Niall Clerkin

I’ll probably close down this blog soon. It was always meant to be a travel blog rather than a window into my life and well, you see, I’m not travelling anymore. I’m settled with a job to start, an apartment to live in, bills to pay. You know the story, you all have it too. It’s just that for the next few years I’ll be having it in Australia. G’day mate, throw another shrimp on the barby, dingos ate my baby , that sort of stuff. So the blog will die until I find another less time consuming version. In the meantime there is, however, the matter of bookending our travels at this end so I feel I owe you all a glimpse of the great city on Australia’s eastern seaboard. Sydney.

Night time harbour bridge

The first day we arrived it was late, dark and lashing rain. With no storm drains for the water to disappear into, it was rivering it down the streets, axle deep. The city looked depressed in the half light. Depressed, drowned and miserable. We had left Melbourne a couple of hours earlier in the blistering heat, that lovely thermal mist was obscuring the runway in a most picturesque way. Alas it seemed we had come to a new climate.

We are out of focusWe are out of focus

As we checked in to the hostel, (being managed by an 18 year old in the absence of the real manager) with rain pouring in through the roof (happens every time it rains apparently) we were not feeling optimistic. Still, we stuck our courage to the sticking place and went out to get wet. We peeked up onto Darlinghurst Rd in Kingscross a little gingerly. It was Friday night in this clubbing & red-light district and we were mentally prepared for mania. On a side note why are clubbing & pubbing areas so regularly paired with red-light districts (think Soho, Pigalle/Montmartre)? Is it sheer drunken convenience? It seems odd that one would grow from the other and particularly in that it so often seems that it is the clubs that trendy-up the seedy areas.

Circular Quay

Anyways, we went walking. We saw our first Aborigines, but we didn’t stop for a chat about cultural differences. The drunken abuse being shouted at us and all passers was difference enough. Strip clubs, xxx shops, adult video stores, out-of-it whores, McDonalds….it’s quite the strip. Add to that pubs, all night dance clubs, sweet shops, banks, creperies, hostels, bistros and restaurants and it is just like any other suburb. Only with more neon and strippers. We went to bed and hoped to wake up in the sun.

Cathedral

It didn’t happen. The same torrential anger greeted us the next morning. The hostel was getting wetter, though not in our room thankfully, and the wifi was out. That  night Ireland would play in the six nations and we didn’t know where to go. Disaster loomed (and this was way before we thought it possible we could lose to the Scots!). Elaine’s baby brother Neil helped us out. We met him after his shift waiting at the Belvedere (?) in Surrey Hills. A fairly trendy spot with a restaurant and bar featuring  a house DJ and lots of this seasons fashions. We fitted right in, in our many times rolled up, over washed travelling clothes. We had a few beers at the bar, midnight-ish and headed downtown closer to kickoff, circa 1.30am. Cheers Bar on George St, is a multi-floored superpub seemingly dominated by Irish and Asian clientele, but it shows sport on a gazillion tvs in every corner of its sorry sozzled orphanage. We moved some furniture around gamely and had a front row seat for another Irish victory. Afterward Neil, not wanting to be bested by the lads on the field was determined that we would not go home empty handed and insisted in finding us another club or 2 to build up a nice hangover. At 10am we lamely called a halt to it and stumbled back to the hostel, thanking and cursing Neil in the same sentence. We slept until 8am the next day. You simply cannot knock sleep like that.

As it turns out we slept through what was the worst of the storm, 20 hours more of torrential rain. The hostel had lost power, twice, and while other patrons bemoaned their ill luck we slept soundly, upstairs in room number 8.

Boardwalk at Darling Harbour

For the next week, coming and going from the hostel, through Kingscross, was not a pleasure. I was interviewing and we were having difficulty finding the rest of Sydney. The good looking part that everyone raves about. So while things were looking up in my interviews regarding a Sydney based job, poor Elaine was looking down, down the street at Darlinghurst road, wondering if this was her lot.

Downtown

That weekend we resolved to find Sydney, as we had done in other cities. We headed first for the Visitor Information office and then on a walking tour. Hyde Park, Botanic Gardens, The Rocks, Circular Quay, The Opera House, the Bridge, Darling Harbour so aptly named. The city opens up in the sun, with a map and the will to walk. Beautiful sandstone buildings with spears of glass crashing through them, ugly older tower buildings shaded by the brilliance of youth. Fountains and sculptures. Open air swimming pools and exercise parks in the full flush of activity. A Monorail and a subway/train. The city took shape around us that weekend and though it didn’t have the immediately accessible  artistic energy of Melbourne we felt she had not yet  fully displayed herself to us.

View from the bridge

I was thrilled when I first crossed the harbour bridge by train, my nose stuck to the glass dimming my own view with my breath. The coves and harbours beneath me seemed innumerable, sailboats and other please craft bobbing placidly like tame dogs awaiting some ball to fetch. Ferries cross busily from the southern to the northern shore, a happy alternative to bus and train. Commuting by ferry, in the 21^st century, in a harbour such as Sydney’s is only the stuff of fable. Yet thousands do it every day, with coffee perked up in one hand and a book in the other. On the north shore there lies many desirable suburbs, Kirribilli, Neutral Bay, Mossman & Manly. Lived in, we are told by the impossibly rich or equally lucky. We follow the hilly streets to Balmoral bay, a swimming cove and marina, in a tranquil setting minutes on the bus  from the hubbub of North Sydneys business district, and walk the suburbs admiring the houses of millionaire row. There truly are many different parts to Sydney.

Opera House and ferries

One of my most promising interviews is with a company in North Sydney. I like the interview, the job and the culture; and they’ve hired Irish before so this could be it for us. North Sydney is a second CBD, with business towers and day time eateries. It is pretty in a functional and businesslike sort of way, wearing a nice suit rather than seducing us with a miniskirt. The northern suburbs, this millionaires paradise with its views of the harbour bridge, the opera house. How ever will we afford it?

Darling Harbour

My old buddy Mike lives in Sydney. Half a lifetime ago I studied with  Mike in Santander in Northern Spain and visited his home on the Isle of Wight. We once went out for a night in matching dungarees. He’s a dangerous man to know. We met at the Lord Dudley in Paddington. How much more of middle England could that sentence be? We met at the Lord Dudley in Paddington. Jolly good. A pint of your finest warm ale then. It’s a lovely old world bar with good food and expats.  Mike happily relayed the last 10 years of his life in a sharpish and I’d say much practised 10 minute spiel and as it turned out he, his lovely wife and their new daughter were upping sticks to go to kiwi-land. Well, it was nice to meet him again….

Aha it doesn’t end there, for he’s not gone yet! The fool of a man that I am, I accepted his invitation to join him and some of his fit friends in some ocean charity swims. This culminated in being picked up on Sunday morning and leaping into the water with hundreds of other flailing idiots for a 1km swim at full pelt. Oddly it sounds both harder and easier than it was. Great fun aside from the odd kick in the eye and thump in the back. Nothing I wouldn’t expect from a game of  Gaelic football I suppose! Even better, one of Mike friends Tom managed to come 4^th or 5^th in our class (the old man category). Afterward we had classic long Sydney Sunday morning breakfasts on the beach front with lots of chat and entertainment from  Gracie who’s not yet 2.

Elaine, darling

The unique geography of Sydney seems to give it something extra. Half of the suburbs have sea or bay frontage. With over 4 million living on the bay it is no incidental metropolis. It has a tall and imposing central business district, where all the main rail lines intersect and long impressive city vistas. It feels good to walk around in it, nipping in and out of shops for sushi or coffee. There are west end musicals, numerous international concert venues, Rugby Union, League, Soccer and Aussie Rules teams. There are beach towns for surfing, swimming, snorkelling & scuba. Great shopping for those inclined. More restaurants than people (or so it seems). It’s going to be our home now. We’ve gotten an apartment share in a beauty of a place with a friendly English couple. It’s overlooking Neutral Bay harbour, a few minutes’ walk from the Prime Minister’s residence in Kirribilli and 12 minutes from my new job. We can see the harbour bridge from our bedroom roof terrace.  I took the role in North Sydney, happily, and am waiting for my work visa to materialise. Elaine outshone me again by applying for, interviewing and starting a job in mere days.  Will I ever escape that shadow?

North Sydney from our terrace

Writing this blog has helped me put mnemonic shape on the last six months and in that time I have lived a charmed existence. So what if all travel is mere tourism these days? Buy your ticket and get your ass on the road.

Over and out

If, like me, you saw the Beatles animation “the Yellow Submarine” when you were young and impressionable, and had carried with you all these years a great dislike for the large-headed, long-tongued harbingers’ of disaster, the blue meanies, then it could be with some trepidation that you would agree to take a burned out old hi-ace, themed with those same villains, on a 1500 km spin. The plan was to take an old camper south from Melbourne, across the Mornington peninsula down to Phillip Island, home of the worlds littlest penguins, and then follow the coast east and north to Sydney.

The Camper

The van itself was a camper in the most basic sense, but we made it work. There was a pump action sink, a single gas camping ring, a small table and 2 foldaway stools, mattresses and bedding. The van was old, perhaps painted when the movie came out. It was a gas guzzler and not entirely safe over 80kmh (the steering rack jumping around like Zebedee) and it didn’t have power steering but we had a whole week scheduled and that surely would be enough to dodge up the coast on the Princes Highway.

Victoria Coast

As we left Melbourne we got our first taste of the landscape to surround us for many miles to come. Lush greenness, rolling drumlins backed by steeper slopes, and hardwood forests. Over the next week the landscapes were all interchangeable, even the coves, natural harbours and the beaches. 1500km, 3 times the length of Ireland we would cover but the landscape would remain constant. Relativities of scale I suppose.

NSW valley

The penguins at Phillip Island are touted as the cutest in the world. The Little Penguin is around 33 centimetres tall with adults weighing just 1 kilogram. It is the only blue feathered penguin in the world and will typically live for 7 years. Every evening as sunset touches, the penguins group together in numbers of 5 or more to bravely cross the beach and find their burrows in the dunes and banks beyond.

Cute little penguins

They waddle out of the water, and are faced down by seagulls hoping to rob the fish from their gullet and quickly scamper back into the water. They repeat this 5 or six times until a group large enough to keep the gulls at bay has assembled and then they scurry for the hills. It is terribly funny and endearing, watching their trials. Frustrating too, when you think that they do this every night. The gulls can be quite sophisticated in their techniques too, at one stage splitting into a fore and aft group in a pincer movement designed to trap the little fellas. To no avail of course. Once up in the dunes the penguins are up for a fight as they protect their burrows from assumed attack. Every male that walks too close to another’s burrow will have a kilo of penguin power thrown upon him, and usually a third will jump in for good measure. There is no such thing as a fair fight on the sandy shores of penguin town.

Born to sell carpets

That night we parked up in Cowes on the northern shore of Philip Ireland,  in a public car park at the pier. Being first time camper van people we were very nervous. Was it permitted to just park and sleep? Would it be too noisy? Too hot or cold? Would the lurid swirls on the van attract every hooligan in the district? We woke up after 4 hours sleep freezing cold. No damage to the van, no kindly bobby asking us to move along, just freezing cold. What we had failed to foresee was that parked at a headland car park there was nothing to break the wind as it roared in, nightly, across the sea from Antarctica finding its way into the cracks of the doors, up through the engine, wrapping itself around the steering column and into our sleep. Cold cold cold. Australia lies.

Morning views

Next morning however we woke to the sun beating down on our tin box. Early morning breakfasters were heading to a little cafe on the pier and dogs were being walked on the strand in front of us. We nipped to the nearest supermarket and drove down to a quiet beach for breakfast of cereal and tea. Heating water in a saucepan on a gas camping ring is the only time when watching for the rolling waters of a boil is a pleasure, sitting at the back of the van thinking this is bloody nice.

Elaine gets to cuddle a koala at last

Koalas are furry. Maybe even fluffy. As such we were anxious to see a few. The Koala Conservation Centre on Phillip Island is a special environmentally and koala friendly enclosure with boardwalks amongst the trees that allows you to get close to these cute but wild Aussie animals. Truth be told Koalas sleep 21 hours a day so there is not much to see, just a few sleeping balls of fur that you want to take down and use for a nice winter scarf.

Sleeping koala

We enjoyed it all the same and learned lots about Australian wildlife in the attached display centre. We also followed the forest walk around the koala sanctuary and spotted a black Wallaby, an Echidna, Kookaburras and the usual brightly coloured parrots.

echidna; half anteater half hedgehog

We visited Churchill Island, a homestead kept in its 19^th century condition, complete with stables, smithys and farm. The house, paddocks and estate are a great visit, reminiscent of Sunday afternoons we were dragged on as children. I enjoyed very much and Elaine got to see a cow being milked, which is a great novelty for a city girl.

elaine and a sheep

In the evening we barbequed, like good Aussies, on public barbeques. Public BBQ’s are a great amenity in Australia. Sometimes they are a traditional grill requiring fuel, and sometimes an electric hotplate. They always seem to be clean and in good working order. We used them on a number of occasions over the week, making a big mess of them with our penchant for soy lovingly poured on burgers.

cooking on a public bbq

We slept at beach car parks, marinas, highway rest areas, wherever we felt it was safe and legal to park the camper. Highway rest areas are frequent in Victoria and NSW and come with bathrooms and drinkable water (usually). Thankfully we learned a better way to dress the bed, and park the van and avoided most of the night-time cold.

jesus cares for campers

The road we followed, the Princes Highway, is the biggest road in the region, but despite that it is no autobahn. Mostly a 2 lane highway, the Princes had a third lane every couple of miles which allowed the inevitable queues behind us to speed past us, scowling.

Sale marina

We spent time at windy surfer’s beaches, coffee shops, forest parks and steadily made our way northward to Sydney. We made a very difficult journey to the remote “Pebble Beach” where Kangaroos are supposed to live. Unfortunately they were away visiting when we arrived.

We aimed for a little folk festival in NSW we had gotten the heads up about in Sale, from an older Canadian couple. The man of the house (as it were) had walked over to us and randomly asked what we thought the future solution to the energy crisis was! When he approved of my pro-nuclear answer he told us about the festival.

A town of a thousand people Cobargo triples in size for the folk festival. Typically they only allow campers on site with a full weekend ticket, but I sweet talked the organisers with my Ballyshannons this and Lisdoonvarna thats. We had a brilliant night watching all sorts of music, chatting to aging hippies and grey Aussie weekend nomads. Our camper proved very popular among the older generations, who all remembered wanting one the first time around.

cobargo

The festival goers did themselves proud with their chatty natures, the good food and cheap drinks. We were introduced to a “cleanskin”, which is a bottle of lableless wine. Essentially a bottle of plonk without the branding, but produced as normal beside its branded brother. At 5 dollars a bottle, you can keep your label!

Is this the famous outback?

Road tripping is fun, but we discovered that you need more time. You can see nothing in a week. It’s lucky we’ve been tripping for 5 or 6 months then isn’t it?

Let’s get right to it. Tourism Australia’s new strapline should be; “Melbourne; Whats not to love?” A clean, green city with adventurous modern architecture stacked next to colonial grandeur, set on wide tram carrying boulevards.

From the river

The city centre, CBD (Central Business District) is as bright, pleasing, surpising and walkable as any city I’ve ever been in. A vibrant cafe culture with coffee houses and bistros every couple of paces. Victorian style shopping arcades growing artfully from alley openings and 80 story light catching office blocks. Suburbs as individual and interesting as each other. Italian, greek, japanese, chinese. Everyone has a quarter! As first impressions go, Melbourne is a city you can take home to Mama.

Street Chess

We were headed to St. Kilda. A seaside suburb of Irish backpacking fame. We stepped out of the airport and there it was. The St Kilda Shuttle. Aint it easy? We took the journey in, with big smailes, watching our new city grow and weave around us. Kilda, it turns out is Dun Laoghaire with sun. The old houses, promenades, markets and that seaside feel. Everyone loves Dun Laoghaire but who can afford to live there (the nice part)? and who can weather the rain that sheets in off the Irish sea freezing the legs of every Cailin in a skirt?

Cute houses in st kilda

The Irish backpacker however, gets to Kilda, and finds he can go no more. He is home. He is in Dun Laoghaire heaven, on a backpacking budget, with sun, surf and bikinis. He may never leave. The Irish brogue is the most noticeable accent at the street cafes. Sure, there are french and english too, even some aussies, but if there are not some Irish toe-rags in the room next to you, you’re not in Kilda.

St Kilda pier

2 days of orientation is all I get. I have a week packed to the gills with interviews and a second week for follow-ups.
The first weekend at a friends barbie (as in “throw another shrimp on the…”) Bren, a TV editor from Dublin, tells me that I am now 30% better than I ever was. I am 130% Niall. He tells me that Irish and UK experience is looked upon very favourably in Oz as our working environments tend to be busier, tougher and more focused. So now I can give that 110% football coaches were always asking me for and still keep a little in reserve! Yippee. Later that night we play poker and Bren wipes me out. He knows his per centages that fella!

The tram

My interviews all take place in the CBD. The 7th floor, 20th floor, 24th floor, even the giddy heights of the 30th floor, all provide me with different views of Melbournes downtown. On the 30th floor of a Collins St highrise, one Director I am meeting casually maps out the city in front of me, pointing off in all directions, adding names liking Sallylongheadandnose and watchyoudontdoapoo*. The names it seems are a mixture of Irish and aboriginal, only sillier.

A coffee street in the CBD

For 2 weeks of questions, a man had better know some answers. Thankfully I won more than I lost, and what I did know, sure they just added 30% to it anyway. One day, all this will be mine! A paycheck may suffice though….
* These names may be fictional

Getting out of Malaysia proved more difficult than getting in. We purchased tickets to the airport from a private company operating a berth at the main KL bus station. Be at the platform at 7.45 they said, and we duly obliged. At 8.15 there was still no bus. What had gone wrong?
-The bus is gone
-But we’ve been waiting here for 30 minutes
-It went from outside
-When?
-2 minutes ago
-Why didnt you tell us?
Shrug
-When is the next bus?
Shrug, afterthought
-Talk to the man, he come to take people, I dont know
The man is a 20 stone lumbering fathead who hates his job and clearly didnt come to the platform to pick up the passengers for the bus, which is exactly his job. The fathead wont talk to me, nor to another man, who speaks his language, and has the same problem.

Star Shuttle; Actual buses may vary

Slowly the platform fills up with a number of other airport bound passengers with similar queries. Many with different departure times and different stories as to when they were told the bus would be leaving. Fathead wont engage with any of them, he will not answer questions nor say when the bus is, or even if he knows when the bus is. He will just sit on his lardass chain smoking.
Some time later fathead struggles to his feet and says “Airport”. That was it, he then started lumbering away as all the passengers tried to grab their luggage and catch up with him. The heart attack waiting to happen had only one gear forward and no reverse, and was easily spotted as he torturously manoevered himself through an intersection outside the station, so we all caught up. We boarded a standard school bus, rucksacks and suitcases piled in like satchels and we looked to be back on track. As the bus hit the freeway and we were only on our second chorus of the “the wheels on the bus” it inexplicably stopped. Just pulled in, blinkers on and stopped. Fat head as usual was unavailable for comment. He just sat in his double berth and ignored the questions. For 15 minutes we waited. My true lies moment was coming, if only I’d packed that shotgun…..
“Change Bus” Fathead lumbered off to smoke, and we all carted our baggage to a coach that pulled in behind us. We were now 1 hour 15 minutes behind our schedule. Luckily we had set ourselves an hour ahead of standard times so we were really only 15 minutes behind, on a 2 hour check in window. We’d be fine, but not everyone would be so lucky. Some dashed from our bus like greyhounds and could be seen chasing an Boeing 757 down the runway minutes later. Never use Star Shuttle from KL to the Airport. And just for emphasis,  Never use Star Shuttle.

There is not a lot to eat in KL airport late at night, everywhere is shut and the credit card machines are on go slow. We had no ringadingdongs left so we were boned. It was tired and hungry we boarded our Air Asia flight to Melbourne. Initial signs were good though. It was on time, clean, tvs and game consoles for all seats. I am one of those rare types who usually enjoys his airplane food. Bangers and mash, re heated fry, reconstituted ham, I am your man.  We had pre-ordered the Malay food choice and were looking forward to a Nasi Goreng.

Air Asia; run by cartoon characters

On a 1.20am flight it is important that the food comes early. Eating and sleeping is all anyone wants to do. Thankfully it was the first order of business. And I scoffed it, every last grain of it. Yum. Then I popped a sleeping pill, plugged my ears, donned my eyemask (such is my flight ritual) and kicked back. No. No I didnt kick back. I tried to. The seats did not recline. I checked and re-checked. I checked Elaine seat, neighbours seats, I walked the plane for a reclining seat. None. Non reclining seats are fine on a 50 minute Ryanair hop to Manchester, but an 8 hour red-eye? It is not possible that a company who can buy an aviation license can be that stupid.
I tried to sleep in the upright position but it just didnt happen. 2 hours of mind numbing frustration later I thought I’d give in and watch a damn movie. Its 30 MR for a headset. Thats 8 euro to you and me, but I dont have any cash left to pay the ridiculous fee, and no sir, we dont accept visa. The seat still doesnt recline. Where’s the whiskey?

Air Asia you are thumbs down. You may have fancy advertisments all over asia, your hostess’s may be polite, your pilots may even have real stripes on their shoulders, but I say No Air Asia, bad dog!

Simon Cowell would send you home. Anne Robinson would kick your ass. You are the weakest link, Goodbye.

KL, we soon discovered, is extremely easy to navigate. Intersecting monorails, light rails and suburban trains cris cross the city like a capilliary system delivering workers and shoppers to their desired organs. Our first monorail experience was very much anticipated. We had been bursting into Simpson-esque song “Monorail” for days. We climbed the station steps at Times Square Shopping Complex (fresh out of the Vegas style book) and waited all of 3 minutes for the next northbound unit. Tickets were an easy purchase, assisted by a helpful diagram depicting the cost of travel to each station from the station we were at. How easy is that? The monorail trains are only 2 carriages long, very frequent and zip along with wonderful efficiency. 2 floors up, weaving between skyscrpaers (do we still call them that?) is a great, and impressive way to see a city.

The monorail at night

On this occasion we weren’t going far. The monorail was actually an unnecessary treat, for a journey we could have walked. But hey, life is for living. The destination was the KL aquarium. Now that we are practically professional Scuba Divers all aquatic attractions are oddly attractive to us. The aquarium is a big and clearly well funded and well supported establishment. Situated in the bowels of the KL Convention Centre, it is downtown central and easy to get to from all directions.

lionfish; my National Geo pic

It features many large tanks, imitating different aquatic environments, butterfly and bug displays as well as reptiles and snakes. One large tank holds some of the largest freshwater fish in existence. The highlight is an 80 metre “undersea” tunnel that cuts through a number of different sea environments.

10,000 leagues under the sea

The feeding tank

We watch 2 divers feeding large stingrays and turtles by hand in a very playful display. What we thought would be a 5 minute scavenge was a really well executed 30 minute display where the main actors clearly held some affection for the divers.

Stingray

The feeding frenzy happened in another tank when a few dead fish were dropped into a family of 200 piranhas. It lasted about 10 seconds and was all a blur.

Hungry red piranha

Later that night we treated ourselves to some steak and a nice bottle of red at the Outback Steakhouse. The occasion to break the budget was our 3rd anniversary and we figured it would be a nice touch to spend it at an Aussie grill shop headed as we were, to see the wizard.

The Outback; Meaty goodness

We both ordered with no nonsense flair and 2 rare steaks with mashed potato and veggies were not long in appearing at our table. The stunning doorsteps of meat were red and juicy and much more of a fillet than a sirloin (yum). Paired with my favourite wine (Argie Malbec) we toasted the past, the future and remembered to enjoy the present. We won’t be young and beautiful for ever you know!

The foyer at Times Square

Later in the week we decided to do a few days prep work for Oz. There were interview clothes to be bought lest I believed my charm would carry me through in a pair of raggy board shorts and flip-flops. I was also hoping to pick up a net book for writing this blog, and of course borrowing movies from the great movie database in the sky. I figured dress trousers and some nicely cut shirts might do the job. Elaine persuaded me into dress shoes also. Potential employers might frown upon my hiking shoes as i wooed them with an Irish jig.

Looking up in Times Square

Shopping in KL is big. It’s a national pastime. Shopping centres are like football stadiums,  hold  a similar number of designer duds obsessed people and thousands of shops apiece.  The neo classical foyer of Times Square, the casino-esque beast mentioned earlier, houses 3 restaurants. Thats just the foyer. When I say big I mean BIG! The centre also features an indoor themepark, complete with rollercoaster somewhere in its mezzanine attic floors. I managed to pick up shoes, 2 pairs of trousers (tailored), 3 dress shirts and  a leather belt for under 90 Euro. This made me happy enough to splash 300 on a nice little netbook (250GbHD, 2GbRAM). This made me happier still. Who ever said that you can’t buy a little happiness now and again?
Elaine for her part purchased a little also, in the form of a very swish handbag at a knockdown price. What else.

You talking to me?

Before leaving we made sure to visit the Zoo. A monorail ride to the outer reaches and a taxi to the gates, easily organised and pretty cheap. The Zoo was triple the price that the tourist guide noted which annoyed us but we paid our money and cooed at the animals.

KL Communications Tower

We decided to get the public bus from the Highlands to Kuala Lumpur for 22.50 ringadindongs. The tourist bus available at the hostel was 37 MR and it was a minibus. The public bus was an aircon coach. Go figure! The young manager at our hostel was very disappointed that we weren’t using his tourist bus and tried making a derogatory joke about our “friends” in room 117. It didnt work so we just thanked him for his meagre facilities and headed to the bus station, dignity intact. There is a sign on the wall at Kang Travellers lodge  “F*ck the Lonely Planet”, placed there after a particularly bad review. They’re really improving things.

5 hours-ish on the bus was not too bad. Its hardly the stuff of legend, and it was was on super highways. The roads in Malaysia are so much better than the other countries on our route. They put the road network in Ireland to shame also. I read up on Kuala Lumpur (or KL as everyone calls it) and earmarked a few things for us to do. The famous Petronas Towers, the aquarium, the zoo, the planetarium, shopping, blogging, chinatown, downtown KL. We were going to be busy. Chris & Kathrina were to fly to Auckland in a few days but we were to have company for our tourism until then. I’d like to point out that while I was doing all this research my lovely Elaine was having a snooze, as was Kathrina and Chris was heavily engrossed to some computer game about marauding chickens. You just can’t get good help these days….

Robbed from the web

We arrived in KL with a fair notion of where the hostels were located and after 2 or 3 viewings we found ourselves a very nice spot, Casavilla, bang in the middle of the city. The hostel comprised of 3 or 4 old town houses, joined together as one. It had a nice open veranda style lobby, with 2 TVs and sitting areas, 2 pool tables, and stacks of pot noodles. Room rates were pretty reasonable and the whole place seemed well looked after. Happy enough to dump our stuff and head for food, we agreed to reconvene in the lobby in 15 minutes.

Read the sign!

We headed off to Chinatown in search off some lunch and found ourselves on Jalah Petaling. This is chinatown hawker central. Enough fake watches, bags and pirated DVDs to keep the fraud squad tied up ’til Christmas. The restaurants off the sidestreets were overcharging tourists in search of a bargain. Oh sweet irony. A hawker offered me DVDs, which I declined and he enquired as to my nationality (a common trick to keep conversations going). He guessed Scottish, then Irish, which I conceeded. “Ahh, thats why you no want DVDs” and he left us. What is it about the Irish that we dont want DVDs? This one I couldn’t work out. Upstairs next to the greasy foodcourt of a run down shopping mall, we saw our first “Over 18″ internet cafe. There were banks and banks of seats, like an airport boarding gate, and low light, just the monitor glare on the faces of the anoraked (i supposed) ones. Thankfully I had nothing pressing to check my email for.

We ended up eating in MickeyD’s. This is a painful admission from me, so please, no disparaging emails or texts. The blood sugar was low, we were starting to bicker, IT HAD TO BE DONE!

Old and new

After (ahem) lunch, we continued our little stroll through the city, slowly leaving the chinese hoardings behind us, transitioning to high street phamacies, mosques and monorails. Then there were the rather large buildings, banks in the main. We hadn’t seen these close up in quite some time. As we progressed north around KL Park more and more the wealth of KL came into evidence.

Newer and newer

Expensive looking shopping malls, larger newer cars, towers rising on all sides and fancy public transport systems whizzing past us. Upmarket restaurants in the business districts still maintained the look of middle ranking fastfood outfits like TGI Fridays. We had seen this a lot in Asia where American “finesse” is interchangeable with upmarket. Someone really needs to market Paris to the Asians.

Mosque in the city

Razor sharp architecture

Pushing on, through the KLCC business district, we eventually got to within sight of the Petronas towers.

Getting close

Evening was coming on and we elected to keep walking in the hope that on arrival at this KL landmark darkness would have taken hold and it would be lit for all to see. They are immensely proud of the towers in Malaysia and I hoped with good reason. Photographs on the tourist maps look very impressive.

Closer

Wow !!!!! I apologise for the overuse of exclamation marks but holy god!

Closest

Front elevation

I have been to Anghor, to Florence, Rome, Paris. Nothing bowled my over like the Petronas Towers. Fully lit and impossingly close, beautiful, sparkling like a christmas tree. You’d have to be there to know what I mean. The towers are fantastical. They are not even that high (less than 100 floors), but no less lovely for it. We were all quite awestruck, which tells its own story I suppose.

More KLCC

When we finally returned to the hostel, we had been walking around the city for 5 hours. Having hiked for a similar time the day before our feet were killing us but more importantly we were parched. There was nothing else for it but Star Movies, and a few well earned cans of Tiger.

Early morning, 5.30am, the 7-11 on Lebuh Chulia with a pot noodle in one hand and some butter biscuits in the other, I smell the blood of an Irishman (or more precisely, woman). Nobody is up at this time if they are not getting the 6am bus to the Cameron Highlands, and low and behold, doesn’t it prove true. There’s a very chatty Cavan woman by the name of Kathrina and her beau on the bus. It was to be another hour of non stop back and forth banter before I discovered that the beau was actually a German named Handsome Chris. His Cavan English is impeccable!

Kathrina and Handsome Chris

The 4 of us hitched up in the Highlands about 10am and booked into the very basic Kang Travelers lodge and went about finding some Roti Canai and Teh Tarik for breakfast. A quick walk through the town of Tanah Rata disclosed that rather than the  “Highlands Resort” town, as promised by the slick-toed lads at Malaysian Tourism, there was simply nothing here. A few basic restaurants, a bus station, a post office and a few hostels. We were too tired to go hiking today after the early start and bus journey. Unfortunately there really was nothing else to do here. There were tours for RM 98 (ringadingdongs, thank you Chris) that stopped at a vegetable farm, a viewing point, the biggest ugliest blossom in the world and a strawberry farm where wait for it…. you can pick your own strawberries! Imagine that. The ridiculous price meant that not a single backpacker took this tour, when for half the price they probably would have had 6 or 7. So what to do then? We were ready to rock on the morning of day 2 (with a map and everything) but it was still only 1pm and there was nothing to do and nothing to see. Chang has the answer.

chang has the answer

A shocking afternoon of chang, tiger and the blackest of Irish humour ensued, and ensured a good traveling bond between the four of us. There may have been moments when other rather bored looking backpackers looked to join us but we kept the “laughter rule” in place. If you’re not funny you’re not getting in. On account of that our only extra head was Tobias, a little gay Jewish boy. Not that he was terribly funny himself, but in a country that refuses to let Israelis enter, and outlaws homosexuality, the boy truly deserved some kudos. All “Chang”ed out by 9pm and too tired to watch a movie, we all retired early.

The Cameron 4

Up, showered and dressed for the fields we hit the road. Damn it, we need to make a stop for breakfast. The oddest thing about Kang hostel, is that in a town of very little choice, when most of the backpackers are staying at their meagre facilities, they don’t do food. Why sell to ready customers? That’d just be crazy. A rice porridge later, up, showered, dressed for the fields and FED, we hit the road.

There are about 14 numbered and mapped treks in the area. We were following trek 5 to the waterfall, beyond to the watchtower and around the peak of whatever small mountain was closest. Chris couldn’t believe his luck. Kathrina had him convinced that Irish people simply didn’t hike, trek or even walk uphills and as such she was patriotically obliged to refrain from such activities (all the while he was chomping at the bit for a bit of mountain climbing). So the truth was out. There are at least 2 Irish people not afraid to pull a calf muscle or sprain an ankle. Kathrina’s world was in tatters.  To begin with the track follows a nice bricked pathway and I was worrying that it was a stroll we were getting.

At the waterfall

After the waterfall things started to look up. Literally. The climb to the watchtower had a sign saying “Path Closed” but it didn’t exactly have a locked gate. Having decided upon a route we then claimed it as our “Traditional” route and like ants and Orangemen we let nothing deter us in the following of that route, so up we started to climb, and then up some more. Every top was just a resting spot being overlooked by the next hike.  There wasn’t even much of a view, surrounded by trees as we were. With more false dawns than Liverpool FC the hills just kept going up.

It wasn't all this flat, or pretty

We passed the broken down watch tower, that had promised so much, but it was collapsed in a heap, well below the tree horizon. There was no option but to keep on climbing. Lay on Macduff, And damn’d be him that first cries.

Resting or Posing?

The hiking route was fun, lots of roots and fallen trees to cross, mucky stream beds to descend and cross, hill slides to avoid, that sort of thing. We successfully found our peak, and negotiated a descent. A good days wholesome fun. There was but one viewing point along the route, not at the summit either! From here we could see tea plantations, mists and hill chalets like German boarding schools, and though I couldn’t see the tear in his eye I could hear the shake in his voice when Chris asked me for a hug. The poor fella’.

The "View"

We were almost back to town and making our way through somebody’s market garden, specifically eying up the cabbages, when the heavens let loose their fury upon us. It was punishment for the bad jokes thrown at every race and creed over the 5 hours of our trek and we knew we deserved it.

A little rain

Gods wrath tasted good.

We got to Malaysia after a mammoth 15 hours travel from Phangan. A boat and 3 different buses. At Surat Thani one of the travel agents tried a new scam on us. They told us that the Malaysian customs would check that we had at least 300 Malaysian Ringitt with us and would not allow us to enter if we didn’t. The agent could change our Thai baht for us (what decent folk) and 300 MR was 5,500 Baht. What they didn’t know was that we had already checked the exchange rate and knew that 300 MR is 3000 Baht, so they were looking to make 2500 Baht on the transaction (50 Euro). Scammetry indeed. I told them that I didn’t believe them, having read nothing of this rule and they insisted that I would not be allowed in. I told them they could send me back. There was of course no such rule. Scam merchants.

We crossed the Penang bridge at about 9pm. Its a very impressive piece of engineering (designed by a local man) that is a stunning 13.5Km long and joins the island province to the mainland. Penang is the second smallest province but one of the most populous. Georgetown, its capital was a major centre for the British East India Trading Company and so flourished during the 19th century.

Penang Bridge is rather long

We had reservations at Banana Guest house on Lebuh Chulia. When we arrived they were on the street touting the room to other travelers. It was the only room they had left and weren’t going to keep it, as we were nearly 2 hours late. Not a great start. Still they had internet access, people were sitting around eating & reading and looked fairly content so it couldn’t be all bad. They showed us the room. It had a bed. Not one more stick of furniture. The walls were the “click-in” walls of a porta-cabin, a larger room having been divided in 3. Still it was cheap so we weren’t too worried. The shared bathrooms were not the Saviour of banana. 3 cubicles in the mens, all squatter type with the showers directly over them. Where to stand then while showering? No hooks or shelves for towels or clothes, so no real viable way to shower. 2 sinks with mirrors but again, not a bench, shelf or hook. The facilities were totally inadequate. If you are hosteling in a shared bathroom situation, they have to be good. But it was late, we were wrecked so we stayed and slept.

New Banana Guesthouse was inadaquate

First thing the next morning I went on a tour of the other hostels. The fourth I tried, “Crystal” was much better. Western toilets, good hot showers, a mirror and sink in the room, a table and a television with cable. When a lady who worked at Crystal pointed to the boss with the words “Talk to the Fat Man, he’s the boss” we knew we’d take the room. All done early, we  set out to enjoy Georgetown.

The view of Georgetown from Penang Hill

The city has an old grace, dignified despite its incontinence. Character and decrepitude all at once. Clint Eastwood naked. The basic buildings are much grander than those of Vietnam or Thailand. The spaces large and open plan. Deep open drains for the rains (and unfortunately rubbish) line each street and they are not a place you want to slip your foot into. Most of the footpaths are within the buildings, like walking through arch after arch beneath the balconies of the homes above. Modern buildings speckle the outlying areas of the city, like Komtar, the 6th highest in Malaysia where there is a 360 degree view from the bar on the 60th floor.

The Townhall

We explored Little India, with a food guide in hand seeking out the best of everything. Mung bean and coconut milk soup from a recipe handed down through generations, not to be had anywhere else in world. Tuna samaos at the most famous samosa food stall, charcoal toasted bread with Kaya, an egg jam, and Teh Tarik, tea with condensed milk that is “stretched” as it is long -poured between containers. Fantastic foods all available for pennies, and made with a smile.

On Love Lane (named for the Chinese matchmakers who once resided there) we found the “Little Angel Cafe” for traditional Malay foods such as Rice Porridge with toasted sesame oil on top, Laksa  spicy soup with noodles, fish sauce and pineapple gratings. Little Angel also did the best coffee since Vietnam.

Typical Georgetown

We got ourselves on local bus number 204, which took us 10Km into the suburbs to the funicular station at Penang Hill. This is an 850 metre mound in the centre of the island, with great views and Georgetown and its environs. The tickets were 4 MR return, less than a Euro each and the 2 train journey took about 40 minutes including switching tracks.

View from on high

The carriages included women in Burkas, headscarves, shorts, heels, white, Malay, Arab, Chinese. What a huge mix. The impossibly young married Muslim couple next to us on the first journey were very touchy feely which I was gladdened to see but I also noticed what looked like a severe cigarette burn on the inside of her wrist, which looked ominous. Everyone has settled in Penang through the years.

City Centre Mosque

At the Penang State Museum we followed the stories of the Burmese, Ceylonese, Sumatran, Chinese, Indian & British settlers. The growth of a mixed Malay identity with the absorption of so many traditions is the key message in the nicely kept Museum.  The Vietnamese Curators could learn a thing or two from these guys. From the top of the hill the views are fantastic. Watch the city apartment blocks blend into the valleys, reaching out like concrete arteries.

Looking down on Buddha

Temples and Mosques are all visible dotting the hills, and one of each sit atop the hill itself. The bridge disappears off to the distant mainland at Butterworth and the bigger boats wait patiently beneath for their turn to pass. Its such a simple little attraction, a funicular and a view but it cost a few pence and seemed a lovely way to spend the afternoon.

At a Hindu Temple on Penang Hill

We walked to an Aviary Garden at a hotel on the hill and saw lots of exotic birds, but felt terrible after paying in and helping to enclose the lovely birds. They were kept in small enclosures and were clearly going demented. They place was also infested with large mice scurrying here and there about there business. They were quite entertaining.

There are interesting buildings and histories dotted around the city. Fort Cornwallis is the original British Administration centre on Penang. A star shaped fort on the north easterly headland, the town of Georgetown stretches out from this focal point.

At Fort Cornwallis

There is not a lot of it left, but they have restored the walls and there is a fair attempt to tell the story of the birth of Georgetown. The day we walked around was incredibly hot and the aircon in the old cells (now the display rooms) wasn’t working which made it very difficult to follow the history. We noted a lots of crows crowing in the area of the fort. We hadn’t heard one since leaving Ireland over 3 months before and wondered why here? in this bastion of British Colonialism?

-Old Bean, What say we discharge a few rounds in the grounds of the Fort?

-But Dear Boy, we are in Georgetown,  it is frowned upon to shoot the natives.

-JEEVES!

-Yes Sir.

-Send for crows, dispatch the ship immediately. We shall civilise this country yet!

The Clock Tower

The Victoria Clock Tower stands 60 metres high, next to the fort, in commemoration of Queen Vicki’s 50th year.

There is a lot to Georgetown when initially it could be easy to brush it off. Go looking for Canni Roti and Nasi Goreng. Drink Jaz beer. Follow the street food. Relax.  Eat in Halal restaurants and discover they are no different. Allow yourself to wonder how so many communities seem to happily live side by side. Watch out for the big ass spiders.

I was lying in my hammock reading Paul Theroux as the sun slowly set on 2009. Our hut, high above the rocks, in full sea breeze was a great place to feel the evening fall into night. A bottle of Singha (possibly my 3rd) in one hand and my little travel speakers doing their best with Pearl Jam’s “10″ beside me. Elaine was inside getting dolled up for the night to come and I was feeling nostalgic. Eddie Vedder rasping “Why Go home? Why go home?” had me thinking “Nil aon tintean mar do thintean fein”, an Irish equivalent of home is where the heart (hearth) is. This had me wondering where the home was? and self indulgently feeling that we take the home with us. There were two of us in an apartment in Chapelizod and now there are 2 of us on this trip. No different. Here I was lazing in a hammock on the cusp of possibly the most infamous New Years Eve party in the world and I’m feeling self indulgent?? “I know some day you’ll have a beautiful life, I know you’ll be a star” Eddie Vedder again reminding me that this is some place to be. My friends at home in the freezing cold, the harshest winter in 25 years I read. Surely this must be the life. Certainly it is a life, and for the moment my life, but probably just an exciting few moments in the larger tableau. The sky was clearing, Elaine was ready and the moon full and bright. Rock and Roll.

The full moon Dec 31st 2009

We were definitely late to the party. 9pm? There was big big noise as we tramped through the woods and down the rocky roads towards Haad Rinn beach. A mix of several different impossibly loud dance tracks vying for top-spot on the wind. As we descended into the town the crowds quickly became apparent. Teaming out of the shops & bars were 20 somethings like ourselves (!) ferrying buckets, liquor bottles and beer to the beach. We popped into the first shop, bought a few Singhas, a bottle of water and a pack of cigs, as you do, and headed for the beach.

Beach & Bucket, The new B&B

The beach is a long cove, looking out at the moon with rocky outcrops book-ending the strand. We started at Paradise Bungalows & The Rock Bar at the low end. Paradise was home to the first Full Moon party back in 88 or 89, long before it grew to be the behemoth it is today so it was a good place to start. At the Rock bar there was an 5 piece rock band, throwing out Pink Floyd, Guns ‘n Roses and would you believe it, Pearl Jam. Giving it loads to a dancing audience. That was to be it for live music unfortunately. Every other bar was pumping out trance, psych-trance, cheesy dance, something dance, ham sandwich dance. Do you think I know the difference? We walked the length of the beach with a mojito bucket for fuel, checking out each venue and crowd. Drop In dance, Bayshore dance, Tommys dance. What struck me most was that we were able to do that. I had been expecting such a massive drunken drugged up dirty melee that I hadn’t considered that this could just be an over-sized beach party. Loads of people threw themselves in our way as we strolled, starting random conversations, high-fiving for no reason at all, the mood was high. We climbed the stone steps to Mountain Bar at the top of the beach. As we walked towards, it seemed that there impossibly large numbers of legs walking up and down these steps. Both directions, it could be great or terrible. Halfway up there were turns left and right, to terraces on stilts, more again further up and internal staircases too. Where did they all go? It was such a labyrinthine venue it put me in mind of Escher’s optical illusions.

Escher's Relativity

We stayed for a while on the uppermost terrace watching the party stretched out below. A few fancy looking speed boats had anchored in the bay with a some well heeled revelers, which the party goers largely ignored. Too cool for school.

The blurry view from above

Back on the beach with vodka buckets we enjoyed the fire-shows and the countdown to midnight. HAPPY NEW YEAR. We were delighted be there, and together, as a great fireworks show started around us. Perfectly placed between Drop In bar & Paradise, we had the best of the shows. The noise from these firecrackers was tremendous and they had 2 and even 3 tiered rockets drizzling their fire on the happy crowds.

fireworks

Everybody was high but I didn’t see any drugged out people, I didn’t even smell any weed. Dancing restarted and continued unabated until sunrise. We tried our hands, or more precisely our feet at the fire skipping rope. I may have singed a few hairs down around the ankle region. I am not sure if it happened the first or second time those canny rope swingers took the legs from under me. All in good fun of course.

The skipping rope of death

Out on the street again hunting food it struck me that this was Feile ‘94, a weekend festival in Ireland with the Prodigy, Rage Against the Machine and I cant remember who else. Certainly it felt no different, and that was no bad thing. Just young folks up for a party, well behaved in the main, having fun, gabbling like idiots and not being able to find their tents. Flip flops were lying everywhere on the beach, given up to the beats of the music. I helped myself to a left size 9 having broken mine throwing myself on my knees making pleadings for a successful 2011 rugby world cup.

jello shots which may be responsible for my broken flip flop

The stages at the various bars were packed with dancers, everyone looking for their few moments on the podium. It wasn’t the “pretty people” either. I have this terribly unfair but deeply held belief that if you’re going to get up there you better look good doing it. Not here. Oh no, not Koh Phangan. If you’re a fat headed Russian with red y-fronts feel free to strip to said item and swing yourself around like Duece Biggolo. If you’re an overweight french mademoiselle in a sarong feel free to let that belly hang out. This is REVENGE OF THE LESSER SPOTTED BODIES and you’ve been invited.

We danced to 6am when most folks were heading off for the after parties. Stick a fork in me, I’m done. Happy New Year folks, it’s 2010.

We decided to head back to Sairee on Koh Tao for Christmas. It is was a place we knew and liked so would take very little organising, and besides we could go diving again with a hefty 30% discount. We arrived  on the morning of the 23rd, wrecked from our 2 day jaunt for the visa and the travel from Bangkok. On the ferry from Chumphon we met one of the Thais working with our dive school, Coral Grand, and he offered us a lift from the pier to our accommodation. Familiarity working its magic already.   We had pre-booked at SBC Resort, a fan room similar to that we had used in October, however when we arrived they had no rooms. Some people had elected to stay on and we had to make do with a very hot little wooden hut for our first night. No big deal, we dumped our stuff and headed out to re-acquaint ourselves with the village. One of the first faces we saw was that of Conor (from Belfast), a musician we had met before, smiling at us from a sign for a gig. So he was still here. He could be worth a chat I thought, if only for the knowledge of where to go for Turkey in 2 days time.

Sairee Beach

Everything looked good around Sairee. The shopkeepers were still smiling, “Sawadeeka”, restaurants still had mango and sticky rice on the menu, the streets were tidy and swept and there were a liberal number of advertising posters and banners for Christmas Eve parties. The beach was as pretty and kept as ever, the fishing boats and longtail taxis moored close to shore, and the dive boats, floating advertisements were numerous. I had called this Island the “75 percenter” but the truth is I was happy and excited to be back, so I vowed to give the place another chance to make an A grade.

Early Sevening at Sairee beach

As we walked around that evening we bumped into Conor. He looked wrecked. Gone was the smiley Belfast head of our first meeting and in its place was the face of a man in come down mode. Sweaty, bulging eyes and grey skin, there was no candle left for him to burn. He remembered us of course but he was unable to talk. Almost hyper, almost incoherent, we passed on and I hoped for his sake this was temporary. All the adverts were for Christmas Eve parties & Christmas Eve dinners, but we didn’t want turkey on Christmas Eve. Sure how crazy is that? We figured that they were just trying to get business in the door, and the same foods would be available on the big day so we elected to stroll among the different parties, find the best fireworks and keep the big money for the Christmas Day.

Fireshow

First up was the Fishbowl, part of Bans Diving School. Bans is the biggest Dive operator on the Island, with a reputation for production line attitudes, but their offices are very swish and the Fishbowl is a pretty decent beach bar. At this location they had a stage on the beach for live music and djs, be-decked in fairy lights and a fire show. On stage when we arrived was none other than our old buddy Conor. I was very curious to see how he’d fare so we headed down to the beach and bought a couple of beers. He was driving through his his set like a man rushing home in the rain; Without the warranted care. Songs were just being poured out like a big bucket of Sangsom whiskey and topped up with some redbull. I felt sorry for the guy, he clearly needed to refocus his energies and find his mojo again.

We headed for AC Bar, next on the strip.On the beach we passed a very inventilve Xmas message dug from the sand and inlaid with candles.

bah humbug

AC tends to attract a lot of locals, and not in an integrationist “Hey we’re all people partying together” way but more in the “Hello Farang, you buy me drink ; wink wink” way. Not really our cup of tea. Of course it’s not all like that. On the steps down to the fire show on the beach there were loads of holidaymakers dancing and chatting, singing and whooping, without a bother in world and totally oblivious to the skinny girls on the dance floor. AC bar had prepared a fiery Xmas message ready for burning at the appropriate hour and a big big stack of fireworks.

Fireshow

Fireworks in Asia are interesting to me. Practically illegal in Ireland, where warnings abound about burning hands and missing eyes, I have not even handled one. Young men in Asia happily set off dustbin sized rockets from their laps*. Typically they are stored on the beach in piles and set off amongst the party goers to large cheers. The fact that there are usually fireshows involving swinging dancing and throwing flaming sticks around and big cans of petrol to fuel same shows, doesn’t seem to upset a soul. We had a quick cocktail, the aptly named “Sex on the beach”, though there was a “fire starter” on the menu and nipped next door to Maya.

Very similar in layout and texture to AC, the Maya bar was playing a softer brand of dance music. I don’t know if it was the absence of these hard beats, but there was also a notable absence of bar girls and more than a sprinkling of couples among the dancing. Perhaps we had found our home for the night. The staff here were also building their Christmas message to burn in the sea, and as we arrived were launching hundreds of floating candles that the sea would slowly take out. At 12 am they lit the sign, Happy Xmas 2009, to cheers and the fireworks started booming off around us.

Ah shucks

The show was spectacular, maybe not coordinated in the European sense, but 2 competing bars with a large armoury of fireworks can put on quite the show. Multi-coloured & multi-patterned rockets exploding all around us, a cacophony of exploding crickets. A large barreled rocket suddenly went off on the ground, a malfunction 3 or 4 feet from us. Instinct had our arms and hands guarding our faces and we backed away, like others, to a more respectful distance. After a brief dance around in relief in a “Did you see that? I nearly died” sort of way, the boys went back to their jobs. We were in a little bit of shock, I had been hit by shrapnel and singed. This reminded us instantly of Koh Chang when walking past a fire show outside Om Club, a fiery chain had broken, flown off into the air and dropped behind Elaine as she walked. She didn’t even know until she felt the heat. It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye, as my ol’ mammy used to say.

Half an hour later it was all forgotten and the fireworks were still going off, the fire show was still burning and swinging, the candles were out to sea in pretty patterns and we were enjoying a big jug of Tao’s finest cocktails.We danced until the early hours, fully content in our lonesome beach side Christmas.

In “The Tao of Pooh” gentle Pooh is afflicted by his inability to settle, always looking for the honey. In Koh Tao of Thailand I think he would have found a bit of peace.

Chillin at Fizz

Christmas Day we didn’t find that turkey dinner but we didn’t mind. We skyped the folks, chilled for a while at fizz and had a few beers at Dreadlocks Reggae bar. Dreadlocks is just off the main track in the village, but hidden and always quiet. We chatted and smoked with the Thai rastas for a few hours, our own Van Morrison playing in the background. How much more integrationist can you get? Bar girls be damned.

A day or two later again, we were back in the sea spotting rays, banner fish, rainbows and the like,  a large trigger fish made a charge at Elaine and our Divemaster had to make a charge at it. The dives were brilliant and I am pleased to announce that we are getting better at this Scuba lark even though I almost ran out of air…. Clearly not hot air though, that lasts forever.

*May be a slight exaggeration

When you enter Thailand via a land border you get a 15 day visa, as opposed to the nice chunky 30 day visa you get at the airport. Consequently when Elaine & I crossed the border from Cambodia, we knew we would have to find a way of renewing our visa before Christmas. As the plan was to head south to Koh Tao again, to dive over Christmas, we thought it’d be best to make for the Malaysian land border, or even from the island of Lipe to Langkawi. This would have necessitated an 8 hour additional journey in each direction.

At the long-tail Pier in Ranong

A bright spark in a travel agency in Bangkok suggested Burma to us. Though its a fairly closed society, at Ranong/Victoria Point they will take day trippers renewing their visa from Thailand. I set about doing some research and it was very difficult to find recent internet confirmation of this. There were a few blogs and travel discussions but all a few years old. Still, we garnered enough to feel 70% confident that the option was open to us and organised a night bus to Ranong (instead of Chumphon, the jumping off point for Koh Tao).

Monks in a boat

We arrived at 6am and organised a taxi to the pier where Thai Customs & Immigration are located. I had a quick word with the ticket office at the bus station and got them to look after our rucksacks until we returned. The taxi driver was familiar with the procedure (a major relief), dropped us to the right place, told us where to go and arranged to pick us up afterward. Being almost a hour early we sat in a local shack and drank coffee that would not only support a spoon, would suck it back in as you tried to remove it.

En route up the estuary

At 7.30 the Immigration Office opened and we queued with the 5 or 6 other early arrivals. After getting stamped out of  Thailand we set about crossing the estuary that divides the countries at this point. This is as simple as a 20 minute long-tail boat ride with a couple of stops at immigration & customs of both countries , 10 dollars in the back of the passport to the Burmese official and popping back into the long-tail for the return journey.

On the run from the Burmese

In our few minutes in Burma we were offered tobacco, spirits and Viagra on the cheap. There were great views from the boat, both out towards the sea and further up the estuary. Both on the Thai side and the Burmese side the locals are fishermen so there were lots of boats, and lots of houses stilted above the water, with a boat pulled up beneath.

Still in Thailand

The longtail & taxis from the Ranong bus station came in at 900 baht, the dollars about 700 and the extra bus to Chumpon from Ranong almost 300. All in all our extra visa cost us a mornings travel, some uncertainty and about 20 Euro each. Flying in to get our 30 days would have cost us and extra 150, or thereabouts. Now that’s quality budgeting.

Last point in thailand

We were back in Chumphon before lunchtime, and organised for our ferry to Koh Tao in no time at all.

Burma

Victoria Point, Burma

View from the boat at Victoria Point