Javaman does the Far East.

[Javaman]

TR imminent.
But, this will be a pretty wordy TR. I didn't take lots of pics and my focus is on the entire experience/observations/feelings.
Just need to load a few pics to flickr, so should be up tomorrow evening SIN time.

[jjpb3]

From some of the posts I recall reading, I've no doubt this is going to be quite good, Javaman. With eager anticipation, I look forward to reading the TR.

Perhaps this might also take some heat from nickbot about finishing his TR.

[Javaman]

Perhaps this might also take some heat from nickbot about finishing his TR.

Name & Shame always seems to get results!
After all, I've been back almost two weeks and still not finished it and it's only threat of having bits ofe removed with a blunt instrument that has brought about feverish journalistic scribbling!

Just four more hours till posting.
Who's going to win? nickbot or me?

[Javaman]

Day 1 – Thursday 25th Sept 2008

The day did not start well. I awoke 40 minutes before my alarm and couldn’t force myself back to sleep. My eyes screamed in protest as I flicked on the lights and peered at my phone, as if willing time itself to either skip back or forward, as long as it wasn’t here and now.

Sipping a double espresso latte downstairs a few minutes later, I reflected on just how tense I get before I go on holiday involving a plane.
I fidget constantly before I get to the airport. I pace up and down going through what is going to happen: check-in, security, duty free, departure gate, tussle with the overhead storage, listen intently to the flight evacuation demonstration (top-up? I want stays-up!), pace the aircraft a little, scan the in-flight entertainment, listen to my ipod, pace some more, sniff in disgust at the low grade airline food, fall asleep, wake up, more pacing, land.

More worrying than that, the constant pacing, fidgeting and generally nervous tension I generate makes my stomach churn. Which is really bizarre. Once I get through all the security rigmarole and finally get on that plane, I’m fine. Until about nine hours into the flight, but I’ll come to that later.

Manchester Airport is an oddity. Despite its role as a major international hub, it still operates like a third world organisation. I lost track of the number of times I was asked about who packed my bag and was I carrying any sharps, liquids or gels. At what point, precisely, would they actually check this? What happens if I say “Yes” and how likely is it that ,if I was in contravention of the rules, I would admit it? Answers on the back of a postcard, please.

The airport shopping is decidedly low-rent – hair bangles and clips sit alongside electronics and pulp fiction. When considered along the paucity of passenger seating, a pervading scent of grease from a Burger King outlet (doing a roaring trade at 6:30am, it beggars belief!) and a sign proudly promoting a “Great British Fry Up and a Pint of Carling for £9.99” (again, worryingly rather popular at this ungodly hour) and you’re left with the distinct feeling that the notional image that the rest of the World holds about the British on holiday as inveterate drinkers, is disturbingly true.

I passed the two hours before boarding by depositing myself in the plushest chair I could find in the Escape lounge, near an exit, and broke out the laptop to start this travel report and watch some of my fellow passengers indulge in multiple bottles of Budweiser at 7am while the best I dare muster was munching a piece of dry wholewheat toast and a coffee.

[Javaman]

Onboard SQ327 - In Transit

I’d heard many good things about Singapore Airlines. I’d heard their pilots are amongst some of the best in the world. That the food was surprisingly good for airline food. That the cabin crew are helpful and accommodating, almost to the point of causing you embarrassment.

I had spent an inordinately long time perusing the internet and Singapore Airlines aircraft register and seat layout on each of the versions of the Boeing 777-200’s that run the MAN-SIN route. It turned out that all SQ 772’s are extended range versions, so it left one potential layout, unless the swapped it for a 300 or A380 – the odds of which are essentially paraphrased by HG Wells as “a million to one or so.”

So, a Boeing 777-200ER it was then. I could have picked a window seat but, while this is perfect for distraction as I streak across the sky, my habit of pacing up and down is interrupted by having to clamber over a potential slumbering passenger. Middle aisle access it was then, in a rather convenient 2-2-2 seat only arrangement. No high-altitude Twister matches for me thankfully.

Now, Singapore Airlines have developed quite a reputation and from this traveller’s experience of this flight alone, it’s clear to see why. Little things, minor details, that just lift the journey from being a form of transit to almost holiday status itself. Once I’d been guided to my seat, I removed my jacket to stow it in the overhead bin alongside my hand luggage. I was immediately gently approached by the in-flight supervisor, a middle-aged Indian gentleman, elegantly dressed in Balmain couture, named Pramjeet Singh. “Mr Javaman” he said, softly “May I hang your jacket up for you?”.
Bearing in mind that we had not met and I’d been on this plane not more than five minutes, it was a staggering level of personal service.
Nothing was too much trouble. Service was always efficient, yet personal. While waiting for push-back, a few stewardesses offered a selection of papers. I’d already consumed The Times while sat in Manchester and the Daily Mail just wasn’t going to cut it. So I asked if they had any of the local press.
“We have The Straits Times”, responded a smiling stewardess.
“That would be perfect” I answered, quite surprised that she should name the exact paper I had on my mind.
“Unless”, she continued, a distinctly mischievous grin emerging through an already smiling face, “you would prefer a Chinese language paper?”
Now it was my turn for a mischievous grin.
“It’s been a long time since I spoke any Chinese, but I never learnt to read it”
Alicia (I’d managed to read her name tag by this point, not easy to do so discreetly, given its location) cocked her head to one side a little and enquired “Ni Hao?”
I paused only for moment. She was calling my bluff. After all, how likely was it that a large balding white guy knew Chinese? She was calling my bluff in Mandarin too – I only knew a few token words in Cantonese, but I still understood the question, so I responded to it now in the little Cantonese I knew.
“Oh, but that’s Cantonese” she laughed.
It was this casual friendly quality that marked out all the conversations with every passenger.
I was formally addressed at all times by every single member of the crew I interacted with and, when it came time to select my main course, I had a discussion with Lynn (another impossibly pleasant, friendly and gorgeous IFA) regarding the various merits of each dish. I had decided on the salmon with oriental sauce but, as she rightly assumed, I’d been up for some time, it was a long flight and breakfast would not be served until around an hour prior to landing, so something more substanstial might be preferred, so I opted for the Chicken Rogan Josh with eggplant and lentil dhal and Pilau rice. For a meal at a decent Indian restaurant, it was exceptionally tasty and finely judged on the spices. For an airline meal, it was, in the words of Michael Winner, “Historic.”

Bed. My cunning plan was to force myself to sleep for the majority of the flight, therefore resetting my body clock so I could carry on as normal upon arrival. Having expended a huge amount of time fiddling with the various switches, I worked out how to get the chair into the bed configuration. Owing the design of the chair and my generous proportions, I could not adopt my usual sleeping position. Nor could I seem to find a way to halt myself from sliding down the bed, thanks to its 8 degree incline. 8 degrees might not seem a great deal, but when it comes to gravity, even a single degree can get things moving and it just accelerates from there thanks to mass. I finally developed a slightly unconventional approach of wedging my feet into the recess of the seat in front and lying on my stomach, in the process inflicting a huge bruise on one arm (though this did not become manifest till two days later)

I only had two hours left on the flight, and hadn’t slept brilliantly, only managing to wrest two hours from the land of the living. This is where the second part of my problem with flying begins to emerge. Seven hours on a plane, I’m fine. But as the time goes beyond nine, I begin to become increasingly ‘twitchy’. The smallest habit or action can begin to infuriate me. A few years ago, I did an eleven hour flight to Malaysia in whY, where I spent the last hour avoiding any and all interactions with the crew or fellow passengers on board. Never have I been so relieved to get off a plane.
The last two hours of the flight to Singapore dragged terribly, with small comfort from the hot Oolong tea served with my breakfast omelette.

[Javaman]

Day 2 - Changi Airport Arrival

Changi Airport has a reputation as being fastidiously clean, organised and ruthlessly efficient. Surprisingly, despite my ‘red-eye’ landing time of 6am, the arrivals and immigration hall was rather busy with at least two plane loads of Indian travellers. Progress was therefore a little slower than I’d have liked, but I was still on track to have disembarked through to landside in under ten minutes.

I could see the luggage carousel just beyond the passport control desks. Nothing had arrived. This, remarkably, brought me an enormous sense of elation. I was looking forward to the small game played around beating your luggage off the plane. It looked like I was about to, not only join the game, but go right into the elite ranks.
I handed over my passport and customs declaration, with a certain degree of trepidation – it asked for my address while in Singapore, of which I had no idea.
Thud, thud! Thud, thud!
No hiccups, no questionable looks, despite sporting the appearance of a convict on the passport photo. Lifting my hand luggage, I strode purposefully toward luggage reclaim and my heart sank. The carousel hand started up at some point while I’d been at the immigration desk and my baggage was awaiting me. I had come so close to winning, but now joined the rest of the “also-rans.”

[Javaman]

Da 2 - 4 Singapore and F1

Having been met at the airport by my friend and our host for the 3 days of the worlds first F1 night race, I was disappointed to be greeted by grey skies, followed by a torrential downpour that reduced visibility to less than 20 feet. Which lasted all of fifteen minutes, before it brightened up and started to crack the flags.

Propped up with some coffee, after our convoy of 9 F1 fans had transited to the track using the MRT network (an underground train system that looks like unmitigated chaos, yet works in practice with a cool, calm efficiency that should be the envy of the entire world), Dan and I trekked off to find the custom tailors I’d used almost four years ago to purchase some more shirts.
I vaguely remembered where the shopping centre was and, having negotiated traffic jams from hell while drooling over the sight of a gridlocked Lamborghini Reventon (a cool £1 million hypercar with stealth bomber looks) we found the Far East plaza on Scotts Road. The tailors were still in business, the same small unit piled high with fabric sample books. After ten minutes trawling through the samples, my head started to hurt. There really wasn’t that much that appealed to me – stripes seemed to be big at the moment, but it was all garish colour combinations – brown with yellow and blue – real vomit-inducing stuff to my, clearly uneducated and unappreciative, fashion style palate.
Remarkably, the lady delved under the shelves when I explained I’d previously used them almost four years ago, and retrieved an order booked marked “2005”. 15 seconds later, she was examining my order, extracting dusty sample books and having the male shop assistant check my measurements against the file. Events moved very quickly from this point. Comparative fabrics where showcased, alternative colours suggested, styles reviewed and prices bartered over briefly. Another ten minutes and I was done, with a promise that the shirts could be ready the next day. Given I was going to be at a race track till gone midnight, I wasn’t too keen on carting half a dozen shirts around in the heat and humidity. A quick phone call to ascertain the address of my lodgings and an equally rapid consultation with the tailors about my travel arrangements and I was assured that they would be delivered by 8:30am on Monday morning. Service like this isn’t offered in the UK and, even though the prices had gone up by around 30% from my last visit, it still represents only 60% of the cost of a similar product in Manchester. Which I have to go and pick up myself. Then find out its finish isn’t that brilliant. And it looks like the sleeves were designed with Liberace in mind. But I digress……..

[Ex-SIN]

Great so far!! Thanks for sharing.

[Javaman]

F1 Daylight


The F1 track looked unremarkable during the day – just a selection of local roads, shut off and fenced in, hemmed in on all sides by hotels and shopping centres. It’s central location around Marina Bay though meant these hotels and shopping centres provided a high class air to proceedings – The Fullerton even had a gazebo/viewing deck erected overlooking the circuit.
Viewing the Aston martin Cup was a little dull – the drivers were either having an unpleasant trouser accident, given the combination of heat, humidity, the bulk of the N400 racers and the close-quarters of the street circuit; or they just couldn’t be bothered. I hope it was the former. What didn’t disappoint was the noise. The roars, pops and transmission whines echoed off the buildings to create an epic wall of sound.
We spent the rest of the time between mid afternoon and the first practice session wandering around the grounds, buying Team merchandise, checking out potential viewing locations and renting an KangarooTV set for the weekend (best $150 SGD spent that weekend IMHO).
We also got a chance to do some "star spotting"......
Bernie

Another of F1's star attractions?

ITV F1 Commentator and sometime driver, Mark Blundell

Big Ron/ Ron Manager....

Who let him in??!

F1's heir apparent?

[Javaman]

F1 Night Time


The sun went down, the track lights came on and it literally felt like daylight. The temperature was around 28 deg C, humidity hovering around 65-80 percent on each night and the atmosphere was outstanding. At one point, we found ourselves sat on plush sofas on the Zouk (a very trendy Singaporean nightspot) pavilion in the middle of the green area behind the Padang stands, watching the big screen TV and drinking beers and soft drinks.

On Sunday night, once the race kicked off, the atmosphere in the crowds moved from “relaxed” to “party”. Cheering, shouting, clapping – all within a few seconds.

Sparks flew from the undertrays and strike blocks of cars as they bashed along the bumpier parts of the circuit, crowds fixated on the chicane at Turn 10, with its gargantuan kerbs that had been ground down on Friday night due to complaints. If there was a location on the circuit where there could be an incident, either someone “overcooking it” into the chicane, “doing a Hamilton” and straight-lining it off the circuit after trying to out-brake a competitor into a corner, this was it. As it turned out, Piquet had a little excursion into the barriers just the other side of Turn 10 and, true to recent form, Ferrari mangled their pit stops and Massa and Raikkonen both cracked a little under the pressure with stupid rookie spins. We heard reports from the rest of our F1 group (who’d splashed out on grandstand seats) that hordes of Ferrari fans left the circuit after Massa’s disastrous pit stop and subsequent penalty because there was no chance of him improving his position. To my mind, this shows up the increasingly prevalent attitude of Ferrari and their supporters: “If we aren’t going to win, we’ll sulk”. They don’t represent true sportsmanship anymore. Sadly, F1 is stuck with them because, as even their fiercest opposition has to concede, they do bring a lot of fan interest, and therefore revenue, into the sport.

I think the night-race concept worked well. I also think that there are very few places in the world where it would work though. Singapore was always going to get it pretty much right, mainly because it is, on the whole, an incredibly regimented society, where organisation and control is built into every process and activity. As long as you don’t cross the line of social acceptability, you’ll be allowed to enjoy yourself. It’s that line of socially acceptable behaviour that one Indian gentleman crossed on Saturday evening and I don’t think he’ll do it again for some time.

To get to Turn 10 from the centre of the track meant crossing the circuit by means of an overhead bridge. This was split into one lane for leaving the centre of the circuit and one for incoming. Understandably, the incoming flow of people was absolutely jam-packed, but we had a clear run to get out. A few individuals hopped over the dividing barrier rail and came down the “exit lane”, towards us. They got clipped, but still kept going. It’s this sort of queue-jumping that I can’t stand. When man no.4 jumped the railings, having clearly seen others and started down the aisle, I couldn’t resist. As he neared me, I drew myself up to my full size and flexed a little. He moved over and tried to squeeze between me and the wall. There was strong contact as he was well and truly body checked. Dan, a few steps behind me, came up and was highly amused at what had just happened. At the moment of impact, as he was spun to one side, his face had been mashed into the steel wall as I had apparently lent in to block him. I suppose that might deter him from tangling with large immoveable objects in future.

It was, however, the night race that showed up an organisational oversight. One that had been made by yours truly. I’d flown Thursday to arrive in time for breakfast on Friday – the notional plan to sleep on the plane and then carry on as normal. Everything went according to plan. Till 10pm.
Sat in the dim lighting of the outdoor courtyard of Harry’s Bar on the esplanade by Marina Bay, a jazz band playing down on the waterfront, the high-pitched scream of F1 cars searing the auditory landscape, I fell asleep. Time to retire for the night.

[Javaman]

SIN-KL by Car - Day 5

Descending the stairs on Monday morning, bleary eyed from the previous nights extended waking hours (no alcohol involved, despite the ready availability of Grey Goose vodka thanks to Zouk Singapore), I was cheered to see my shirts had indeed been delivered, along with my baseball cap I had left in the store – though I didn’t realise that until opening the package.

Today was going to be interesting, not least because we had to shoehorn five adults and our entire luggage collection (remember, I’d flown into Singapore with two cases) into a mid-sized 4x4, but then we had a 4-5 hour road trip to get back to Kuala Lumpur.

Following a fiendish luggage packing challenge worthy of Gordon Burns and the Krypton Factor itself, we set off. Then came the rain.
Now, you might think that being a native of the Manchester conurbation, I’d be perfectly comfortable with rain – it’s the default weather setting of my home town after all. Singapore being slap-bang in the middle of the tropics though, a light shower was never a possibility.
We sometimes refer to the rain pouring down but, in this instance, it was not a mere figure of speech.
Visibility was reduced to a few feet past the end of the car, the rest just a wall of grey water. Thunder echoed somewhere, its direction indistinguishable from the white noise generated by the torrential rain. We “ooohed” in awe as lightning ignited the sky, striking random points in the jungle that surrounded the ribbon of concrete highway. Those “oohs” of awe became an “ah” of, in my case at least, fear, punctuating the holiday atmosphere when a bolt of lightning struck the forest less than twenty feet from the freeway.
What I hadn’t realised about lightning up to that point, is the sheer power involved in a strike. It’s an extreme atmospheric disturbance, so much so that in the car, it sounded like an explosive charge being detonated. Just as with a large explosion, simultaneous to the noise, was the vibration impact, like the gentle thump of a large subwoofer responding to bass line. Electricity, in and of itself, has no physical form. So to have its power manifested in, not just a visual form, but with audio and physical sensation, was both awe and fear inspiring.

The rest of the journey was unremarkable until we hit the checkpoints between Singapore and Malaysia, in between which is a fairly large section of jungle and coastline, where it is speculated by some (yes, I’m one of them now) the suspected terrorist convict Mas Selamat has been living in since his escape from prison during a toilet visit. No, I’m not joking. Given that this happened in Singapore, the worlds foremost Police state, with a security presence and controls that even bans chewing gum (not a bad idea, really), what hope does the rest of civilisation have?

Anyway, Singapore customs pulled us over, and insisted that the men in car step out. This immediately triggered my guilty/shifty look. This was transformed into abject horror as I was motioned to step forward to a nearby desk, where a stern-faced immigration officer sat behind a computer terminal with an equally stern-looking fingerprint scanner attached. One thumbprint and passport scan later, and we were allowed to leave Singapore. I had assumed that was it, but, crossing no-mans land, I was told to leave my passport out as I’d need it for entering Malaysia.

The Malaysian customs and immigration officer, it turns out, had the mental capacity of a whelk. My hosts had fully valid travel and residence visas, and having just come through immigration four days previously, had not been required to complete any forms. Imagine their surprise when they were told that, since Thursday afternoon (and remember, two days were the weekend) the various immigration forms had been re-implemented for all travellers. A certain member of the party was beside himself with apoplexy in trying to comprehend this action or get a meaningful response from Officer Whelk. He eventually resigned himself to his paper-pushing fate and borrowed a pen……

[Javaman]

KL-BKI with AirAsia

Part of the plan for this holiday was to do something different. I’d done the immediate tourist traps like the Petronas Towers, dinner at the Menara Tower, Bird Sanctuary, that sort of thing. So, Borneo was an option, as there are some Orang-Utan rehabilitation sanctuaries out there. Usefully, one is attached to a Shangri-La resort (Thanks MAN-Flyer for the recommendation!)

But first, you’ve got to get there. Flying on a full service carrier like Malaysian Airlines is a veritable walletectomy – a two and a half hour flight comes in at around £270 return. But, for the princely sum of £173, including all taxes and baggage fees, Dan and I could get there and back on AirAsia. This is one of those low-cost carriers, the Ryanair of the Far East.
I was nervous, given my size, of the accommodations on board. The black faux leather seats were surprisingly well padded and comfortable and provided a remarkable degree of leg room. I suppose I should not have been that surprised really when AirAsia was set up a man who learned his craft under Sir Richard Branson.
Actually, flying with AirAsia wasn’t a bad experience. They were efficient. The on board food was cheap and, possibly because I’m jaded by budget UK carriers, I was inordinately pleased that they didn’t lose my luggage either.

Kota Kinabalu International Airports LCC Terminal (low cost carrier) is something of a slight misnomer. I doubt it could deal with a significant increase in traffic, as is sports around half a dozen immigration desks, two luggage carousels and a customs desk/area just by the exit door. What really throws you, as a clueless westerner more used to walking half a mile to get to the plane, is when you see an Airbus A310 pulling nose-up to the departure doors of the waiting areas.

The other major shortfall is in the severe lack of entertainment and shopping facilities in the LCCT – but then, it IS an LCCT. Personal attitude adjustment required.
Still, it did mean that arrival and departure was a fairly painless process and we very quickly identified the hotel driver.

[Javaman]

Shangri-La Rasa Ria Resort, Pantai Dallit Beach, Kota Kinabalu

Our driver escorted us to a Toyota people carrier, trimmed out in beige leather captains chairs, wood and most importantly, freezing air conditioning. Air conditioning is one of those wonderful innovations that we do enjoy here in ‘the west” but often don’t truly grasp the importance of it to the rest of the world. Landing in Borneo at 9:15, the temperature was already heading towards thirty degrees in blistering sunshine.

Adding to the comfort, the driver reached under the front seats, and proffered two practically frozen towels. The intense refreshment provided, we got underway. Shangri-La Rasa Ria is around 45mins drive from the airport and in that time, you get to view the two extremes of the developing Asian economies. Borneo has very little going for it apart from tourism, so there are of course an extensive range of shops and bars, some aimed at catering to the western travellers tastes – local brand coffee shops compete alongside Starbucks outlets (which, at 11pm at night are still open and doing a roaring trade…..useful to know). There is even a mega-shopping mall, the biggest in Borneo it turns out, but I’m not sure the Trafford Centre has much to worry about just yet.

Cityscape gives way almost immediately to jungle and it is as you speed along the highway you are presented with the reality of life here.
Little roadside shacks and shelters act as cafes catering to the workers with cheap Roti Canai (a furiously cheap dish of roti and curry sauce – 25 pence has never tasted so good and been so satisfying). Then come the villages. Of course, I’d seen wooden huts on stilts before in travel books and on TV, but nothing can truly prepare you for the culture shock of just how ramshackle the dwellings actually are. It’s thin wooden slat construction with tin or wood slat roofing, clothing hanging out to dry on every available surface, light shining out from between the slats at night – entire communities exist in these shanty towns in stark contrast to the luxury goods and services promoted on billboards and shopfronts just a few minutes drive away.

The villages give way to untouched jungle and it’s in this, on Pantai Dallit Beach, that Rasa Ria lies.

From the approach, it looked good, if a tad unspectacular. I’m not fussy, so the clean and uncomplicated look appeals and I’d be happy with that.
Pulling up to the foyer, we’re handed yet another frozen towel, the door of the car is silently opened and, as we climbed out, a traditional gong is gently beaten to announce our arrival. A female member of staff from the concierge desk named Myra appeared, welcomed us by name and escorted us to some comfortable chairs and excused herself to retrieve the reservation details.
Surveying the lobby and guest relations desk, it occurred to me that it’s completely open, with exquisitely manicured gardens around it. You are sat outside, but then, when the climate and setting is this hot and secluded, it makes perfect sense.
While waiting for Myra to return with the paperwork, another member of staff appeared with a tray and offered fresh pineapple juice with what sounded like crushed caraway seeds. The drink itself was quite a revelation, and during my stay I sampled both honeydew and watermelon juice too.

Myra was most apologetic that the room was not available yet as check out was not till 12 noon. She apologised, explained the room would be available by 1:30pm and presented a guest card allowing access to all the facilities, which was very kindly accepted. I wasn’t going to make a scene over the room – it was around 10am and I’d previously discussed the arrival with the reservations manager, so had no expectation of the room being ready so early. Dan and I had a quick scout around the resort, noting a warning about sandflies on the beach, then discussing with a certain mix of surprise and speculation if the army of gigantic silver bugs scattered across the edge of the beach were the aforementioned sandflies and, if so, we would need stronger repellent.
We retired to the beachfront café for a cold drink and a light lunch – 12 sticks of mixed satay really hit the spot, with the beach in the foreground and lush gardens behind.

Upon gaining entry to the room, you naturally do the usual tourist routine – rummage through every drawer, flick every light switch, inspect the mini-bar, fiddle with the electronics, the shower, test the bed. I had been at great pains to stress to Reservations that a twin room was required. At previous stays in the Ritz Carlton Millenia in Singapore, we’d been asked if we would prefer a double, to which, while I stood dumbstruck at the suggestion, Dan had quipped, “We’re close, but not THAT close”. So I was relieved to see two oversized single beds made up in the room.

Dan, feeling a bit exhausted from the heat and lunchtime beer kicking in, fair threw himself at the bed. Then groaned. There was such minimal padding on the mattresses, it was effectively a solid platform. Given the enormous rainfall shower in the bathroom and the two(practically three!)-person bathtub (No, I didn’t get chance to test this out) on the balcony overlooking the gardens, there was always going to be a trade-off somewhere.


As if by compensation, there was king-sized wicker daybed beneath a large ceiling fan on the balcony too – so, armed with insect repellent and deploying the hotel issued outdoor mosquito coil and ceiling fan, you could sleep outside if so inclined.


For dinner that evening, Dan had arranged to meet up with some of his friends who lived in Kota Kinabalu, so we took the hotel coach back into town. We met Heidi & Bryony (sisters) and Bryony’s husband, who’s name currently escapes me) at the rear of a shopping centre and piled into their little Izuzu Trooper diesel – not a vehicle known for it’s cosseting ride or generous accommodation.

Dinner was taken at a cheap little Italian joint, whose food was pretty good really, if nothing of any real note. What did stick in my mind was the capacity of my two Australian female hosts to talk. Endlessly. At high-speed, finishing each others sentences, correcting each other, an overlapping cacophony of antipodean accents. My head spun. Bryony’s husband was quietly spoken and relaxed – I suppose given the rate at which the pair of them talked at each other, he didn’t really have much choice.
After we left, we realised that we’d have to negotiate our return to the hotel with a taxi driver. The hotel coach had returned to the resort a half hour earlier and we were conscious that, being so far out, it wasn’t going to be a cheap fare, if a driver would agree to take us in the first place.
So, first things first – Starbucks for an industrial strength coffee, bemusement at it still being open and doing brisk business at night and then haggle the taxi drivers. This was one of those things that is best left to someone with experience, so Dan took over negotiations with the ease and confidence of a local, handling the drivers delicately but firmly and getting a small reduction in the fare from what the hotel concierge had earlier suggested it would cost to get back.

Upon returning to the hotel, pizza socialising uncomfortably with sparking mineral water, a tray holding two large glasses and a bottle of red wine had been placed on the desk, with a note from the management by way of an apology for the room being unavailable upon arrival. A most unexpected gesture, but one that creates a very positive view of the hotel and its staff. There were other touches too – you could have the staff draw you a fresh bath in that oversized tub with a selection of essential oils, rose petals & champagne or, for the child in everyone, bubbles; or the turn-down service that allowed you to specify scents like lemongrass, jasmine or lavender to be applied to the bedding before you retired for the evening. While Dan tackled the red wine alone, I went wandering about the resort in the relative cool of the night and just soak up the calm atmosphere of the Borneo night.

I kicked off the next day with a bracing hour out on an ocean Kayak. I had most of the beach and waterfront to myself, as nobody else would be crazy enough to go kayaking at 8:30 in the morning. I spent most of those that hour falling off the kayak, drinking warm salt water and wading back to the shallows to climb on again before rowing out and repeating the process. I think the staff were most amused to have a beached whale frequenting their resort.

Breakfast was taken in one of the resort restaurants, Coast, which is situated on the edge of the gardens, directly on the beach. Full-length glass walls on the front present the full panoramic view of the beach and ocean for you to gaze at while enjoying a fresh coffee and cool fruit juice. An iced bottle of water is also presented with breakfast, a welcome touch and a gentle reminder to keep your fluid levels topped up in the tropical climate.
Besides the standard continental style breakfast of fresh pastries, fruits and toast, you could order from a varied list of western and eastern dishes – I was particularly fond of the chilled soba noodles with sesame oil, coriander and spinach. A little later, I wandered into the ‘Coffee Terrace’ and ordered a large coffee, which was duly presented in a gargantuan mug of steaming joe, along with wholewheat toast, smothered in butter and Australian honey. I hadn’t planned on it, but I thought it would be rude not to try it, seeing as it was kindly presented along with the coffee. To my surprise, it was quite a pleasing taste sensation. My surprise turned to almost shock when I requested the chit to sign for what I’d consumed, and the waiter just smiled, shrugged and said “Don’t worry about it, sir”.

[Javaman]

Orang-utan rehab centre visit - Day 7

After yet another lunch of satay, Dan and I turned in at the Rasa Ria’s main attraction, an Orang-Utan rehabilitation centre, that sits a few minutes walk into the jungle that surrounds the immediate hotel resort.
The visit, at 50RM per head, starts with being shown a dvd presentation that gives the background as to why such a centre is needed, which also has the effect of showing mans expansion and destruction of the natural habitat of the orang-utans. As a Westerner, I’m detached from such harsh realities – it has only been shown in tv documentaries, newspaper articles and National Geographic magazines. Somehow, standing on the edge of a tropical jungle, about to encounter the animals in question, the atrocity of what mankind is doing out there became quite poignant and I admit to feeling a mix of guilt and revulsion. 50RM to contribute to a scheme like this didn’t seem nearly enough at this point.
Slathered in insect repellent, our group began to walk into the jungle reserve, winding our way up between trees till we reached the observation decks. Before we even got there, our approach had been noted and the orang-utans had begun their own approach in the treetops overhead.

[Javaman]

Orang-utan rehab centre visit - Day 7





It always amazes me when I get up close to nature. Of course, being in the first stage of a rehab scheme, the orangs would be used to a degree of human contact, but what stood out was just how comfortable they were around humans in large groups. Maybe they’re just not as skittish as chimpanzees and other monkeys. Maybe it’s because they’ve never really known much else in their short (1-3 year) lives.
After spending some time being entranced by them, a troop of macaques rocked up and proceeded to commandeer the feeding platform. Cue more picture taking.

Then I noticed the first spots of rain failing on the observation deck. Only it wasn’t rain – one of our primate jungle hosts had decided that the only way to get rid of the bald apes below was to empty their bladders over the whole lot of them. Neatly sidestepping the undesired golden shower, we soon returned to the main resort.