Chiang Mai Chatter 3

Sometimes you wonder whether the Thais really revere Elephants the way they claim they do.

I suppose if they can exploit women and girls to bring in the tourism dollar, its not hard to imagine the big beasts being next on the ingenious agenda to ring in the 'Eco-tourists' dying for a chance to get up close and personal with the Tusky Ones.



OK so I was a sucker as well. Jumping at the opportunity to get out of the hustle and bustle that was Chiang Mai, to make the 1.5 hour drive to the Mae Taeng Valley. Where the prospect of an old-school Ox and Cart ride, Elephant Trekking through hilly forests and a leisurely drift on a bamboo raft down the shallow Mae Taeng River seemed too interesting to pass up.





Alex and Chris preferred a walkabout in the Old City. But Cheryl braved her fear of wobbly heights by agreeing to join me on top of a grey mammoth the size of a small lorry.

To the animals' benefit, the Mae Taeng Elephant camp was a nice enough place to be in. Nestled in the middle of a picturesque valley, in a landscape so quintessentially hilly North Thailand, we spent a beautiful morning taking in all the countryside vistas on various modes of archaic transport.



We got back to Chiang Mai in time for a late lunch. But not before popping in to see Wat Phra Sing, the largest temple in an ancient quarter chock full with beautiful testimonials to Lanna culture and creativity. The Wihan Lai Kham (gilded hall) of the sprawling Wat was particularly pretty. In the middle sat the much worshipped golden Phra Buddha Sing which, according to historians, originates from Sri Lanka.



Outside, the tourist buses were slowly beginning to disgorge their Chinese, Japanese and Korean contents. And that meant our time for some peaceful snooping around the temple grounds, came to a pre-mature end.



The 4 of us then re-grouped, and told Aik to take us to the Hong Dong district where the Ban Thawai Village was situated, for a spot of some Thai antique furniture shopping. Ban Thawai is the place to be if you had always craved that wooden chofa from the roof of some abandoned temple but didn't want to pay the GDP of a small African nation for it. Woodcarvings, Lacquerware, Hill Tribe pottery, you name it and Ban Thawai has got it. With shipping companies dotted all over the village that will teleport your newly acquired possessions anywhere from Tangier to Timbucktoo.



Then it was off for some retail therapy at a real Arcade, back to the hotel for a quick shower, dinner and then Part deux of some more pseudo sado-machoism at the massage spa.



48 hours in Chiang Mai.

Wished we had more.

Chiang Mai Chatter 2

Aik, our driver, had this habit of half-giggling like Scooby Doo whenever he got excited.

And that got the girls a little irritated. Especially when the both of us launched into saucy banter and the poor man got a trifle horny. Well someone had to humor the fella right? But he played the role of Host par Excellence and tried his level best to ensure our 48 hours were not wasted.

Before I could tell him I wanted to make the 20km trip out to the Doi Suthep mountains to see Wat Phra That, Aik already suggested we take the drive up. So after some lunch of fantastic slither-down-your-throat Kway Teow in fishball soup, we piled into his Vios for an hour's snooze, enroute to the much visited temple above the thick forested foliage that is Doi Suthep National Park.





The sinewy ride up the mountain was worth it because Wat Phra That is really a magnificent piece of Lanna Art. Two Nagas flank a sweeping staircase of 304 steps that lead up to an elevated courtyard where the Wat's central golden chedi stands glistening in the mid-afternoon sun. On top, hundreds of pilgrims were making their slow circuits around the shiny behemoth, fresh lotus flowers in hand, knuckles clasped in prayerful supplication.







And then it was time to give our bodies a little punishment with a traditional Thai massage. I must state, for the record, that I am not a fan of muscular ladies kneading your tired muscles with the only instruments of torture being their hands and feet. Or should I say elbows and knees.

I was contorted in every which way. Bent, pulled, pressed ,twisted and stepped upon in every evil position imaginable. And still managed to giggle like a pre-pubescent schoolgirl when the masseuse used her sharp elbow and planted it on my inner thigh. It didn't help that Alex, who was on the neighboring mattress, was trying her darnest to stifle her own laughter. With little success, I must report.

We swore to only stick with the aromatic oil massages after that. Well at least with the oils, sufficient smooth lubrication would ensure a somehow lessened vice-like grip on the bodily parts that matter.

Then it was back to the hotel for a shower, and then a seafood dinner at this excellent restaurant whose name I can now not remember.




You know Chiang Mai's Anusan Night Market rates as the best in the whole of Thailand. The level of refinement in goods sold at this after-dinner-stroll bazaar certainly gives Chatuchak a big run for its money. And there is a very decent variety of stuff on sale to boot.





The day's exertions then began to take its toil. Because by the time we reached our dinghy Downtown Inn, just 100 elephants away from where the action is, we were too pooped to even take a shower.

Yes, dirty people.

Chiang Mai Chatter 1

I realised, sometime during my 3 hour budget flight to Chiang Mai, that this was my 3rd trip to Thailand in the space of 12 months.



The new Siam isn't really the Land of Smiles in my book. Its not that the people are unfriendly or anything (on the contrary!). Rather, I think 'Smiles' should be replaced by 'Ironies' instead. Because just below the overtly Buddhist veneer, lies an economy well oiled by the skin-trade, dodgy massage parlours and girlie bars. The current Junta-installed government would surely be up in arms over this, but lets face it, sex sells. And its doing a roaring business in Thailand, when coupled with the other Tourist activities, this country blessed with beautiful islands, rugged mountains and ancient temples has to offer.

For a couple of years, when the Tourism Board used the tagline 'Amazing Thailand' in its promotional material, it was sort of ironic for me as well. By day, the Wats come alive with the saffron splendor of the Dharma. But at night, the A go-go Bars take-over with equally gaudy aplomp. Such seamless symbiosis must surely make a case for curious amazement.

And so I thought to myself, as TR 122 came in for a touchdown, maybe there is this latent, warped, appreciation for all things ironic that keeps me coming back. Seeing this country first putting one holy bare foot forward, and then a sexy stilettoed ankle the next. Perhaps the Land of Ironies' allure lies precisely in its two faces.

But after collecting our backpacks from the turnstiles, there wasn't much time for such useless pondering. Because we had barely a 48 hour sojourn in this 2nd most important city after Bangkok. Where the Northerners are still justifiably proud of its somewhat more cultured disposition.

And penchant for the finer things in life.

The 48-Hour Sawadee

Alex, Cheryl, Chris and me will be spending the Good Friday Holidays next month in Chiang Mai.



Its a little ironic that we will be in such a Buddhist place on a holy Christian Weekend. Well I suppose its just like us being the odd ones out in Society then. The marital outkasts that we are. Hur hur.

We'll be arriving in Chiang Mai at 0830hrs on that pious Friday. And leaving at 0900hrs on Easter Morning. That'll give us approximately 48hrs to take in everything this cool, former Lanna Kingdom's capital has to offer. Well at least I will be on a photo-spree. The rest, I suspect, will be having Singhas and Changs at some Thai coffee-shop.

Its nice sometimes to be able to take off somewhere on short notice and without a care in the world. Even though this 48-hour sojourn will probably cost us a princely 600 bucks each.

But you can't put a price on good fellowship, can you?

A Bagel In Bagan

When I was younger, I found myself looking towards Europe and America as dream destinations. Like most Asians, I was lured by the West, its riches, interesting alienity and First-World modernity, enshrined in movies and storybooks. And if the call of the White-man got too strong, but we had little money, then Australia and New Zealand would, and did, make good alternatives.

Having seen a large part of the West now, I find myself looking at places closer to home.

It doesn't fail to amaze me sometimes how tiny and sterile Singapore is. I am not ungrateful for the peace and prosperity we have got going here but really, how much do we, as S'poreans, academically far superior and with a heady Internet penetration rate that belies our minisculity, know about Asia? I think the answer is obvious. Precious little.

Angkor? Sukhothai? Borobudur? My Mum would chastise me now for paying good money to see stone. Buddhist stones at that. She's a devout Christian you see. But if all you care about is to get a good photograph of that monolithic stupa, rising above the dusty plain, bathed in the crimson glow of sunset, then I suppose you're better off in Disneyland. Wars were fought, Kingdoms were forged, whole Cultures were born, right at our doorstep. And yet sometimes, we bother ourselves with the Eiffel Tower that stands now in the over-rated romantism of Paris.

In March or April, I plan to visit Bagan. On the banks of the Irrawady River, 145km from Mandalay, Myanmar. Its an archeological site about 42 square kilometres big, and where, at its height in the Middle Ages, served as capital of the Burmese empire and also its religious heart. At one point, almost 13,000 temples were strewn over its vast plain. But now only about 2000 remain. In the earthquake of 1975, many of these magnificent stupas and chedis were destroyed. And UNESCO is still hesitant to award Bagan, World Heritage Site status, because the ruling military junta has not always restored some of the temples in a fashion that pays due homage to their ancient heritage.

In some ways, Bagan is even more magnificent than Angkor. In its variety of architectural styles, the variation of materials used to built the structures and the glistening gold of its gargantuan gilded stupas. There is color in this old-world charm of monochromed sandstone. And I can only imagine, gliding over the vast beauty of it all, in a hot-air balloon, the exhilaration that must come from gazing upon history.

Let some of the pictures, which I grabbed from fellow photographers' flickR accounts, bear testament to this.

FantAsia

I have a friend who gets lost in Punggol but is extremely adept at navigating the grid-like streets and avenues of New York City.

And it disturbs me that sometimes, we know so much about the 1st World that is America and Europe, and yet ignore our own little neighbourhood that is SE Asia. Is Hollywood to blame? Perhaps. I mean Los Angeles is surely better known and appreciated than say, Udon Thani in the boondocks of Siam.



I've made somewhat of an early New Year resolution to learn more about my own backyard. And the more I read photo-journalistic articles, either on the net or in my lastest copy of Asian GEOgraphic, the more I realise I have a long way to go somewhat before truly recognising the beauty and wonder that is our very own continent.

The newspapers are already rife with the blood-shed, political instability and poverty of this region which always seems to be in some calamity or another.

So lets take a step back and look at things from the softer side. A side that tells us of the beauty of hiking the Annapurna ranges, what it means to be Straits-Chinese, North Vietnam's poor and obscure hill tribes or the fast-fading mix of old and new at the Temple Plains of Bagan, Myanmar.

Lets rediscover this Fantasia.

Alien Nation

There is an application in the popular Facebook social network that allows you to show your friends the countries and cities you have visited so far.

Its a map of the world, with little pop-up pins sticking out of the places you have been to. And I know some people take great pleasure in showing off just how many thumb-tacks they have displayed. Its like, look at me, I'm a Globetrotter you know! It doesn't matter to these people, I suspect, that if you take a drive from Nelson to Invercargill on New Zealand's South Island, you actually pass by many of the major towns that can be happily marked on the map as having been 'visited'. Does it matter that you only stopped in Timaru for a pee? That's another city up for the count.

Well at 34, I suppose I count myself reasonably well-travelled. But then again, if you consider that I haven't set foot in Africa, South America or Scandinavia, let alone the Arctic and Antarctic, I think a little reconsideration of the trotter status is in order. But is it really a numbers game? What does it mean when we say we have Travelled. Because if travelling simply denotes the act of getting from Point A to Point B, with a little business or pleasure thrown in between for good measure, then certainly my map would be bursting with pins.

As I sat in 3rd Class, on an old grimy 'Express' train to Ayutthaya just the other day, it suddenly dawned upon me that perhaps I haven't really travelled much the past 3 decades and a half.

This sudden flash of 'brillance' has unglam underpinings. My butt-cheeks were aching badly from the extremely hard seats and we were woefully bemoaning our lack of foresight in having planned this sojourn to the Ancient Capital a little better. We could have gotten ourselves 1st Class plush cushions in an air-conditioned cabin had the tickets been purchased one day before. Gawd! and I thought the old North Borneo Express was bad last September. This was several times worst.

And so when I knocked my head for the upteenth time on the paint-peeled window sill while dozing off, I asked myself, do we plan to travel, or do we travel to plan?

You know I used to draw up beautiful itineraries for all my trips. With every minute detail covered to the second. How else did we manage to complete 11 Japanese cities in 2 weeks? Or take in almost all of New South Wales, Victoria and Canberra in 11 days? It was sheer precision at work. Much like the efficient Shinkansens that pull up at the sterile Nipponese platforms, plus or minus a few milliseconds from the scheduled timetable. I also had EXCEL spreadsheets on the laptop I brought for holidays where the battle plans of which sights to visit, and at what time of day (or night), were meticulously drawn out. The result of it all? I usually got to see almost all the major points of interest in the shortest time possible. The Plans became my comfort zone.

But I realise now that although I saw alot, I really experienced nothing.

Is this what we call travelling? By the sheer number of miles and sights it is. But if you have ever made that unscheduled detour only to be pleasantly surprised by the wealth of smells and sounds the Guidebooks don't tell you about, or had a long impromptu chat with the security guard of your hotel over a takeaway coffee at midnight about the imminent return of Thaksin to Thailand, or having decided to skip the buffet breakfast for a morning jog to the neighbourhood grocer for some fruits, you find yourself reading the paper at the corner newstand till lunchtime while munching an apple, you will know that sometimes, we really need to just travel and see where the next plan (or whim) takes us.

I suppose its this fear of the unknown that compels us to strategize and agonize over details. We then become slaves to our own plans. I haven't met anyone who has totally embraced the unknown. And yet, it is only when we venture into the Unknown, the wild blue yonder as it were, would the envelop of unfamiliarity, ironically, bring us out of our shells and make us real Travellers. The outcomes need not always be favourable and no doubt, the thought of being on a packaged tourbus with the warm and reassuring spectre of the Guide upfront babbling into the microphone, will sometimes tempt us.

However I reckon we will be richer for the experience of thinking on our own 2 feet, of being able to resolve real-time issues with real-time logic, and of reaching that final destination clinging onto the behind of a swerving schoolbus only to discover that your camera has fallen and rolled into a ditch 10 miles behind. Of doings things in a foreign land you would normally not even think about, let alone plan about.

We must start being aliens in a strange land, before we can even begin to call ourselves Travellers.

In some ways, such isolation is a pre-requisite.

A Dispatch From Siam 4

I didn't wake up in time for the 3hour bus ride to Kanchanaburi to see the infamous Bridge over the Kwai.

It was not unexpected. Considering we haven't done one iota of shopping yet and the tiredness from all that travelling out of Bangkok these past few days hasn't quite dissipated. Well I am considering taking the ungodly 5am bus up 130km Northwest tommorrow from Sai Tai Mai terminal before my flight home in the evening, since that would give me a good 4-5 hours to look around the Death Railway and perhaps triapse the JEATH War Cemetary and its environs. But since its almost 3am Thai time now, I won't wager much on getting my butt off the bed in an hour's time.

So the 'masterpiece' of thousands of malnourished and severely disease-afflicted Allied POWs will have to wait till next time I suppose. Pity.

But we did a spot of shopping today. Scarce consolation really. After waking up late and popping into the gym across at the Baiyoke Sky Hotel for a quick 45min workout and swim. Well at least I did. Hell I've drunk 3 Oktoberfests worth of alcohol these past 5 days and really, I don't want a souvenir beer belly from Thailand. I'm almost scared to pat myself on the tummy.

The shopping scene has changed somewhat since my last trip here in Apr 06. Back then, Siam Paragon was the jewel of Pratunam at the heart of Bangkok. Seriously putting the 'futuristic' Bladerunner-esque MBK to shame with its glitzy shops and cavernous, Ritz-Carlton lobby of a Cineplex Box Office. Now, lo and behold, Central World has risen from the ashes of the old World Trade Centre diagonally across from the much Wai-ed-at Erawan Shrine. And I must say, Ngee Ann City, Eat Your Heart Out!

Its clear to me, that when it comes to design aesthetics and a flair for creative spatial ingenuity, the Thais whip our sorry little obiang arses quite soundly. They are also much better at window dressing and branding, eschewing the cliched advertising campaigns around the 4 alphabets, S-A-L-E, that we see so much of around our sunny Orchard of a Shoppers' Paradise. Its almost as if one would pay alittle more for the branded items you find in Bangkok just because the shopping experience and level of service are several notches higher. And yes, when I say branded, I mean Calvin Klein, G-Star RAW, branded. Not the RedBull, Singha, Chang Beer sleeveless rags adorning the stuffy alleyways of Chatuchak.

But being on a tight travelling budget in view of another diving trip (I hope) next week, my final Bought-list shows a pathetic longsleeves Rashguard and Crew-neck from Quiksilver and a pair of camou-printed flip-flops from a Thai brand (I think its De-Fry or something) that unabashedly wants to be the Siam-equivalent of Abercrombie & Fitch.

I'm also absolutely hooked on Thai roadside fried chicken. You know, the push-cart vendor kind where the crispy brown wings and drumsticks are swarthed in an aromatic Tuk-tuk exhaust marinade. Absolutely lovely. Colonel Sanders can take the next NOK Air flight out to the boondocks. I'm a 30-Baht-for-six-pieces convert. But for old times sake (I used to work in Bangkok), I brought Kat to the Foodloft at Central Chitlom for a late lunch and the nice high-rise view of Sukhumvit and Silom. Great place to sip a Cappuccino really and look down on the vehicular mayhem down below. Dinner was more road-side fare. This time, a whole Catfish caked in salt and grilled over a charcoal flame. We tried not to think about where the fish came from. Considering that back home, the amateur Thai-worker anglers usually fish from filthy canals. Well, that's what the tabs of Lomotil are for.

Right?

A Dispatch From Siam 3

It costs 200Baht an hour for the Broadband connection they have here at the Baiyoke Boutique hotel in Pratunam, Bangkok. That's about 10 SGD, thereabouts, and yet I am here. Fixing a fix that has to be fixed or else I cannot go to sleep. Its called Internet Addiction.

We spent a lovely day in Ayuthayya today.

With 2nd Class train tickets on the way up and 3rd Class hard seats in a dining car on the way back. 2 hours each trip. And yet I enjoyed the ride. I'm beginning to see myself on trains much more in the coming years. Observing the people getting on and off, gazing out at the countryside, drifting in and out of slumber as the rattling locomotive meanders its way across the countryside. Its a little romantic if you ask me. And somehow, I find myself immersed in my own thoughts and reflections on these trips.

I also rode my first motorbike today. Well we each had a 125cc baby Honda to ourselves for a measly 250 Baht from 11am - 6pm. What a steal. And really, that's the best way to see the ancient Khmer ruins in this old city. You phoot phoot phoot your way from one temple complex to another in quick time, leaving yourself to take a leisurely photo-walk through the Stupas, Chedis, Prangs and Bots. But Ayuthayya is not the Angkor Plain. So really, calibrate your expectations when you arrive here. Don't expect to get the same spine-tingling episode you experience when Angkor Wat first looms into view from the Causeway. The ruins are, how shall I put it, alittle too ruined. But still there are sufficient large bits lying around to make the rickety train ride worth it.

And oh yes, I had a little accident today. Poor inexperienced 'ole me. Revved the throttle with a little too much gusto and had to brake (and fall) to avoid crashing into Kat. Nothing much, a grazed knee and slightly swollen right foot plus torn pants. Sob.

I don't know if we're doing Kanchanaburi later. It'll probably be a day off shopping. I guess...

A Dispatch From Siam 2

I am in Pattaya.

Yes don't ask me how I ended up here. It was definitely not in our initial plans to arrive in this Farang Paradise of Ah-qua A-go-go's and sinful debauchery. But being only about 30km from Si Racha down the coast in Chonburi, and having had a friend drive us down in his zhnged up Vios, we thought, What The Heck.

On Saturday, the beach party at Si Racha was not to be. Instead, we found ourselves at the most unusual of parties. The 4th Anniversary celebrations of the Harley Davidson Motorcycle Club of Pattaya/Si Racha. Yes, here we were, 4 Asian faces in a sea of big brawny Americans, Scandinavians, Aussies and an assortment of other leather-clad Europeans with their equally brawny, chromed-polished, two-wheeled mammoths. But after the initial culture shock, we mingled right in. They're really nice people, these bikers. Most of whom are expatriates working in the area by day. And monster-machine wielding demons at night. There were a couple of really cool Ducatis as well and really, I should be getting my motorbike lessons going again when I return to Singapore.

In an hour or so, I take the bus back to Bangkok. The rest are still in bed, thanks to the 5am Lights Off last night after another intoxicating sojourn out at the Disco. This time, the place was aptly named Lucifer along the Walking Street that has become Pattaya's most famous.

The beach outside is still devoid of the Farangs who are still under the sheets too I suspect. But the colorful ubiquitous umbrellas that dot the entire 4km stretch of fairly white sand are out in full force. And so are the vendors that try to sell you everything from BBQ-ed prawns to a Henna tattoo. Yesterday while lazing at the beach with a couple of Heinekens, we had to fend off at least 20 of these itinerant hawkers. Yes we counted.

Anyway, I'll catch you guys later when I get to Bangkok. If I am still sober that is...

A Dispatch From Siam

A splash and dash in here.

4 hours I spent at Suvarnabhumi yesterday, waiting for the others to arrive on Swissair. 4 hours of bliss spent reading at Starbucks with my Venti-sized Cappucino. Make that 2 Cappucinos.

The airport's just a big hulking mass of bare concrete with little aesthetic decorations here and there. Big yes, pretty no. They tried to give it an industrial-chic look. But I think it just looks cheap. And poorly maintained to boot.

Anyway I am hungover from a night out partying at Hollywood Disco down in Ratchada. Major headache. And the noon sun beating down now on the denizens of Bangkok is not helping one bit.

Chatuchak's gonna be one big sweat fest I tellya!

Later Peeps

My tentative itinerary for the next week or so.

2 Nov (Fri) - Touchdown Suvarnabhumi 1900hrs. Hang around in airport to await arrival of friends at 2100hrs. Late dinner and drinks.

3 Nov (Sat) - Chatuchak market in the morning and a medical supplies shop at Saphan Khwai. In the late afternoon, by taxi to Si Racha, a coastal town before Pattaya in Chonburi province for a Beach Party hosted by a friend.

4 Nov (Sun) - Return to Bangkok. Free & Easy. Will perhaps check out a half-day Spa thingee.

5 Nov (Mon) - Leave early for the floating market at Damnoen Saduak, 110km west of Bangkok. Visit old colleagues upon return. Get day trips organized.

6 Nov (Tue) - By boat along the Chao Praya River to the ancient capital of Ayutthaya. Day Trip.

7 Nov (Wed) - By bus from the Southern Terminal to Kanchanaburi town to see the bridge over River Kwai. May or may not do the Tiger Temple to frolick with the Big Pussies. Day Trip.

8 Nov (Thur) - Chill out. Fly home in the evening.

Will log in if I manage to get myself on the Internet.

Nir Mana?

I think this is a nice photo of a seated Buddha at Ayutthaya’s Wat Yai Chai Mongkol Chedi.



A cloudless blue sky.

The iconic juxtaposition of ancient stone.

Next week, I hope I get this in my viewfinder.

Road Trip

The opportunity has come up for me, perhaps in early November, to join 4 other backpackers for a trip from Thailand, via Cambodia, to Vietnam by road. And well it looks like an interesting proposition.



The plan is to take a train from Bangkok to Aranyaprathet. A scenic ride on a 3rd-Class coach that will take about 5-6 hours. Then from 'Aran' to the Thai border town of Rongklua, a short 7km motorbike ride away. Walking across to the Cambodian town of Poipet thereafter, when the typical US$20 Visa-on-arrival formalities are completed.

The road from Poipet, through Sisophon, and then to Siem Reap is a lengendary, some say infamous one, and conditions vary from slightly bumpy to absolutely wretched. Still, I think it will be quite an adventure if we go by Sawngthaew or taxi with craters bigger than a pick-up truck, bombed-out bridges, drives through rice fields, roadblocks and demands for money, all realities as recently as 2002. A truly On The Road experience.



From Siem Reap to Phnom Penh, the plan is to travel by boat over the huge Tonle Sap lake. A rather dangerous trip actually because these old floating diesel-powered dustbins don't exactly have a sterling safety record. But I've done the bus thing already so will try something different.

From Phnom Penh, we'll cross over to Ho Chih Minh City by bus before the rest fly home from there. I am thinking of staying awhile in HCMC to get to the Co Chin VietCong tunnels outside town and maybe drift down the Mekong abit since this is a part of French Indo-china I have never been.

How would Laos feature in the plan I wonder, if at all possible...hmm..

The Kinabalu Kronicles - Hari Enam

One week after returning from the northern tip of Borneo that is Sabah, I write these memoirs, of the trip to reach its peak...

The final day of our sojourn in Sabah came quickly.

And like all activity-packed holidays, time flies when you're having fun. Well at least we could look back at the hike up the Gunung and say we had fun. Not when we were actually in the midst of huffing and puffing up the mountain with the rain and all.

Hari Enam was planned to be a day of Sun, Sea and Sand before catching the flight back to Senai later in the evening. We practically had the whole day to snorkel and frolick on the various islands lying within the Tunku Abdul Rahman Marine Park, a surprisingly short 15min boat ride away from Jesselton Jetty. Jesselton itself was a easy 10min stroll by foot from our hotel but we got there an hour late because we all woke up at nine.

No matter, our boat was already moored at the pontoon and after the guys and girls picked up their snorkeling equiptment, we were off. I had brought along my own set of fins, mask and snorkel so I didn't have to use the horribly cartoonish Donald Duck flippers the boat company had on offer.



Our 350 Ringgit package included having the exclusive use of the boat from nine to five and doing a 2-island hop. And we arrived speedily at our first stop of the day, Pulau Manukan. Manukan seemed to be the most developed of the 5-island, mini archipelego within the Park, which includes Gaya, Sapi, Mamuntik and Sulug. The relatively clean beach was dotted with day-trippers from the mainland, and just alittle inland, there were a host of resort-styled chalets and beach-front cafes where copious amounts of alcohol were being consumed by thirsty travellers in the heat of the mid-morning sun.

We stripped down, put on our fins and jumped into the reasonably clear waters almost immediately on touchdown. The scorching sun was a welcomed fiery ball, since it had remained hidden behind clouds for most of the previous 2 days. I snorkeled for about 45mins, 50m from shore, then decided to spend the rest of the time tanning and catching up on all my SMS-es, lying on the beach, i-Pod in tow. The rest of them humored themselves by jumping off Manukan's jetty into the sea and swimming nearly the whole length of the island.



At 2pm, we made our way to Pulau Mamuntik where the visibity under-water exceeded a very impressive 10m (so close to shore). Coral cover, however, was pretty pathetic. There were none of the gorgeous Gorgonian Fans I had seen on a recent diving trip in the Andaman Sea and most of the calcified rocks were bleached. Nevertheless, we did see our fair share of Wrasses, Parrotfishes and Fusiliers. We enjoyed our time in the waters off Mamuntik, where I taught the group how to snorkel properly and skin-dive.

By 5pm, the boat was waiting to take us back to the mainland and we met up with the boatman promptly because we knew it would be quite of a rush to get back, shower, have dinner and then do souvenir shopping for the people back home. All this before catching our Air Asia flight to Johor Bahru at 2100hrs and then making the transfer by private taxi to Singapore.



Once back on KK, it was a mad scramble to have one last Sunset dinner at the pier, buy some Sabah tea from the hypermart and then get back to the Holiday to shower and pack. How the 2 guys managed to find time for some durians beats me.

On the flight, we swopped cameras and looked at each others' pictures, attempting to delete the photos of ourselves we thought were unflattering. At least the girls were.

Before long, Senai loomed as a collection of tiny bright lights below. And by a little past midnight, we were all home, safe and sound, in our own Garden City.

The Kinabalu Kronicles - Hari Lima, Part 2

One week after returning from the northern tip of Borneo that is Sabah, I write these memoirs, of the trip to reach its peak...

When we got back to Laban Rata, most of the angmos had already left.

Save for one or two that were sunning themselves on the hostel's wooden deck, the others had begun to make the 3 hour descent to Park HQ. We, on the other hand, decided to have breakfast first. I mean, the both of us had just come down from the summit and the last thing we wanted to do was to give our knees such immediate punishment.



So I joined Darren, Mitch and KZ for Milo (again) and some noodles. While Rick lay concussed on his bed. The poor fella finally succumed to the fever that had infected the rest and lay near comatose while I described our adventure up to Low's to a rapt 3-man audience. We were only going to begin our own descent at 10am so I had some time to prop my aching feet up and have a little snooze in the cafeteria as well.

At 10, Jo came by to see if we were ready to move. Rick had recovered somewhat after popping 2 Panadols and the rest were all raring to go after having slept soundly till eight. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping and there was a cool mountain breeze (yes a real gentle one no kidding) that made conditions just right for the trip down. When we got out, the thermometer showed a temperature of about 11 degrees celsius. And the 2 digits were a welcomed sight.



We found the going so much easier on the way down and we made good progress, passing by pondok after pondok in quick succession. I was tired but I still had a spring in my step because there was a sense of achievement after having conquered the summit. You tend to forget about the pain when you're satisfied. The route down looked so different from yesterday when we had made the climb up. And we found ourselves asking if we had been here before. Things don't look the same, you know, in the glorious sunshine and the full extent of Kinabalu's beautiful greenery became immediately apparent as we trudged by.



Many climbers were on their way up. And today, we were the ones dishing out the words of encouragement. C'mon! not far now, You can do it!, The pondok's just 100m ahead. Lucky for them, there were no warnings about mini waterfalls or the soggy inclement weather we had to tell them about.

On the way up also were numerous porters, lugging up a variety of neccessities like food rations, gas tanks and mattresses for the dormitories upstairs. A couple of them were also carrying furniture and, get this, doors. Yes, unwieldy chunks of wood strapped together and carried on the backs of some poor, bent men. How these porters do it with nary a grunt or groan, negotiating the rocks on a steep incline is anybody's guess. Plus they do it handsfree mind you. No grappling of branches or the like. The first porter I saw had a load the size of a baby elephant on his back and from a distance, I thought that Sabah Parks allowed 4WDs up the mountain. Respect.



At alittle after 1pm, we reached Timpohon Gate, the start point where barely the day before, we had begun this alpine odyssey. Bernard, our driver was already waiting at the gate and we all tumbled into his taxi for the ride down to the Park HQ where Jo would certify our climb to the summit and give us our certificates. Rick and me got the colored certificates for completing the Peak while the rest had similar designs, only in Black and White, for their efforts to Laban Rata.



We told Bernard to take us for lunch and then to Poring Hot Springs which was about 40km away but still within the confines of Kinabalu National Park. Our mountain passes got us free entry at the Springs and it was really shiork to dip your feet in the sulphorous, mineral-rich, hot water. I am not a firm believer in the medicinal/therapeutic properties of Hot Springs but I swear alot of my leg-ache was dissolved in the warm comfort of the hot-pool. A fitting end really, to a fitting climb.

On the way back to KK town in the evening, there was hardly any banter in the taxi because we were all asleep. Bernard woke us up when we got to the Hotel Holiday.

And when Lawrence greeted us with a Ahh you made it back alive!, I had a smirk on my face that said Yah, No Big Deal.

The Kinabalu Kronicles - Hari Lima, Part 1

One week after returning from the northern tip of Borneo that is Sabah, I write these memoirs, of the trip to reach its peak...

I woke up sweating at midnight.

We were crammed into a small 6-man bunk in Laban Rata and the heater was already on at full-blast since eight in the evening. We had a lone female Japanese climber with us in the room and together, the combined bodyheat of six with the very effective radiator made for something of a suana.

Darren and the 2 girls sat talking in whispers on his bed. They had already decided not to do the final push for the summit and were still nursing serious bouts of Mountain Sickness and fevers all round. I got up, went to pee and checked again that my alarm was set for 2am. The corridor outside was cold, and so was the toilet, which was thankfully only a few paces away. Rick stirred, muttered to me if it was time to wake up and promptly went back to Zzz-land when I replied that we had another 2 hours to an icy hell.

When my handphone beeped at two, there was a strong force that kept me bolted to my bed. It was dark and freezing outside, everybody was nicely snuggled under the sheets and my feet were aching badly. Plus it was bloody two in the morning. What was I thinking!

I dragged myself up nonetheless and noticed that Rick was already in the shower. Obviously the Cleanliness Freak wanted to be hygenic for this ungodly-hour climb. I brushed my teeth and the both of us then got dressed in the dark, trying our best not to make too much noise as the others were deep in blissful slumber. And yes, we tried our darnest not to look at them all nice and comfy under their blankets, quickly making our way down to the hall downstairs for a quick breakfast before meeting up with Jo again.

Jo wasn't too dissappointed that only the two of us turned up. Perhaps he had seen this situation many times before, people deciding that the 3/4 trip up to Laban Rata was as much as they could take. We then joined the rest of the sleepy climbers in forming a long and silent convoy out of the guesthouse onto the moon-lit trail leading up to Kinabalu's peak. Like a long line of crippled fire-flies, our head-torches flickering in the dark, cold night.

At heights above 3500m, forest cover becomes scarce and we were approaching alot of rock and granite. For about a kilometre or so after leaving Laban Rata, we were faced with an enormous amount of steps carved from pure granite. And you could tell that the gradient of the climb had increased quite significantly from the day before. At some parts even ladder-like. Thankfully, it had stopped raining. That made a big difference. It was cold yes, but at least we were dry. If it had been wet and slippery, surely it would have made the dark and steep ascent that much harder.

Everybody was targetting for a 3 hour climb to complete the final 2.2km to Low's Peak. That would bring us up to the summit at 6am. Just in time to catch the sunrise. Once the steps portion of the climb was over in an hour and a half, the terrain then switched drastically to bare-faced, sloping granite and we had to use ropes for support. There were absolutely no trees surrounding us now and we knew that this barreness could only mean one thing. We were near the top.



Without the 2 girls with us, Rick and me had no difficulty keeping up with the United Nations of Canadians, Kiwis, Swiss, Norwegians, Brits and Americans in the human convoy. We trudged slowly but surely, making sure that we followed the rope and kept pace with the person infront of us. A strong wind was howling across the face of the mountain and because of the lack of tree cover, we took the bare brunt of the high-altitude 'breeze'.

At a quarter to six, I caught sight of Low's Peak. And suddenly, my weary legs grew stronger. Some of the angmos that were way infront of us had already reached the summit, took their pictures, and were making their way down quickly. They didn't want to linger around too much because it was really cold, zero degrees I reckon.



Ricky and me stood on top of Mount Kinabalu at 0558hrs. From 4095.2 metres, it was really a celestial experience with the swirling clouds all around us and the eerie but beautiful landscape of granite before us as far as our eyes could see. Low's Peak is the highest point on Kinabalu's summit plateau, with a host of other secondary peaks like St John's, Ugly Sisters, Donkey Ears and the very picturesque South Peak completing the 'Stegosaurus Back', as the alpine plateau has sometimes been called.

Unlike the angmos before us, we lingered on Low's for abit. And I lit a celebratory cigarette. Pity I didn't have a Cohiba Robustos with me in my pocket or a bottle of Scotch for the cold. It sounds cliched but standing on the summit more than made up for the wet and miserable day before and the almost zombiefied climb up in the wee hours of the morning. The rest of our group should have been up here with us. It was a real big pity they were not.



After the mandatory photos and poses next to the sign that marked the highest point on the mountain, we began our descent. And it was always going to be a killer on the knees and ankles getting down. In 1.5 hours, we were back in Laban Rata at about eight in the morning.

The rest of the party had just awoken from sleep. But the both of us were ready to plonk ourselves down and make up for our severe lack of shut-eye.

The Kinabalu Kronicles - Hari Empat

One week after returning from the northern tip of Borneo that is Sabah, I write these memoirs, of the trip to reach its peak...

We looked at the tins of canned food and cups of instant noodles before us. We looked at each other. And then we decided that we would all have breakfast in bed.

Yes we cooked the stuff in the dorm, with boiled water from a kettle, and then proceeded to slip under the sheets again, slurping away at the curly coils of carbohydrate and preserved meat protein we had lugged along for the climb. Finishing with a hot cup of Milo each, we packed up our things, and then took a walk in the drizzle, arriving at the Park Operations Centre at nine where we met our guide Jo.

Jo couldn't speak much Inggreesh. And we suspected that the Rangers were trying to be funny with us for lying the day before. Well we were supposed to understand Jo's brand of Malay, Borneo twang and all, if we were really Malaysians. As it turned out, I had to play interpreter and give him the sorry excuse that we were all schooled in Singapore from young and so sucked big-time in the Bahasa department. The diminutive, weathered, Dusun tribesman in yellow fishmonger work-boots gave me a conspiratorial grin, and then herded all 5 of us into a mini-van bound for Timpohon Gate, one of 2 gateways (the easier one) up the mighty Gunung.

At the gate, we flashed our climbing permits, hanging by lanyards on our necks, to the ranger who dutifully marked our attendance on the namelist for the day. And then we were off, into the misty, white yonder. By now, the drizzle had increased in its intensity but under the cover of the lush forest canopy, we still remained relatively dry. But only just. The time, 10am.



It was a 6.5km hike up to the 3/4 mark that is Laban Rata. There, we would spend the night and begin our assault on the summit at 3am the next morning. But before we could even think about the peak, we had to actually get to the warm comfort of the hostel first in one piece. On paper, it didn't look that difficult. With a pondok (rest-hut) at every 1km or so during the ascend, we used those as markers and milestones to track our progress. There were 7 pondoks in all before Laban Rata and the first 3 were easy enough. But by the time we reached the 4th, the heavy drizzle had turned into a full-fledged downpour. And with the thinning foliage of wind-bent shrubs as we climbed higher and higher, we found ourselves more and more exposed to the wind and rain.



Yesterday's climbers were on their way down from the summit. And we met many of them who told us to be prepared for the tougher conditions as we moved higher. Some of the long flights of steps, it seems, made up of tree roots and rock, had been turned into mini waterfalls in view of the incessant rain, making climbing difficult and slippery. They were right. Sometimes, it seemed as though we were trying to negotiate a Kota Tinggi on the way up, and the fast-moving streams of water made getting a proper foothold tough. Many of the returning climbers also told us that they never made it to the summit from Laban Rata in the morning. Infact only 20 out of the 100 or so climbers from yesterday's batch actually reached the peak. The conditions up there were just too bad and the guides had advised against being too foolhardy to even attempt a climb.

By the time we arrived at Pondok 6, we were drenched from head to toe. And coupled with the howling winds at about 3100m elevation, freezing our butts off as well. Ironically, we didn't want to sit around at the Pondoks too much although we were tired because you started shivering once you stopped walking. The girls were starting to look alittle pale and I knew the onset of mild hypothermia had set in. Their thin ponchos were no match for these gusty, wet conditions. My teeth were chattering but I had to control the involuntary jaw spasms and urge everyone to push on. It wasn't easy because at this height, the thin mountain air also made breathing slightly difficult. We were panting.



The flights of steps were also just endless. And everytime you reached a sort of plateau in the terrain, another evil flight awaited around the corner that would run up and dissappear into the misty distance. But we were thankful Kinabalu at least had steps and there were no need for ropes and carabinas. Plus the Summit Trail was well trodden and clearly marked. Clear enough for Jo to keep a very respectful distance behind us all the time. In fact for most of the climb, he was nowhere to be seen and only when we reached the Pondoks would he suddenly appear from the bushes like an Orang Asli hunter back from a day's kill.



At about 2pm in the afternoon, the final stretch of a rocky ascent brought us to within view of Laban Rata. We took off our wet hoods, did a little dance swimming in our boots, and said a soft ThankYou prayer to the Mountain God (if there was one) for having reached warmth and dryness. The temperature gauge outside the Guesthouse read 6.6 degrees. But with the wind and wet, I think the thermometer should have read more like 4.





No matter, we stripped out of our wet clothes, poured the water out of our boots, wringed our socks and enjoyed 8 pots of hot Milo between the 5 of us. Under those chilly circumstances, the Chocolatey Malt never tasted so good.

By 6pm, sunset was upon us. We were all shoo-ed to bed by 8pm as Jo wanted to set off at 3am the next morning. Darren, KZ and Mitch all came down with fever. And it seemed that only Ricky and me were going to drag ourselves out of bed for the final peak assault in the ungodly morning.

The Kinabalu Kronicles - Hari Tiga

One week after returning from the northern tip of Borneo that is Sabah, I write these memoirs, of the trip to reach its peak...

At 10am on the morning of my birthday, Ah Gong, the taxi-driver we hired to take us to Kinabalu Park HQ, was already waiting patiently on the sidewalk downstairs from the Hotel Holiday. Toothy grin, cigarette, and all strapping 1.89 metres of him.

We piled into his 6-seater Toyota MPV, taking with us only the stuff we needed for the climb and leaving about half of our luggage with the Front Desk. The thought of spending the last night, when we returned, at the Hyatt, still played in my mind. But when Lawrence, Holiday's Concierge-cum-Receptionist-cum-Bellhop-cum-Housekeeper bade us a warm good luck with the ascend and I'm sure you guys will come back alive, we felt we had to return to his shithole and prove a point.

Kinabalu Park HQ is located about 90km from KK town and at an elevation of 1560m. A journey that would normally take about 1.5hrs by car and perhaps 2.5hrs if you plant yourself on one of the shuttle buses that leaves from the main terminal every 2 hours. The Park HQ is a mandatory visit for all climbers because it is where you get your permits and guide arrangements done and also where accomodations are available to spend the night if one does not want to climb immediately on the day of arrival.

Along the way, Ah Gong stopped at a little village for us to take a pee-break and also for us to buy some 'I Conquered Kinabalu' T-shirts (rather prematurely) and perhaps a hiking staff or two. We got some sturdy, evenly-cut branches, an old Kadazan lady was selling for 2 Ringgit each, as our walking aids. And as it turned out, it was to be one of the more intelligent buys of the trip.



We also noticed, along the way up, the many 'Katholic' Churches at every town and almost at every turn. I mean you didn't actually get to see a majestic steeple or a bell tower but at least there were countless signages pointing towards a Church of Saint Gregory, or a Saint Augustine, or a Saint Ignatius or a Saint Peter, or a Saint...errr..Dorcas? Ah Gong said the indigeneous Dusun ethnic group that populated these parts were mostly converted Catholics, thanks in large part, to the Angmo Missionaries from a long time ago. It was rather bizarre actually and we really felt we were going up some Holy Mountain.



Fifteen minutes before reaching the entrance of the Park, we were already plotting how we could circumvent paying the 100 Ringgit Climbing Permit fee Sabah Parks charges for non-Malaysians. And since I was the only person capable of some decent Pasar Malay, I became the obvious choice to converse with the Rangers, telling them that Michelle and me were from Kuala Lumpur and the other 3 Orang Cheenas were from Penang.

And it worked. We succeeded in paying the Malaysian rate of 30 Ringgit each. Yippity-do-dah-day! I would also have you know that the Entrance Fee to the park itself costs 15 Ringgit each for non-Malaysians. We paid 3.



We chose to spend a relaxing day at the Park HQ before the climb the next day. And taking into consideration the exertions of white-water rafting the day before, the decision was a good one. I mean there are some climbers who arrive early at the Park HQ and start their assault on the mountain straightaway. These are mainly the crazy angmos who either want to save on 1 night's accomodation or can't wait to get their pasty hairy feet on the Gunung pronto.

Grace Hostel, our home away from home for the night, was a surprise. Much cleaner and better equipped than a so-called 'hotel' named Holiday. The only drawback, for the girls that is, was bunking in with us guys inside a 3 double-decker bed dormitory room and being subjected to the loud cacophony of snores from a V8, V10 and V12 'engine' respectively. Yes they felt like smothering us guys in the middle of the night.



The Park HQ takes up a small percentage of the 754 Square Kilometres that is Kinabalu National Park. And is really just a collection of Hostels, Chalets and Cabins spread across an area of about 15 football fields run and monopolised by one private company, Sutera Sanctuary Lodges. There are some trails into the surrounding mountain forest that the more intrepid can explore, a Botanical Garden and a Park Visitors' Centre those inclined to facts and figures can spend some time in. But other than these, the HQ is a quiet and welcomed tranquil respite, when the day-trippers not attempting the mountain, have returned home.

We chose to do one of the easier trails looping around the Park as a warm-up just in time for dinner at one of only two restaurants on the property.



It started raining heavily after makan. And thinking the downpour would stop in time for our climb the next day, we dozed off into a warm and peaceful slumber after a lovely hot shower in Grace's impeccable communal toilets.

As it turned out, it rained the whole night. And when we awoke to the pitter-patter of raindrops the next morning, we knew the road ahead would be tough...and wet.