared to be trying to enter another young male monkey. We weren’t sure if this was experimentation, high jinks, practice or homosexuality but it certainly provoked some interesting discussions. Near to the lively, intimate monkeys was yet another headless statue, as there had been at Angkor. It seems that all of the heads either fell of these statues or have been removed to be put in museums or by looters. I could google it but it’s rather pleasant to have a little mystery once in a while, isn’t it?

We arrived at some steps to the next level of the temple and once again they were hair-raising. Probabaly remembering my experiences at Angkor, I declined the climb this time and after a good stroll we left through the North Gate before walking around the road and across the well-groomed lawns that pass through other parts of the complex such as the terrace of the Leper King and the less contagious terrace of elephants with its wonderfully carved wall of gods. Rachel was drawn to a restaurant in the near distant and stepped up from a walk to a pseudo-mince whilst I was lagging, in awe of the sculptures, and the bas-reliefs.

Once I arrived at the restaurant, Rachel was nowhere in sight but after some scanning around I saw her sat at a table and a member of the restaurant staff also gesticulated that she was waiting for me. I was delighted. Rach had successfully managed to scramble us a couple of beers and they were very welcome indeed.

We had a second and started to relax. Chaewon said there was more to see but we had  had enough for one day and so took a slow ride home. As we neared the hotel, we saw whole families travelling on one moped; a boy who looked like he hadn’t quite reached puberty speeding around on a motorbike of his own; a woman holding one child in each arm, as they hung of the side of the bike her husband (most likely) was riding and one chap who had attached virtually an entire shop of mattresses to his bike so that he could tow them down the road.

As is often the case, when you are travelling, you start to think of the healthy and safety of your own island and the dedication to it and yet watch the smiles on the faces of all of these people who go about their daily business without a care. It felt quite free.

We arrived back at the hotel and it wasn’t long before we were swimming and drinking margaritas. We decided to stay at the hotel for the evening and relax. It had been a day of splendours.

Langkawi, Malaysia- 22-10-22 to 28-10-22

We had only been in Malaysia for a couple of months and we were off again. This time, to explore the paradise island of Langkawi. Rachel was very much ready for a break and a relax after doing so much teaching, which she hadn’t banked on and after what had been quite a long term. During October, the Eastern islands of Malaysia aren't best with strong winds and even the odd tsunami so it was much safer to head west.

I had arranged for a pick up in the afternoon to take us to KL airport and the poor chap who arrived had just found out his dad was dying in hospital. He had tried his best to get a replacement driver but to no avail and so was landed with us. Nevertheless, we counselled him on the journey, gave him a large tip, and wished him well.

Everything went smoothly at the airport, despite our Asia app playing up and it wasn’t long before we were on yet another plane. Mercifully, the flight was only fifty minutes. Perhaps the most interesting moment of this part of the trip was the head of cabin crew- a young man surrounded by a ‘harem’ of women flight attendants. That is certainly how he presented himself- a king Gorilla in his jungle kingdom: loud, funny (up to a point) and cocky as hell.

At first I have to confess to being impressed with his address and flight safety talk- as he made a lot of jokes, broke the mould with his informality and made everyone laugh. When you see someone perform like this, you realise how dull and repetitive our world is. He had flair and Rach and I were giggling along as this guy clearly belonged on the stage. However, he did not know when to stop and the rapport he had with his crowd began to nosedive as he went on and on and on, veering from the comical into the juvenile and then the patronizing. In fact, his speech ended up being a tirade against anyone who didn’t wear a covid mask, as he heaped emotional pressure on in spades saying ‘if we wanted to spend a week in isolation’ or ‘infect our loved ones’ then we should certainly not wear a mask. The point is that you are no longer required to by law and that it is individual choice. My issue was not with his opinion but with how he chose to elevate himself from flight crew to politician (if that is an elevation) and of how he was using his platform to attempt to indoctrinate people.

We arrived at out hotel- Best Star Resorts quite late at night but still managed to get out for a quick drink at Cinnamon's before bed. In the morning, we woke to the battering of rain on the windows and we were discouraged indeed by the weather report which suggested constant rain for the entire week. We discussed indoor options or hiring a car but focused first on breakfast. About 10 minutes stroll from the hotel, (which was on the sea front) was, what claimed to be a Thai breakfast place although most of its food seemed Malay or Indian to me. Rach and I had roti canai (bread and a dip) and tossai masala which was delicious. The roti canai in particular. I was less impressed with the coffee- which must have had at least 6 sugars in it. This is the way coffee is served in Malaysia and so I am working on developing a taste for it. Curry in the morning is not everyone’s ‘cup of tea’ but I have to say, despite years of conditioning, I enjoyed it. At school a week or so later, I spoke with a Malaysian colleague who said that when he went to England, he was appalled by the breakfasts- ‘dog food’ he called cereal: dried up flakes with milk. In his mind, this would never be a breakfast but spicy beef rending –yum!

We were confused at the end of breakfast, about where to pay as a sign stating ‘Pay Here’ seemed to point to a wall at the back of the restaurant. Rach and I mused that perhaps it was a portal to another land and that we had to travel through the uncertain world of space and time to pay for brekkie. We did pay, eventually, and we didn’t need Doctor Who. Phew! In fact, two breakfasts and two coffees cost us just over 3 quid!

The rain had all but ceased when we left the restaurant and despite the cloud cover, it was still around thirty degrees. It is a strange thing here in Malaysia that the outside world can look like a gloomy pea-souper in Middleborough but feel like a scorching hot day on a Greek island. It messes with the senses, for sure.

The sun soon crept out from behind the clouds and Rach and I found a spot to lie on the beach (two beds and shade for about 9 quid). We swam, slept, read and relaxed. I genuinely enjoyed bashing through my book, The Three sisters, about three surviving sisters from the holocaust. I did have some issues with the literary style, to be honest, but the story would stand up, even in the hands of a novice.

The beach we lolled on was called Pentai Cenang and is clearly the central hub for tourists and travel makers in Langkawi with banana boats bouncing by on the waves, jet skiers motoring through foamy waters and parasailers, gliding majestically above it all, serenely. More on that story later.

Initially, we couldn’t find a bar in close proximity to us, although later in the week, we did but the duty free shop was only minutes away and we sat drinking some lovely beers on the beach, people watching and chilling out. Hunger struck soon after and we left the beach to wander the shops along the front. We came across a curious place that purported to be French and served crepes and waffles. We stopped here and had a lovely, though pricey bite to eat and to be fair, the owner was certainly French.

After this, we headed for the aquarium, which was only a few metres up the road. It was unoriginally called, ‘Underwater Land’ but I have to say, the unoriginality stopped there. Inside, there was a paradise garden full of tropical flowers, waterfalls, rocks faces, hat reminded me of the Eden project but with rare birds and animal. After a stroll through this space, you follow the track inside, where there are some of the rarest and most interesting fish I have ever seen. Rach was in her element and I have to say, we must have spent at least two hours there, enjoying the sights and I was fascinated.

In the early evening, we rested for a while and I read by the pool in the hotel stopping to see the sun come down, albeit obscured by the clouds. The weather had been good, to be fair, despite the gloom promised on the weather report and so we headed out for an evening meal filled with a little more confidence. I was gasping for a chilli, and we found a great Mexican restaurant called El Toro, (though the chilli had run out- grrr). Nevertheless, the food was pleasant enough and super spicy, which was less appealing for Rach. There was also a live band who played a sort of Santana style homage with some guitar solos lasting almost as long as a german opera. They had some talent to be fair and the experience was fun, with the restaurant fully decked out for Halloween.

We were in the zone for beverages and so we headed back to the bar we had visited the night before- Cinnamon's. It is simply a shop in the day time and very small but at night the front becomes a bar with enough room to seat about 15 people with some standing space at the bar. They serve some great cocktails here and a range of wine and beer- at cheap prices. We met an Aussie couple who lived in Melaka and who spend some of the year in Malaysia and the rest in Australia. They were good company and loved a drink or two as well as being haters of the ‘mask brigade’. Just before leaving, we also ended up chatting to a lady who, it has to be said, was very inebriated but who was also an English teacher. Small world, you might think. It gets more uncanny. This lady had declined a job at the school I teach at, due, she said, to a feeling of 'imposter syndrome'.

Neither Rach nor I was sober on our return but the hotel was five minutes away, ten when drunk, and it wasn’t long at all before the air con was humming away and we were fast asleep.

We had quite an early start as we’d booked an island hopping tour, which is becoming quite a common thing for Rach and I to do. Fancying a coffee, we nipped to Starbucks (they’re bloomin’ everywhere aren’t they?) and had a brief moment of stress when it took the customer service guy about ten minutes to make a coffee. We raced off to catch the mini bus and arrived with about thirty seconds to spare. A short drive later and we were sitting on a surprisingly speedy boat, and racing across the Andaman sea, with Thailand only small stretch away. In fact, at one point, my phone told me we were in Thailand- we were absolutely not.

What is very interesting about the islands and the landscape here, is the odd shapes of the outcrops and mini islands that surround Langkawi. There is similar scenery to the greek islands but here the outcrops are adorned with exotic trees no doubt bouyed with monkey life. We slowed down and bobbed on the waters looking out at island one, The Pregnant Maiden island (Dayang Bunting island) which, as you may have guessed resembles the shape of a pregnant woman lying on her back. We took a few photos before the engines roared into life, and the spray was in our faces once more. It was so exhilarating at times that I thought we were going to take off.

We drove around the other side of the island and stopped at the entrance to an Eco park. We hopped off and were amused by the signs saying ‘Don’t feed the monkeys’. I don’t know why we were amused but I suppose it was just something we hadn’t seen before. The picture of a monkey with a red danger line through it looked like a still from the film, 'Outbreak'. We paid a small fee and walked through the jungle landscape which took us up some steep, albeit brief climbs, before a slippy downhill section with some rickety stairs and a brittle bridge opened out into a stunning natural lake, surrounded by jungle.

Here, Rach clambered into a pedal boat and had a good old explore of the water and the other side of the lake and I leapt in for a swim. I have swum in island lakes before but this time was different. You prepare yourself, when you leap into a natural, fresh water lake, expecting a moment of ‘freeze your nads off’ before adapting to the water but this water was gloriously warm: still refreshing because it was about thirty-two degrees out of the water. I accidentally swallowed a mouthful of water and found it to be remarkably clean. In fact, I thought it was better than the tap water. There were quite a few other tourists sharing our space and what surprised me was how many were wearing buoyancy aids (provided but no one was insisting you wear them) Old, young, fat and thin, short or tall- they all seemed to feel the need to wear one. Now, I am not criticizing those who can’t swim- maybe none of them could but if you can swim, a buoyancy aid is just a hindrance. There were no waves, there was no current and unless you had a heart attack, I don’t think there was much risk of danger. Some travelers wore buoyancy aids and covid masks- super safe! I wondered if one of them might bring out a shark cage- you never know.

Rach had a dip, when she returned and we lolled about in the water, without buoyancy aids, before drying off a little and taking the walk back to the boat. It was a lovely moment on the trip- an oasis of beauty.

The last island we arrived at was the most beautiful of all, with soft sand, beautiful emerald green clear seas and palm trees draping their leaves, creating dappled sunlight across the beach. We swam here and I made it my mission (as usual) to try and swim further out than anyone else. I managed to reach a barrier that had been put in place to stop swimmers being cut to ribbons by speedboats.

It was idyllic.

We were here for an hour or so and then rejoined the tour for some rip-roaring speed. The rain came down but as usual, it was of little relevance as it was so warm.

We grabbed some beers on our return from the friendly duty free shop, as Langkawi is the only duty free place in Malaysia- nice! We returned for some rest at the hotel but it wasn’t long before we were out- this time we took a taxi to Bamboo Ba which was actually a bar made from bamboo- Despite this, it was super modern inside and...absolutely ‘dead’: Dead as a dodo. The waiting staff explained that it was early and that later it would be thriving. One chap, raced over to the DJ area, unfortunately, and we were forced to suffer the pounding beats of some rubbish at an unnecessarily loud volume. Rach and I discussed why it was that most bars in places like this, all over the world play such terrible music. I know this is a matter of opinion but I am referring to music that actually has a tune or some emotion. This music was generic, repetitive and tuneless. The sort of sounds you instantly forget; the moment the music is over. Rach suggested that that was the point. The idea, she says, is to have music that no-one wants to listen to so that they can ignore it and focus on chatting (if it wasn’t make my ears bleed). Good music distracts, she says. Maybe she is right.

We left after one and grabbed a ‘Grab’ taxi to Ginger restaurant which is conveniently next door to Cinnamon’s, our favourite Langkawi haunt. We had some authentic Malaysian cuisine and dropped next door where we met up with out English teacher friend from the night before, who we discovered was called Kat. We enjoyed a few cocktails and as per the night before, bumbled our way home, this time even more drunk, particularly Rach (sorry Rach- damn that long island).

The next morning was a very lazy one as we drifted between a swim, a sunbathe and a read. This is not at all like me and I often find myself getting bored or sleeping but I have to admit to thoroughly enjoying myself- maybe I should take more time to relax. My mixed views on the way that The Three Sisters is written was taking a turn to the dark side but the tale, was still compelling and I persisted. We walked a little further up the beach to the posh end where there were fewer people and far more expensive resorts. There was a nice bar here and we decided to have a couple of beverages and consider parasailing. Yes, I slipped that in, didn’t I? Now, I’ll be honest: it was Rachel who was driving this and she was committed to doing it. The truth was that I was far more frightened than her but I am nothing, if not a dutiful husband.

After beers, we plumped for one of many rickety shacks professing to offer wonderful parasailing experiences. This guy was stylistically a Rastafarian and was super cool, with a beaming smile and a ‘you gotta love life ‘attitude. He wandered lazily with us across the sand to a boat which took us out into the sea. Here, we transferred to another boat with about ten or so others who were about to put their lives in the hands of some folk they had never met before. There were some nervous nods, smiles and some sat in silence, perhaps contemplating what they were about to risk. I felt more relaxed than I thought but this was not aided by the squeals and screams of terror from our fellow flyers as they zoomed off into the sky.

When it was time for Rach and I, we sat quite calmly as the boat raced off and the force of the wind took us off into the sky. Like all types of flying, once high up above it all, life seems slow and serene. The boat was powering through the foamy waters but for us, it was as if we weren’t moving at all, floating along like a pair of balloons. Rachel loved it and I have to say, it was a great experience and the view was magnificent.

Once back on the shore, we grabbed our stuff, said goodbye to our cheeky rasta friend and sat at a bar right next to the shack (all the bars were down this end of the beach). This place was also hippified and you sat on beanbags rather than chairs. There was an offer on cocktails and Rach and I, thinking we’d ordered one each, ended up with three each. At first, it annoyed me but I rolled with it and we sank all three without any problem at all. It was a beautiful moment.

It was late afternoon before we left, declining the offer from the barman to bring another three cocktails and hobbled back to the hotel, feeling proud of ourselves, not for drinking cocktails you understand but for braving the parasailing experience. We slept for a while and sadly when we awoke, Rachel was feeling pretty unwell and so I left her to rest and bashed on through The Three Sisters.

In the evening, we took a taxi to a posh restaurant called Argon Trees. Unfortunately, Rach was still feeling pretty unwell and couldn’t manage her food, which stressed me out, as she hadn’t been eating well for a couple of days. We left early and grabbed an early night. We had another tour in the morning and a particularly early start.

I was excited when I woke the next day as we had booked what we thought was a kayaking trip through the mangroves. We were met with disappointment, initially, as not only were we actually booked on to a generic group boat trip, with no kayaks to be seen but Rach was still not feeling good and the bus trip to the pick-up, although short, threw her balance all over the place. This was clearly a very popular trip and when we arrived at the port, it was thriving with tourists from all over the world.

Our driver looked a little like a Malaysian Mick Jagger but he certainly knew how to handle a boat and I have to confess that our guide for the tour was professional, fun and highly knowledgeable. The scenery from the boat was spectacular with odd shaped formations climbing out of the sea: pyramid structures, spectacular cones, robust yet beautiful. Some of islands are like pieces of art covered as they are by greenery and decorated by caves; stunning and evocative of a prehistoric time. I half expected a pterodactyl to come flying over one of the cliffs or perhaps a few high flying avatars (I know they have a tribal name but I can’t remember, I’m afraid).

The first stop was a floating restaurant, where we were able to confirm our lunch and some chose to order extra fish. We didn’t. This restaurant was not for those who get sea sick easily and I don’t think the motion helped Rach, who, to be fair, was probably very happy that she wasn’t kayaking, as originally planned. On this little manmade island, we were introduced to some rare fish and sealife who were caught in their netted pools, including a large stingray that several of the guests cuddled, under instruction from the expert (a young lad of about sixteen). Two disparate things crossed my mind- one trivial and one more profound. Firstly, I never knew that stingrays when turned up so that you could see their faces had human like expressions and features (very unnerving) and secondly, how depressing and miserable an existence it was for these fish, in captivity for most, if not all of their lives- the stingray had been there for twenty years.

Rach was a little better after leaving the restaurant and certainly less pasty. The boyish but nonetheless pretty guide led us to an avenue between islands where we once again paused for eagle feeding. Here, she told us that they would not throw anything in the water as this was wrong. She was very much into the natural world and the natural beauty and she had no plans to upset the balance. For a while, no eagles came but presumably, the guides know the key times for after five minutes or so, the first glorious birds flew into view. As before, within minutes there were over a hundred but we were closer this time and we could also see the different types of eagles and how some swooped and grabbed fish before perching on a nearby tree to eat. I felt like I was in a David Attenborough film. Loved it.

From here the avenue narrowed as we approach the mangroves- strange gnarled roots curving and twisting out of the water and branching out, literally into trees. I had never seen landscape like this and was interested to discover that the mangroves on Langkawi had been a huge factor in protecting the island from the great tsunami of 2004 that had devastated huge areas of south east Asia. The mangroves had acted as a protective barrier, slowing down the waves. As we crept slowly through the mangroves, we witnessed a very poisonous snake on a branch overhanging the water and many rare birds but the real stars of the show, as usual, both in and out of the zoo, are the monkeys. They came to observe us carefully and as I caught the eyes of one or two of them, I have to admit to wondering whether I was watching them or whether they were watching me. They are startlingly alert and smart. One chap leapt on to the side of the boat, to a few little panicked squeals from the passengers before dancing along the edge skillfully and then, almost as if to impress, fell off the boat, before reaching a hand out at the last moment and almost defying the laws of physics, pulled himself up a thin branch and in a blur of graceful dexterity and agile strength, returned to the safety of the trees from whence he came, sporting an entertainer's grin.

The next part of the trip also involved skill- this time, the skill of the boatman- our talented captain who managed to navigate our rather long vessel through crocodile cave (so called as the exterior resembles the maw of a crocodile). He had three attempts but we made it through. From here we floated through labrythine mangroves like twisty lanes in an ancient city, sometimes opening up into would-be town squares of water, where rock outcrops give the appearance of floating like huge stone ghosts on the surface of the water.

Our next stop was bat cave but Rachel’s sickness had returned and she spent a lot of this moment being sick. I had a quick wander inside the darkened gloom but didn’t see any bats although the scenery and the caves were impressive. Once again, there were monkeys galore here, roaming around, hoping to pick up or steal titbits from careless or unwary travelers. The ladies who took tickets for the bat cave ( no not Batman’s cave) had a large and long wooden stick that was used as a weapon to get rid of the little pests.

Soon afterwards we arrived back at the floating restaurant for a pleasant fried rice lunch before re-joining the trip for the final leg- a super fast trawl across the water to a wonderful quiet, almost deserted beach in the most wonderfully evocative space. We swam here for a while and it was perfect. Rach had battled through the day with good moments and long bouts of sickness but we had survived the day and we walked to the mini bus, ready for a rest. As usual, there were stragglers who arrived with calls of, ‘sorry, sorry’ but soon we were on the road, back to the digs.

We had an early night and Rach felt better for it. It was an odd day but we had seen some wonderful things.

The next morning was our last and we had planned to be picked up from the hotel just after lunch, so was able to grab a beer and snack after a decent lie in, before heading for the airport. 

All was initially simple and we were through security with ease, waiting for our flight and thinking about how we still had a little planning time when we returned to the house.

Wrong!

We realised that our flight, which had twice been rescheduled was delayed…and delayed and delayed. 

Not for thirty minutes or even an hour but for six, long hours. No food places, no booze…just a tiny over priced coffee station selling coffee that would attract bees and wasps, it was that sweet.

This experience was made infinitely worse (sorry you know me and hyperbole) by the fact that at no point did they adjust the expected time of departure or, for several hours, not even communicate with us, the customers. We sat, in growing frustration and boredom, as flight after flight, some even going with the same company to the same place, flew out of Langkawi, leaving us grimacing and waving them off with gritted teeth.

At one moment, I approached the criminally inactive staff of Air Asia, who twiddled and twaddled on their phones, to ask what was happening. I wasn't the first. I wasn't the most impatient. At least two others were questioning the, I have to say, apathetic staff for some answers.

Now, they probably didn't have answers. I get that. They were on the front line, but let me say this: if either army in the front line trenches of the first world war had acted in a similarly non-plussed, inactive fashion, then the war would have ended pretty quickly. If both had, everyone would have just lolled about and drunk french wine for four years.

The thing is, there wasn't any wine here at Langkawi airport. Grrr.

Anyway, I digress and I digress badly. 

So, whilst tab-hanging into a lady's complaint, I found the fury boiling up inside me, as the lady from Air Asia responded like an arsey teenager. I half expected her to say, "Am I bovvered"? Though what that would be in Malaysian, I don't know. 

Actually I do…I looked it up. It is 'adakah saya terganggu'? It is probably not the same in translation and certainly doesn't have the same ring to it. 

I interupted. The dialogue of the ensuing conversation is below:

Me: Look, people are annoyed because no one is telling them anything.

Air Asia Tracy: (shrug…evil staring eyes of death)

Me: Just talk to them…

Air Asia Tracy begins another shrug, Lazer beam eyes preparing to strike.

Me: Don't shrug (might mean something else in Malaysian). Just announce something. The flight time is still showing on the board as several hours ago.

Air Asia Tracy: (Face as if it is a blow up doll being gently pumped from flat) we are waiting for a time.

Me: So tell people that. There are people with lifts waiting for them. People who have business meetings. They need to make re arrangements. We know it's not your fault but just talk to people. Treat people with respect.

Air Asia Tracy: (pausing in semi-deflated state, nods but does nothing. Her symbiotic relationship with her phone is causing her head to lope downwards and her hands take on the claw shape of typing fingers. One more second and she would be back in full hunched phone zone pose).

Me: Shall I tell them? Do you want me to let people know what is happening? 

Air Asia Tracy: (Nods but is still looking at her phone).

Me: (Turning round to the people sat in the purgatory of Air Asia ignorance and inaction. Big voice bellow prepared after a deep breath).

Ev…

Air Asia: (Suddenly awakened by embarrassment and presumably, an industrially hydraulic pump of air). It's ok. It's ok.

Me: It isn't. Tell them or I will.

Nearby customers nodding their approval.

I walked away feeling a little better for my rant. A few moments later, the screen changed and amended the expectation of flight time. Shortly afterwards followed a voiceover explaining the problem. I felt vindicated.

We eventually flew six hours later than expected but Ganesh arrived to take us home and despite the madness a Langkawi airport, we were delighted to have spent such a great week on a beautiful island. 

Melaka, Malaysia day 1 September 2022

Having only spent a matter of a couple of weeks back at work after, what has to be said, a considerable rest, it was wonderful to be out on the road for what was our first mini trip in Malaysia. Having spent some time exploring the beaches of Port Dickson, we were off to soak up the cultural sites of Melaka and its environs. I had booked a cheap and cheerful (and I actually mean cheerful) place called the Sunshine Inn and after about ninety minutes or so on the road, Rach and I parked up outside. It is a striking building, not because of its architecture or history but because of its exuberance, covered as it is with stripes of pink and yellow, shouting out, in a strident camp voice, “Notice me, notice me”! It doesn’t end here either for as you step through the doors into the reception area you are greeted with an area lit and decorated, as if for a child’s party. Most noticeable is the giant (twice the size of an average human being) bear sitting happily on the sofa with a big smile on its face.

The art on the walls on the way up the stairs is certainly impressionistic but also radiates the East with colour and exotic patterns. The room itself was very hot on arrival but thankfully the aircon worked well enough. The limited toilet paper, just the one (roll, not sheet) was unlikely to do plenty and Rach was concerned. I would like to have shown the same concern but was distracted by an upright piece of card, next to the TV that said, ‘no smoking’ and more comically, ‘no durian’. There was also a picture of a durian with a red cross through it for the none readers, presumably. We giggled like small children for some time and wondered what world we were inhabiting, where of all the ‘things’ in the world, a piece of (albeit smelly) fruit is one of the contraband items- we joked about how it might be fine to brandish AK47s or a ‘smack and crack party pack’ but to risk the durian was to engender terrible fury.

Rach and I had a brief rest on a bed that was comfortable enough before having a quick shower and heading out into the city. There were many restaurants near our hotel and a really exciting Japanese one next door (which we didn’t try) but it is The Egg café next door to the hotel that was most amusing, as there was actually a sculpture of a large egg- perhaps the size of a child with lurid yellow yolk painted at the most delicious moment of the drip. We took a photo- of course.

It was quite a stroll to the centre and the river (just under two miles), where we hoped we would have some lovely beers. Only moments from the door of the hotel we were stopped in our stride by the chaotic, frenzied disorder coming from one of the trees that lined the roads. I have heard birds coming into roost before but this was raucous and there were hundreds, maybe a thousand birds in this tree, not simply roosting but fighting, flipping, falling, calling and heaven knows what else- fluttering their wings frantically and creating a cacophony that brought to mind a scene from Hitchcock’s thriller. Rach was amazed and spent several seconds recording the sound.

The walk into Melaka took us by a variety of interesting restaurants, a shopping mall with a balloon arch at the entrance and lots of barriers and road blocks as the city prepared for Malaysia day, which was on the morrow.

Once we squeezed our way into the main centre, we were immersed in a world of busy bodies, erecting seating, giant screens, or installing electrical equipment. It made the place less attractive; a sort of cross between a building site and a local fair. It was nonetheless, fascinating and before long we were next to the Afamosa fort, which was up an incline to our right and beside the river, which was to our left. Here, is where the madness of preparations for Malaysia Day ceased and we took a moment to get our breath.

It was dark and the lights of Melaka are stunning, with historical churches lit up beautifully with ethereal lighting and the river, reflecting purples, blues and greens from the many bars and restaurants that sit happily along its edge. We took a lot of photographs here and managed to find our way across one of the bridges before taking a turn down a side street adorned with wonderful and house sized murals of beautiful ladies and flowers and more besides. This walkway took us to the river and the super cool, dreadlocked- ganga smoking vibes of Reggae on the River. We sat down and bounced, inevitably, and subtly to the off beat reggae rhythm and looked as boats, full of diverse peoples raced (and I mean- way faster than you would expect) along the river on what was a night cruise. Rach and I had the feeling that these guys had a lot of customers waiting, for they were hurrying along like a scene from a Bond movie. We enjoyed our time here but the music was a little too loud and after thirty minutes or so, they turned it up. We supped up and walked back over the river to check out the other side.

Here we found a shop that was closed, whose design feature was the prominent positioning of Volkswagon Beetles, or at least half-eaten Volkswagon Beetles, sticking out of the walls. We laughed at the oddness and wondered whether our good friend Mark was with us in Melaka- for where the bizarre is manifest, Mark is usually not too far behind.

A hundred metres further along the river we came across a beautiful, exotic looking restaurant, which was part of a posh hotel. This restaurant was basically a small jungle- tables laid out amongst exotic trees and plants and I half expected a jaguar or something to jump out over dinner. The food here was ok but the setting outstanding and Rach and I were very happy.

After dinner, we took the longish walk home and Rach was tired, which brought on a little anxiety. Nevertheless, it passed and we managed to wend our weary way back to the digs for a good night’s rest. We both slept very well. 

Melaka day 2 September 2022

We had beautiful bacon and brie rolls for breakfast, which Rach had prepared for the journey up to Melaka the previous day and they had warmed slightly over night, making them taste freshly baked. They were beautiful and we didn’t even have to get out of bed!

It is always interesting when you arrive in a new place at night and see the sparkling lights and the bars and restaurants open, to step out the next morning when the sun is up. As, is usually the case, it was transformed, completely altered from the previous nice as if there were two dimensions occupying the same space, but not. Most of the shops were closed and there were very few people around and Rach and I worried that the Melaka day might be celebrated quietly in people’s gardens and that a bank holiday would mean nothing was open. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Once, we strolled away from the ‘digs’ towards the centre, we began to see the city slowly wake and by the time we were metres away from the Afamosa fort, it was busy and the rehearsals for the celebrations, planned for that night, were in full flow. This included a small platoon of soldiers enduring a lengthy practice of drum beatings, saluting and marching that preceded the raising of the National flag. For us, as tourists, it was an opportunity to experience something new; for them, a difficult job of precision and timing. Once, the flag was raised, they simply pulled it down again. It had to be a rehearsal.

We took a turn to the left and entered the environs of Afamosa fort which stands on the hill and given the humidity, Rach and I needed several pauses for a breather on the way up the steps. The views over Melaka were stunning from up on the hill and we managed to take a lot of great photos.

The fortress itself was built in 1512, a year after the Portuguese defeated the local Melacca Sultanate. The building itself once had ramparts and four major towers and was the tallest structure in the region. Now, it is very much a ruin and there is little to see save the gatehouse at the bottom of the steps and one large room at the top behind a white tower, where there are many dramatic and sizeable gravestones lined up against the walls. Nonetheless, there is a really haunting and ethereal quality about the place and you can get a great view of the remaining carcass from the statue of St Paul. The white tower is the remains of a church.

Whilst here, we stopped to talk to a brilliant local artist who was selling prints of his work and a few originals. Rach was particularly impressed with his work and we bought a beautiful charcoal drawing which is now adorning the walls in our house here in Pelangi Heights. Besides the artists, there were a few trinket stalls and most notably a tattooist, running his equipment off a car battery! Suffice it to say, that I didn’t see this as the time to change my opinion on getting a tattoo done. It was a sort of cross between a tattooist and an electric chair.

We, and specifically me, were sweating a lot and we decided to make our way down the second set of steps, slightly steeper. I mused at the fact that we had already become like my parents, with Rach walking behind me and using my shoulders as balance and security as we made the descent.

Once down into the square we made our way across to the river where a duet act (a keyboard player and singer) were bashing out some old favourites. It was a strange combination: a lady who sang tolerably, but struggled with tuning and the keyboard player who was very good. There was little balance and it didn’t take long for the virus of poor tuning and performance to worsen. A chap took over as a singer and was even worse than the lady, whilst the keyboard player, perhaps embarrassed, or bored, started to distract himself by chatting, laughing and pulling funny faces at the children, whilst still playing the keys. Consequently, his own level of playing degenerated into a series of obvious errors. We smiled in sympathy and moved on to the main square where the victorian fountain stands and the mini town of red.

Whenever you hear the phrase red square it is easy to conjure up visions of Russian communism but this is a small square that reminded me of the Clint Eastwood film where he paints the town red to turn it into hell. Melaka is certainly not that but, of course, the ghosts of colonialism are here in this square for all to behold. The place itself is known as Dutch square but the British have made their mark here too. The15.2 metre high clock tower, commonly known as Tan Beng Swee Clock Tower or Red Clock Tower, was built in 1886 during the British colonial era and adjacent to this stands the the Queen Victoria which was built in 1901 to commemorate Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee and is Malaysia's only operational colonial water fountain.

Rach and I lingered for a moment to catch our breath before wandering over to the Anglican church with it's almost western saloon frontage, a prominent white cross, and a bell tower. After twelve hard years, it was completed in 1753, and is Malaysia’s oldest functioning church. It has a simple rectangle layout of 82 feet by 42 feet and was built in the Dutch Colonial architectural style. The 40-foot-high ceiling is supported by wooden beams carved from a single tree.

We wandered into the entrance but were accosted, almost immediately, by a wizened old lady who was far more vociferous than her frail body suggested. To me, she reminded me of Aunt Spiker from James and the Giant Peach and she certainly had the wispy frame. "Mask" she shouted and I ferreted around in my pockets whilst looking helplessly at Rachel. Spiker wasn't prepared to wait and started making frantic shooing actions with the back of her hands, no doubt fearing that we would all spontaneously combust if I stayed a moment longer, unmasked. In truth, I think she would have been less concerned if I had walked in and declared myself a suicide bomber. We had not worn a mask anywhere else in Malacca but now, like in the mosaic museum, in Istanbul, it was essential.

Inside the church, which in truth was a fairly uninteresting interior, there were two other people, who left a few seconds after we entered. Hopefully not, because we entered. I removed my mask. I won't apologise for thinking. I am not an anarchist but I do like to make sensible decisions and trust in myself to do so. Blindly following rules without any intelligent thought process is always a bad thing. History has some terrifying examples after all.

Next door to the church stands the museum of Youth and on the upper floor there is a very impressive art gallery which Rach and I meandered around for a while. One painting in particular stood out to me: a lady's eye surrounded in swirling, ever increasing circles of water which seemed to emanate from a single water drop at the centre of her eye. It was representing the tsunami disaster in Sri Lanka in 2004 and was beautiful.

We were in need of sustenance and once by the river again, we were drawn to the comically titled Gravy Baby, presumably seeing itself as the Austin Powers of restaurants. This place was super modern and very westernised, with a variety of comical quips about virtues of beer, the terrors of the mother in law and the like, chalk marked on to the walls above the bar. The menu was one of the most extensive I have ever seen but the chirpy waiter seemed pleased when we ordered pies. They were delicious and so were the beers. Rach became interested by the hungry fish that we could see from our window and we watched them for a while.

After a short rest, we decided we would head out to Temple Road, so titled because of the range and diversity of temples that adorn the street. Temple Street is a small part of the larger Jonker Street night market, which we visited on the next day and the whole area is teaming with people, shops, street sellers offering trinkets and of course, lots and lots of food and drink. The place is vibrant, busy, noisy and full of eastern charm and all the colours of the rainbow.

The first temple we visited was on two levels and was Buddhist. It housed a large golden coloured bell, a dramatic and impressive statue of a very fat Budda, almost Jabba in proportions and a smaller, Bodisatva. Incense burned throughout the environs of the temple and there was a sizeable balcony upstairs where you could see the many other temples along the road. I had a little fun, whilst here as once again, masks were a must and I wasn't wearing mine. From a distance, a chap was trying to get my attention, so I just ignored him and pretended I hadn't noticed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him wandering across and I turned my back to look at some paintings of various gods, whilst simultaneously putting my mask on. He arrived and was half way through his sentence, insisting on mask wearing, when I turned round with my mask on. He was confused.

I went upstairs and took it off.

Once again, I was thinking.

We had mingled shoulder to shoulder with thousands in the street and now, it was suddenly important. Madness. Sheer and utter insanity.

Across the road from this Buddhist temple there was a more obviously ornate Daoist place of worship. Here again, masks were essential, though I had reached my limit and just didn't bother. Thankfully, no one questioned me at all. Inside the main room of worship there were many incense sticks glowing and the walls were adorned with colour. The ceiling was supported by varnished wooden beams with intricate carvings. Around the back of the building were several rooms with rows of photographs behind glass casing and with each photograph there was a little box which brought to mind the line from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom: "this Nuaji is a real small guy". I don't think the boxes contained the person's ashes but I haven't found out what they do contain. Rach stayed in the garden area of the temple, sniffing the desert roses. The roots of one in particular was surreally sexual: sort of the Karma sutra meets Dahli and the Ents from Lord of the Rings.

Further down the road was a masjid or mosque and I was surprised by the sight of a chap on a motorbike come flying out of the main entrance. We contemplated going in but we weren't dressed appropriately and with too much flesh showing, we decided it was time for a drink. It was very hot too.

I had read online about a bar on Jonker Street which was a hundred years old and has been in the family for this entire period. Bars are rare, even in tourist spots in Malaysia as it is a strict Muslim country. Thank heavens for the Chinese, who provide the alcohol sanity we very much buy into. We followed the Google maps instructions and eventually arrived at the aimed for flag. The shutters to this place of alcoholic wonders were almost closed but as Rach peered in, an old lady with a proud stance beckoned her in. I followed Rach into a small and rough looking interior. There were about four others inside supping away but it still felt a little like we were entering an opium den. In truth, some of the beverages on offer were probably as scary as opium. Rach and I sat and supped several rice spirits, loosely along the same lines as sake but far more deadly. One such beverage purported to be 58% alcohol. It was lethal stuff. We had three or four and bought a bottle to take with us. We wobbled home and flopped on the bed breathing huge audible sighs of relief.

After two hours relaxing time, we headed out to see the mini Christ the Redeemer in Portuguese square. I have never seen the original but there was a certain presence about the statue that arrested our attention and the area was well lit so that the pure whiteness of the statue glowed in all its angelic glory. From here we wandered to a seafood restaurant near the coast but as it was night, we couldn't see anything and so plumped for a restaurant about a half a mile from there and back in the Portuguese area.

The food here, which was Malaysian was beautiful…succulent fish, wonderful sauces and some perfectly cooked scollops cooked in a sweet white sauce that sounds unpleasant but was delightful. The lady of the place was good to chat too and we imbibed some nice beers before heading back to the digs. It had been a long day and we had seen and experienced a lot. Sleep came easily.

Melaka day 3 September 2022

We decided to head out to some beaches in the morning and didn't bother with breakfast. There were a few biscuits in the car to finish off so we snaffled them on the way. Driving was easy enough except for the madness of the motorbikes who overtake and undertake with complete gay abandon.

We initially pulled up at Puteri beach, about half an hour or so from Melacca but it was very hot, very busy and there were no facilities at all except for the occasional coconut shake stand. We decided to push on to another beach, which I forget the name of but it was a big improvement on beach one. The sea was a soupy green but it was warm and calm. Along the coastline were a few rocky outcrops and some overhanging tropical trees. Though parts of the beach were wonderful, it was disheartening to see so much litter and plastic, in particular, discarded across the beach. I stopped to chat to a local fella who was flying a kite with his son. He was also saddened, and strangely embarrassed, by the rubbish that blew across the beach…perhaps most prominent being face masks! Grrr. He said that periodically there is a huge clean up but in between times, no bins are added (I think I saw one on the stretch of beach we were on) and no system for cleaning. Folk are careless, for sure, but there is no drive from the government to do anything about it.

We stayed for a while, enjoying the heat and the sea but it wasn't long before we were craving some wheaty, hoppy beverages. Sadly, there was no sign of any alcohol in the local vicinity and so, on the advice of our Malaysian friend, we drove to a nearby town. Google spoke of a great seafood place that served beers but when we arrived at the flag, the restaurant seemed to have been sucked into the void of another dimension. Initially disheartened, we strolled unenthusiastically in the heat but as we turned the next corner, a joyous incarnation appeared, a beacon of hope; perhaps a beacon of hop, in the form of a carlsberg sign. Don't get me wrong, this was definitely not the best restaurant in the world (despite the claim made on Carlsberg adverts) but they knocked up a stir fry for us, which we shared and most importantly, served us beer, at reasonable prices.

After beers we drove to a beach where there was a turtle sanctuary. This place was limited, small and not startling in any way but there was some good information on turtles and in the open pool section, many full size and baby turtles with 'cute factor' overload. We enjoyed this moment and the youngsters with parents had a lot of fun. The beach next to turtle sanctuary is glorious and, by far, the best we had visited that day. We swam, sunbathed and I even slept a little. It was a very relaxing afternoon and we returned feeling refreshed and ready for our last night in Melaka. We trudged the familiar route into the centre, after showering at the digs, and enjoyed the chat. However, this was interrupted by a terrible noise, a sound that would make the stoutest heart quail: the dirth of musical, sparkling rickshaws!

We had experienced these fascinating abominations the night before but on our last night, they were as plentiful as flies around a fresh turd. I assume these monstrosities are designed for children: bikes with seat behind adorned with images from various films such as Frozen, Toy Story or more teenage movies like Spiderman and the like. What is most abhorrent about these Christmas tree decorated modes of transport is the blaring, strident, infinitely unnecessary decibels that each bike insists on forcing upon the populace. Baby Shark, may be cute, but is even more unwelcome than usual when it is blasted into your ears, whether you like it or not. My ears didn't bleed but we did walk fast.

Unfortunately, it was impossible to escape, as the numbers of rickshaws grew exponentially, like wildebeests at the watering hole. So, try to imagine, not one annoying theme tune but endless cheesy, nauseating tunes mashed up together but not as a skilled DJ might weave them together but a sort of Hollywood Doctor Frankenstein, style mash up of sugar sweet ditties into a deafening sound-hell. However, we could keep walking; we could leave the hellish Malaccan plains, retreat from the ear wars.

It was the cyclists, the brave pilots of these vehicles, who I most sympathised with. There were two expressions and two expressions only etched on the faces of these miserable human beings: one was a sewed in smile, as if some cackling voodoo mistress at exacerbated their suffering by presenting the passerby with a sense of joy and yet the eyes were hollow, broken; the sort of look you might see on a refugee who had survived a war and escaped, only to be returned as they were to the bombs and guns. The second expression was a robotic, emotionless, cyborg-like exterior as if all brain cells were now fused in to the evil world of the Christmas tree rickshaw God. I felt so sorry for both types but we fled. On a side note and terrible as these aberrations of human decency are, I was perplexed by an even greater low: The Squid Game rickshaw, complete with cuddly squid game toys hanging off the vehicle! In what world is squid game, a programme that showcases shooting people in the face or head as normative, a kid's programme? Apparently, it is.

Nevertheless, I must admit, that had I had a weapon, I may have executed some of these drivers myself. They might have smiled more if I had.

We were relieved to reach Jonker Street where the food stalls were thriving and, as before, we could hardly move, so popular is the area. We tried some Malaysian cakes, some lychee drinks and some Tom Yum spicy sausages that nearly blew Rachel's head off. We purchased some lovely garments and a less than tasteful purple shirt that not many folk would risk being seen in. You know me. Always on the edge. We managed to snake our way through the hustle and bustle and escape the throng before stopping at a Riverside bar.

The fast boats seemed slower than before and we briefly considered jumping on one, but we decided to save this for another visit. We grabbed some snacks a little further down the river and opposite St John's cathedral, which glows ethereal in the back light.

Rach and I did a straw poll of people who were wearing masks as they strolled passed the restaurant and I was staggered that it was about 70 per cent, even outside. Most startling, was how many of these folk were robust, healthy youngsters, muzzled to protect themselves from the wild possibility that they might get Covid.

We headed back after a couple of late beverages, through the noise menagerie of the rickshaws. Thank god I didn't have a weapon, as I had had a drink and was more likely to take a risk.

We slept well after what had been another great travelling day.

In the morning, we finally checked out the egg place next door, and I had a lovely fruity, granola yoghurt dish although Rachel's egg was a touch undercooked. The journey home was slightly nerve wracking, with mopeds flying in like Messerschmidts from all directions but we survived. The funniest moment was the lady in the toll booth on the motorway who was still wearing a mask despite being on her own in a 1 metre squared enclosed room. As I said earlier…it is the lack of thinking that blows my mind. I wondered openly to Rach, whether she would remember to put her mask on in her coffin but Rachel rightly reprimanded me strictly. We arrived home safe and well and vowed to return to Melaka, as soon as the opportunity arose.