Located about a two hour flight from Manila, the Republic of Palau is generally considered to be the number one scuba diving spot in the world. Among the myriad islands and the lush tropical greenery stands a genuine natural wonder, the blue corridor, where divers can be amazed by a stunning variety of fish and coral. Of course, neither me nor Alex knew this when we booked our trip, which is why we only spent 24 hours on the island, unable to do anything except miss out on one of the world's great treasures.
Which isn't to say we did nothing. Palau may be a diving hotspot, but it has a wealth of other sights to enjoy. Our tour took us round some of the best areas to see beautiful coral, incandescent fish and white-tipped reef sharks, which allow other fish to swim mere millimeters in front of their mouths without coming to harm (can't think what the fish are thinking, I kept my distance despite the dubious claims of 'safety').
The undoubted highlight was swimming in the Jellyfish Lake. The experience was more than a little queer, not to mention terrifying. These jellyfish may not be able to sting you, but what they lack in threat they make up for in number. Snorkelling away from the shore, spotting the first miniature orange blob quivering towards me through the lake's murky green clouds, I felt a minor wave of panic. This was the point at which I realised I was more than a little scared of jellyfish, a creature I associate in my mind with disturbing tentacles and large amounts of pain. As more and more of the buggers approached me my panic grew, and I started to contort myself in increasingly frantic ways, desperately avoiding another orange blob as it calmly sauntered past. I was pushing on blindly now, just hoping to get past the wave of creatures, and each messy thrash brought me deeper and deeper into a dense web of them until, with a shot of pure terror, I realised that I could no longer move without being sure of touching one. I seized up, icy cold in the warm salty water, and stared around me. I realised that I was completely trapped, encircled. I surfaced and turned to our guide, panic writ plainly all over my body. She looked at me reassuringly. "Just touch one, you'll see they're fine" she said, and picked up a quivering lump in her hand to show me. So I looked back down and gingerly - oh so gingerly - touched the smallest, most innocent looking baby I could see. It felt like firm jelly. No sting, no blinding pain, nothing to worry about. Still, I wasn't quite yet ready to be won over. I made my way cautiously, experimentally prodding jellyfish of increasing size, each time sure that this one, being larger than the last, was the killer I was sure was lurking in the depths. Finally, with that euphoric feeling of released fear, I was able to appreciate what was around me, a gently shimmering neon orange universe that spread as far as I could see. Without the threat of intense pain, jellyfish become quite sweet to look at. In the dark, moody water they acted as beacons, making the depths seem brighter and prettier. We swam around for half an hour, admiring the colour and the movement, and when it came time to swim back I felt a pang of regret to be leaving.
Despite missing out on the scuba diving, I wasn't sad to leave Palau. Yes, it's incredibly beautiful. Like a lot of places that reach a certain point of popularity with tourists, however, there was a sense of being part of the tourist economy, rather than just a visitor. The tour guides, and a lot of the workers around, were not Palauan but Filipino, brought over to provide cheap labour, and their focus was on making money rather than sharing the beauty of their country. Like parts of Thailand, Bali and Manila, we came away with the definite sense of having been ripped off, prices a lot higher than they should be and the locals all with a keen eye on how to get a bit more cash out of you. Normally I'd say avoid these places - I'd avoid returning to Bali for instance - but even with the cynical attitudes Palau is definitely worth the trip.
Sunday, 1 March 2009
Palau
Monday, 23 February 2009
Borneo
The waitress stared at me in a mixture of shock and surprise, mingled with a little fear. This is common in Asia when people don't understand a question, or don't expect it. There's an obvious moment of panic, a widening of the eyes, a parting of the lips and the escape of an indistinct "Whaaa?" sort of sound, usually followed by the policeman (or whoever) explaining that, actually, the train station is behind you (and you're a damn, time-wasting fool for missing it). She recovered herself quickly.
"Could you repeat that, sir?"
"Sure thing. A hamburger please."
"Ah, sir, I am so sorry, we do not have a ham burger."
"Oh, never mind, I thought it was on the menu."
"No sir, I'm afraid not. Would you care for a beef burger instead?"
That's the great thing about Borneo. Places may aim to have a Western style, tours may try and match up to what they think Westerners want, but everything's just so charmingly unpolished (not to mention cheap). Of course, one thing you shouldn't do in a place like this is wear white trousers, as Alex found to his cost. For the past ten days he's been extolling the virtues of white linen - cool, bug resistant and they make you look like a Russian tourist. We were on our way to go white water rafting, and took a local train that goes into a rainforest and up a mountain. Seats were scarce, with plenty of places already taken up by enormous egg containers and a fortnights worth of food, carried up from the town into the recesses of the jungle. Still we fought our way on and found somewhere to sit down. After a few minutes, we suddenly realised there was a small girl, no more than five or six, sitting next to us, staring us with thunderous broody eyes. Suddenly, without warning, she struck out a leg and started kicking Alex, smearing mud all over his legs.
If Alex was having a bad time with his clothes, I was beginning to feel a bit unsettled. It's not so long since I read Conrad's Heart of Darkness, and as we began our ascent into the rainforest the sky started to become heavy and brooding. As the child lashed out again a crack of thunder sounded, and an almighty downpour began, rain coming in through the open windows and beating heavily off the leaves and the tin roof of the train. The girl collapsed into a crying ball beside her mother, who gave us a kind look, and I looked away, catching the eye of another child, a young boy who had spilled his juice all over the floor. I gave him a sympathetic smile and he too burst into tears. More than a bit bewildered, I turned to look out of the window, just as we passed a wooden sign that read "Death Risk" in large red letters, and the train carried us deeper into the heart of darkness.
Fortunately there wasn't too much time to brood on these odd portents, because soon enough we were on the river, heading back down the mountain and about to meet our first rapid. Our guide, who called himself Mr. Tapioca (which would have thrown me if I wasn't already more than a bit thrown), was telling us about the rapids.
"There are several grades, and we'll deal with them in turn. Our first rapid is called 'Mickey Mouse' rapid. It's very easy, that is grade 1. It is just a warm up. Grade 2 is harder, we'll do one called the 'Scooby Doo' rapid, but it's not too much of a bother. We'll then hit a grade 4, where the waves are very high, around six foot, 'The Headhunter' it's called. Then a grade 3, but a dangerous one with lots of rocks, called the 'Washing Machine,' because it likes to spin you round and round under the water."
Naturally, before we were even in sight of a rapid, mickey mouse or otherwise, I'd already fallen off the boat, thrown off balance by a minor upsurge of water. Mr. Tapioca pulled me out of the water laughing. "This rapid, it does not have a grade or a name, but perhaps we will call it for you". This little misadenture did have an upside, it made the other beginners feel a lot better about falling in because, as one of the others put it, "Now I won't feel like a twat."
The rafting itself was terrifying on the approach, terrifying and messy in the middle and exhilarating in the periods of calm afterwards. You're bustled and thrown by the waves, splashed in the eyes so you can't see and on all sides large rocks jut out of the water threatening to catch you if you fall out. The threat, though, is more perceived than real, and even if you fell in a rapid you'd be unlucky to come to much harm. Our guides proved it to us by - without warning - engineering a flip that sent the boat over with us. Scary it may sound, but you come up quickly on your life jacket, and being carried gently down a river - without needing to swim or work to stay afloat - is a peculiarly calming experience.
Our next stop was Selingan, one of the Turtle Islands, a tiny (8 hectare) outcrop where Malaysia and the Phillipines are running a conservation project. Infancy is extremely hazardous for turtles, and even with conservation the mortality rate is about 99%, but worldwide turtle populations are dwindling to an alarming level - largely because of human-created problems. On the island we waited till night fell to watch a mother lay nearly a hundred eggs in a pit she'd dug on the beach, before the eggs were transported to a safer location by the rangers. Later on we saw a newly hatched brood released into the wild, flailing around on the shore till they were washed away - most of them to certain death - by the tide.
Finally we visited an Orangutan sanctuary, where another conservation project is taking place, and saw a feeding. Alex took off with the tour into the jungle, and I came back to Singapore to wait patiently for a new passport and catch up on my sleep.
Other things I've learnt recently:
Borneo
Borneo is the world's third largest island, divided between Indonesia, Malaysia and Brunei.
Turtle-Tortoise
Turtles are sea based, and have flippers; Tortoises are land based and have feet.
Orangutan
Means 'Man of the Forest' in Malay. Orangutans are 96 point something percent human and a fully grown, dominant male can rip a grown man in two, but his face looks like a rubber satellite dish.
Rainforest
Is a scientific term. It rains in the rainforest. A lot.
Jungle
I have no idea what the word jungle means.
Wednesday, 18 February 2009
Kuala Lumpur and Melaka, Malaysia
Kamal is a man of peace, and a man of god. A graphic-designer turned advertising executive, he packed it all in for a calm, happy life. He bought a taxi, printed a few business cards and started ferrying people to and from the airport. "I like to tell foreign people about my country, Malaysia," he tells us. "It is a country I love."
This is my second time in Malaysia in as many weeks, and it is a sentiment I'm beginning to share. There is a calmness and a friendliness that seems to wash off the people here, an attitude which has bred a multi-cultural, multi-faith society where a Hindu temple, a Mosque and a Chinese temple can stand side by side on Harmony Street. When we found Kamal, he was a little down, worn out by a few dispiriting trips back and forth from KL International. When we found out he'd take us to Melaka and back for the same price as two return bus tickets, and throw in a personal tour of his country and some of his insights to boot, we got him to perk right up. "I'll take you all over," he half cackled as he turned round to smile at us at 120kph on a motorway. "I'll show you the real Malaysia".
Malaysia is a rare feat in this world. Dare I say it, it's a country which has been left better off by colonialism. The British have left behind a strong legal system, a thriving middle class and an exceptionally cheerful populace. Whilst the capital shows off the overt signs of wealth - the ubiquitous Asian skyscrapers and malls, topped off by the Petronas Twin Towers, until recently the tallest building in the world - the prices are shockingly low, and certainly the cheapest I've come across.
The real history is to be found in Melaka, a city whose bloody colonial past is belied by the bright clashing colours of it's diverse population. It has changed hands from Portuguese to Dutch to British and housed Malays, Indians and Chinese. Now repackaged as a tourist attraction you can wander around the museum complex, which covers politics, literature, history and the customs of the various inhabitants, or sit in gaudy yellow carriages biked around by tour guides dressed in matching yellow (sponsored by Digi, the Malaysian mobile phone carrier, naturally) past the dark maroon dutch quarter, the bright reds of chinatown, pausing by the mosque so your guide can pop in for his afternoon prayers.
Leaving Melaka, Kamal took a detour to introduce us to a different side of Malaysia. Slipping a few layers from the pristine main road to more rough-and-ready tarmac, he took us to meet Noor, his sister-in-law, who collects rubber from small producers and sells it on to factories. Along with Palm oil production, rubber is a driving force in the prosperity of Malaysia's rural population, ensuring a stable income from exports to all over the world. Noor and her husband have been able to take advantage of this to build up a decent business and build a large house in a rural village. Even out here, far from the city, they speak decent English, and we were given a distinguished welcome, letting Alex have his first taste of pomelo and me my first chew of sugar cane.
And that's what's so great about Malaysia. It's just nice. It doesn't seem to have the tourist traps that abound in Thailand and Bali, the people are friendly and welcoming through good-heartedness, rather than greed, and everything feels pretty easy. Add to that the cheap prices and the lush beauty of the country and it becomes one of the nicest places to visit I've come across.
Bali and Lembongan Island
Bad things out of the way first: we visited Bali off-season. That meant no people (we visited the supposedly 'it' club and found noone except a bartender reading a book in the corner), rubbish (apparently it's kept much tidier when there are more tourists about) and dodgy weather (it rained so much most of the roads flooded). Bali is also priced for tourists, and seems to have suffered an amazing amount of inflation in the last year. A tour that cost $25 in January 2008 now costs $39. The aggression with which locals harried tourists for cash was a bit discomfiting too. This wasn't helped by my general ineptitude. At one stage I tried to bargain and ended up handing over $5 MORE than the initial price quoted.
Still, you can't complain too much about island paradises, and there were some amazing things to see. Top of the list was the snorkeling around Lembongan Island, which offered the most beautiful assortment of brightly coloured fish and coral I've come across. After a failed attempt at riding a scooter - I hit a wall and a fence, then narrowly missed a small child - we moved on to a natural wonder, a Mangrove forest. Mangroves are trees that grow in the sea, and are instrumental in protecting sea shores from the impact of a Tsunami. We hopped aboard a boat punted by a shirtless Indonesian, who wound us round the eerie maze of waterways that cut through the densely intertwined trees. It all started to feel a bit 'Vietnam war movie' when we nearly hit a black lump floating next to us, a dead dog which had been thrown into the water. Before we left there was also the underground house to see, a hunched living space cut out of rock underground, complete with kitchen, living space and bedrooms. There seemed no obvious need for it on a small, peaceful island where everyone knows everyone else, but it was impressive to see.
Back on the mainland, we found ourselves in the rain in a monkey temple near Buda. The flat light, the torrential downpour and the shade of the trees made the place feel self contained, giving the monkeys sitting on thick stone representations of themselves a mystical feel. It all felt a bit like a Lara Croft game.
On the last day we gave ourselves up to surfing. I will try to recreate my surfing experience here. I carried a heavy plank of wood into the sea. This took quite a long time, and after one attempt I was pretty much ready to go back to bed. As a wave came I lay down on the board, let it get washed in to shore and realised that I had no idea how to stand up. In trying, I fell off. I then stood up, picked up the board and trudged back out to try again. Every so often an instructor would give me contradictory advice. The lesson was 90 minutes, and I progressed no further than this. Alex stood up on his fourth go.
Singapore
Poor Alex. We planned this trip for a month, he gets on the plane after 6 tough months in London looking forward to our mad cap adventure and what does he get when he lands? Me, worn out from a jubilant spell of island hopping, worn down by a nasty little head cold and worn through with worry over the state of my passport. Was I in a happy mood? Sadly, not.
Luckily he had enthusiasm for the both of us, and made sure we saw most of Singapore. I find the place slightly oppressive, with reminders popping up here and there of the repressive laws that people live by. In the immigration and visa centre, 3 impounded cars stand next to placards informing of the crimes the drivers committed and the punishment they received (10 years and 4 lashings, usually). I was a bit concerned in case a stick of chewing gum was floating at the bottom of my bag, punishable by a cash fine if caught.
Singapore has the feel of a slightly more spread out, but less exciting, Hong Kong. If there wasn't much to do in HK except work and go out at night, Singapore felt even more limited. We visited the number one tourist attraction - the zoo - and wandered the streets, stopping in the early evening for high tea at Raffles. There are some fantastic buildings, especially the Esplanade. It costs the same as Hong Kong, it can match it for high rises and bankers, but without a job I think it would be hard to spend any extended period of time there.
Sunday, 15 February 2009
What to do if your passport goes through the washing machine
These things happen. I turned up in Singapore after an 11 hour bus journey, too air-conditioned and far too bumpy. Off came my clothes, in they went to a wash, and out came my thoroughly soaked and machine dried passport. Precisely at the point that Alex was sitting on a plane, coming to meet me in Singapore, planning to fly to Bali two days later. From the benefit of my experience, conversations with friends and much panicked internet searching, here's what to do if you ever find yourself in this situation.
1. Don't panic, don't beat yourself up. Not only do things like this happen, they happen a lot. All the time in fact. Assess the damage first of all. Things to look out for are the leather cover coming away from the paper, entry and exit stamps running through the pages and the laminated section separating from the face page. In my experience the first two are not necessarily killers, and from hearsay neither is the last one. From a common sense point of view, if the laminated section is coming away, you're far more likely to have trouble. It makes it look like someone's been tampering with it. My passport's front cover was completely separated from the paper, but the back cover was ok. The stamps were a mess, several running several pages either side. Luckily my Singaporean entry stamp was legible.
2. Apply for a new passport - if you can. In the UK you can get express passports in less than 48 hours. This is the obvious step, but it's not always convenient. If you're flying soon, you may not have time - in Singapore it takes 10 working days. You need the signature of a British subject with a respectable job (think qualifications, office building or the like), who has known you for some time - i think over three years. It's worth bearing in mind that you can apply for a replacement passport and hold on to your old one until two working days before you collect it, which is what I did.
3. Apply for an emergency passport. If you're in a foreign city and need to get home, you can get an emergency one-way passport which will get you home without any problems.
4. Risk it! If there's one thing I've found out this week, it's that people travel on damaged passports the whole time. The passport office and consulate won't advise this - they can't - and there's a degree of risk. The first is that at check-in someone will be concerned and stop you flying, the second is that immigration officials will be unable to read the stamps in your passport, or suspect you of tampering with it, and detain you at immigration - hardly ideal. How high this risk is, it's hard to say. At check-in the girl behind the desk joked that my passport looked like it had gone through a river, then laughed and loaded up my bags. At immigration in Bali, the official asked what happened to my passport and stamped me through. No trouble at all!
So far I've heard of people travelling without issue on passports soaked through with vodka, sent through a washing machine twice, and cut up and stuck back together again. Some people have problems, but they seem to be the exception. I even read about a pilot who travelled for five years on a machine washed passport!
I'm definitely glad I took the risk. I could have been stuck in Singapore, a tiny country where the number one tourist attraction is the zoo and number two is a cookery class, but instead I spent the day in Bali snorkelling and visiting a monkey temple!
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
Georgetown, Penang
Wandering around a new city always feels like stepping into a puzzle, you see the individual elements first and then start to fit everything into a larger picture. The more I see of Georgetown, the more it intrigues me. The city itself feels very tired. Everywhere brickwork crumbles, iron is rusted over, sewers run alongside the road. Construction in the centre seems to have stopped around the 1940s, and successive generations of buildings from the 18th Century to the first half of the 20th stand side by side. Most of them look like they're into their third or fourth use at best, and plenty are shuttered up and left that way. One shop has a painted sign offering second hand books. I try to enter, only to find someone's living room. "Book shop?" I ask. A woman nursing a baby looks up at me blankly, then gives a nod of recognition. "Oh," she says, "I think he dead some time".
The streets are not designed with cars in mind, with cluttered five-foot covered walkways on either side of the road, falling apart or unpassable because of motorbikes, incense burners, shopwares, chairs and other obstructions, forcing pedestrians into the narrow roads. They wander peacefully along. I do not, keeping an eye out constantly for a motorbike overtaking too fast or a car riding too close to the side of the street.
Meanwhile dotted around the place are those expected signals of Westernisation I've come to expect in Asian cities, nods to the 20th Century's godhead of the American dollar: skyscrapers; shopping malls; Starbucks and McDonalds. These sit, uncomfortably pristine, next to crumbling locksmiths and pawnshops.
All over Asia you see this cultural disconnect, local culture against globalised commerce. Mostly you see how foreign companies make minor concessions to local taste in a bid to win the overall war - the Seaweed flavoured Lays crisps, the cheery Chinese songs sung in Shanghai's Cold Stone Creamery, the Spicy Chicken sandwich in McDonalds (competing with the more popular KFC). Here though the trend appears to be reversed.
Malaysia is famous for it's multiculturalism, and this is a city defined by it. Colonialism may have left it's mark, but so does the presence of immigrants from all over, especially China and India. The city may be named after a British king, and cars still drive on the left hand side, but this hardly feels a colonial city. Whilst Westernised commerce has touched the place, it doesn't dominate the way it does in Shanghai's mega-shopping malls, or England's uniform highstreets. The shopping malls here have almost as many market stalls as shops, and the chain stores seem to be accomodated into the local culture, rather than the other way round.
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