With just a week left in Asia, and two countries to get through to make our connecting flight, the pressure was on. The trick was to find a balance - arrive in Singapore too early, and we would feel like we had missed out on Malaysia, plus we would have to fund time in the most expensive place in Asia. Take too long, and best case scenario we would not get to see Singapore; worst case, we would miss our flight. The next seven days would take careful planning and tight schedules.
Our Thai train rumbled through the gleaming, shiny new stations on brand new tracks, just like those seemingly being built all over Malaysia, which seems to be having a rail renaissance. Old single tracks are becoming shiny new ones, new ones are being made into double tracks, stations are modern, concrete and stylish, and the trains aren't bad either. One of the problems with taking trains across borders is that, although the gauge of the track might be the same, little else is. Malaysian trains are much lower-set and wider than Thai ones. So when we arrived in the Malaysian-Thai border control station, there was a little jump involved to get from the carriage to the platform, several feet away.
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| Thailand's and Malaysia's shared train station/border crossing |
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| The Malaysian definition of 'a hippy' |
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| Spot the tourist: three backpacks, 5 litres of potable water. Straw hat (bought in Cambodia, made in China). Lovely! |
Inside the building, a governmental sign detailed the legal definition of a hippy, and stressed the policy to refuse admittance to any individual, and I quote, "Wearing wooden sandals, silk trousers, or with less than US$500 cash on his person.". With just a few dollars combined between us and all our currencies pending arriving at an ATM, suddenly our Israeli immigrant visas weren't the only thing we had to worry about. But, our leather sandals and baggy cotton trousers were sufficiently capitalist for them, and we were soon back on the platform waiting for our train onwards to Butterworth. It so happened that the same Thai carriages trundled back in to the platform with a different engine, which was unfortunate for me. The combination of lack of sleep, carrying a 20kg bag on my back, and over 5kg in each hand and a rucksack on my front totally obscuring my view, while wearing sandals, did not go down well (excuse the pun) with the chasm between me and the train. People gasped as I disappeared through the hole, handily preventing severe injury by getting wedged with all my baggage between the steps and a handle. Sadly, Deborah's poor-quality fake North Face bag will forever more bear the dried-on blood as evidence of my first minutes in Malaysia.
In Butterworth, our first mission was to book our next train - and an overnight train seemed the best option to Kuala Lumpur, from where we had to head out the next day to the jungle. But, no sleeper bays were available and we resigned ourselves to another tough night. In the meantime, we had 12 hours to explore Penang, a massive island just off the west coast.
A ferry over to the island dropped us in Georgetown, a beautiful quaint city and a true mishmash of British colonialism and Eastern multiculturalism. Grand columns befitting of Trafalgar square adorn the maritime buildings, while a few blocks away, Chinese arches demarcate China town before the smells register, and the music and spices of Little India declare the enticing Thalis on offer in the multiple vegan and vegetarian restaurants. Needless to say, we ate well in Georgetown.
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| Local resident, sunbathing on the street |
A very nice if not somewhat bizarre finding was the Jewish cemetery. Maintained by a local Hindu family since the death of the final Jews of the area in recent years, the few dozen graves show the history of the Jewish immigration, mostly during the British rule of Malay, from other parts of the empire, such as Burma, India and Great Britain. The street itself, once also home to the synagogue, has been renamed, "Jalan Zainal Abidin", from its previous imaginative name "Jew street".
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| Hindu caretaker of the Jewish cemetery at Georgetown |
As evening approached,it was time to get the ferry back in time for our train. Out of desperation, I asked again about sleeper spaces, and to our utter delight we were able to upgrade. The only thing that would have made everything perfect would have been a way to get clean; 40 hours had passed since our last showers, and in that time, we had travelled in three packed and hot minibuses, one tuktuk, waited thirteen hours on a stifling railway platform, travelled another three train journeys, fallen into a dirty crevice in a train station, and spent hours walking around a hot city. We were half an hour from a 9 hour train journey, before a long bus ride into the jungle and then - who knows? There was no choice - we HAD to get clean. But how?
The only toilets in the train station were porcelain squat toilets - in other words, a ceramic hole in the floor with an overhead flush. Depending on culture, one may use toilet paper, but more common is a bum cup - a bucket with plastic cup to gather water and then pour over one's external sphincter. On occasion, one finds a hosepipe with a jet on the end, colloquially known as a 'bum gun'. In extreme situations, some cultures simply make the squat and walk away. But if other mammals can do it, why not?
In the clean cubicles in the little train station, a hosepipe lay next to the porcelain hole. No gun - just a hose. Needs must. In minutes, I was pouring the cold water over myself and taking more care than ever not to drop the soap, while trying not to flood the rest of the station, or my clothes that were balanced on shoes, so as to avoid any contact with the floor. Much more impressively, Deborah performed the same feat!
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| Example of a very similar toilet. But I daren't take my camera that close to a sewer. |
Visibly paler after removing days of grime, cool and smelling clean, we climbed aboard an air conditioned train, slipped into crisp sheets with nice pillows, pulled across the curtains, and slept while the train hummed through the Malaysian countryside. Bliss.
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| Getting settled in the sleeper carriage - which was almost entirely empty; strange being that it was sold out earlier... |
In the absence of any announcements to the contrary, we learned that 'Kuala Lumpur Station' and 'Kuala Lumpur Central Station' are two completely separate places, and subsequently missed our station. Fortunately our train wasn't late enough to totally screw up our plans - and we had time to get to the departure point of the bus to Taman Negara, the expanse of jungle in the middle of peninsular Malaysia which would be our home for a few days.
En route, I got chatting to a bloke called Jack, sitting opposite us in the bus and a born and bred scouser living just a few miles away from my parents in Crosby. Meeting the scouse diaspora is almost as exciting as meeting the Israeli one.
A few hours later we arrived at Kuala Tembeling, a tiny village on the outskirts of the jungle, from where we picked up a long wooden boat, two people wide and low enough that when the sun became too hot, peeking over the sides of the sheet of corrugated metal roof, you could hang a limb over the edge to cool it in the murky jungle river water whizzing by. The narrowness of the boat and expertise of the local captain meant that we tore through the water, skimming by sandbanks and submerged rocks. Nonetheless, it still took three hours to wind upstream to the little settlement of Kuala Tahan.
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| Our road to the jungle. |
Kuala Tahan is an amusing place. One side is a town, stretching a few hundred yards from the riverside, and the other is a beautiful luxury jungle resort, where the wealthy sleep in impressive wooden chalets and feast in a restaurant that costs the earth and, to the dismay of many, serves the only alcohol for a hundred miles in any direction.
Both the resort and the village are surrounded by the deafening roar of a million animals chatting away when darkness descends. Needles to say, we didn't stay in the resort. Another straw hut was our own little resort, and the bathroom was once again our own little zoo - but jungle paranoia meant that we were even less inclined to share a toilet with a spider here than we were in Thailand. I heroically swept a spider into the toilet and flushed it away in order to save Deborah from its evil inclinations. Alarmingly, the spider managed to somehow hold on to the side of the toilet, and hid under the rim, only to truly meet its demise after a reflush a little later on.
After one of our last meals of matzah and tinned tuna, we took a narrow boat across the pitch black jungle river and headed out for a night hike, with the much needed supervision of a local - both for safety and because, frankly, we wouldn't have seen a thing otherwise. Once we were told which branch to look at, which leaf to turn, which step to avoid, suddenly we were inches from tarantulas, grass snakes, giant grass hoppers, huntsmen spiders, stick insects, 30 centimetre millipedes, and scorpions. I met my share of scorpions in the army - and the small ones are more venomous and dangerous - but when you meet a Malaysian scorpion that is so large it got into a fight with our guide over a stick (who, to be fair was trying to pretend to be an insect, and pissed off the scorpion so much that it grabbed hold of the stick and pulled it off the guide), size matters..
The next morning, we decided to take one of the well marked jungle treks, to climb a nearby hill, Bukit Teresek. The original plan had been to join up with my new scouse pal Jack and his Swiss girlfriend - but as he was ill / dehydrated / hungover, only three of us set out, planning to use a poorly photocopied A4 map as our guide, with my compass a little bit of luck. All the usual common sense precautions sprung to mind - torch, plenty of water, first aid kit, knife etc. However, it soon became apparent that my little Swiss army knife, while great for cutting avocados and bananas, was not particularly well designed for self defence. Just minutes in to the walk, en route through thick trees, a wild boar nonchalantly strolled past us - just a few feet away, and expressed absolutely no interest in us - neither fear nor hunger. That was for the best, as I'm pretty sure my knife wouldn't have cut into his fur.
We took a slight detour to climb a canopy walkway - a network of rope bridges strung between the taller trees of the forest, providing brief respite from the murky green dinginess of the forest floor. But, as we slowly ascended the side of the hill. It also became clear that our water supply wasn't ideal - the intense humidity made us sweat like never before; my boots literally overflowed with sweat each time I transferred my weight between feet, and our clothes were simply wet. The trees provided shade, but also eliminated any trace of a breeze.
We slowly climbed the hill, catching glimpses of a lizard over 3 feet in length and a foot tall as he moved away from us, termite hills twice my height and spiders trawling through the undergrowth while ants the size of an adult thumb dragged leaves back to base. The screech of gibbons playing overhead only ever drew our eyes to the rustling leaves and branches, never quite lucky enough to spot one.
Our descent was meant to take us to Lubok Simpon waterhole, but once we had reached the summit it quickly became apparent that this side of the route was much less well trodden. Paths became gaps in bushes, steps became mudslides, and rope ladders became frayed and rotten. After following the path and realising (thankfully very quickly) that we had just walked in a full circle, we were lucky to retrace our steps and end up on the correct route again, avoiding a night in the jungle with no food, water, or phones.
Back at the village, we drank. A lot. Then I emptied my boots.
Hot, tired and out of water, we celebrated our arrival back at the river with a swim. The rapid flow was too much for any one to swim against and I was very glad that I tested it at a point where I could hold on to a rope instead of taking the plunge and being swept into unpopulated jungle. Instead, while Debs enjoyed the shallows, I waded upstream and had great fun riding the rapids on the way home, narrowly avoiding a longboat as I tried to swim to shore.
In the evening we joined a 'night safari' - on the back of a 4x4 we headed in to a palm plantation to spot the potential large animals. Memories of Kenya had me wide eyed; which was a shame when the bounty consisted of a spider, a tiny grass snake, a monkey so far away that we could just about see the torch shine in his eyes, and a leopard cat. Not a leopard - no no, a leopard cat. Basically, a cute little moggy that's coloured like a leopard, and was playing in the grass; effectively playing with a ball of wool. Cute, but not really safari material. Still, that's the beauty of nature versus zoos - you only see the animals that choose to be there.
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| There's a leopard cat, dead centre. Honest. |
Back to the big smoke of KL. If I was a Muslim, and if I didn't hate cities, this would be the city to live in. Massive, relatively clean, and the ideal mix of old and new. The incredible Petronas towers looking down on a city of modern architecture with Islamic styles, while underground trains and monorails shoot in all directions. Debs insists I mention the premium toilets at the Petronas towers - the free ones were immaculate, modern and with piped in music, but a little cash gets you access to the premium toilets - where we can only assume you get a free buffet and someone else flushes the toilet for you. We were amused to find that Deborah's US$8 Mulberry purse from Thailand was on sale here for US$400.
There's Halal food on every corner, and every style of food you could wish for. Once again, we were delighted to find a vegetarian Indian cafe, filled with Hindus eating thalis served on banana leaves and eaten with the fingers - so no washing up! Petaling market in China town is a limitless source of contraband and illegal fake goods and pushy sellers, but we stuck to roast chestnuts and coffee.
Way back when in Vietnam, we met a lovely New Zealand couple - Dave and Heather - who were on our sleeper bus, and who told us they were just starting teaching jobs in Singapore. So, they were our next port of call, and we took our last international train, arriving in Woodlands in Singapore just after dawn. Acutely aware of Singapore's strict customs laws, and aware that I was hiding a stash of 20 Burmese cigarettes in my luggage, we were very relieved not have been searched; stories abound of overland arrivees having even single cigarettes confiscated; there isn't even an option to pay duty on them - smuggle it or lose it and pay a fine.
But the stress was only just beginning. Without a single Singaporean cent, we were dismayed to find that there was not one way to get money at the terminal - no shops or banks, no money exchange, and no ATMs. The shuttlebus to the train station was not free, and our train had arrived very late - with just 90 minutes to get to Heather and Dave before they left for school, we were lucky to find a nice bus driver who let us on for free and dropped us at a subway station. The ATM directions were wrong, and when we eventually found a ticket office, we were directed to the far end of the massive station for an ATM. Back to the ticket office, but they wouldn't accept the large notes given by the ATM. So, back to the other end again, to find customer services, who changed the notes for smaller ones, back to the ticket office again to buy a temporary ticket ( the actual pass we needed wasn't on sale at this station), and then back to our platform - at the far end of the station again. Naturally, it was now rush hour and so we spent the next hour on a train packed with people, stressed,and each wearing 25kg or so of luggage.
Somehow we made it just in time, and saw Dave and Heather off to work, while we had a much needed shower, and headed off into town to meet an old ex-pat friend for lunch. Then, it was back into tourist mode.
Singapore's background as a major port, colonial enclave, and advanced economy makes it totally different to the rest of South East Asia. An entirely eclectic mix of languages and skin colours fills the streets as people in the CBD pour out of skyscrapers and into Hawker stalls selling every type of (Asian) food, or cram in to large air conditioned trains to commute back to their tiny but luxurious apartments in the outskirts. Double decker buses jostle with taxis and up-market cars on smooth and well-signed streets, and pass seamlessly between ultra-modern and colonial traditional architecture. I had planned to take Debs to Raffles hotel for a good-old English tea; but after 6 weeks of watching the budget in every place we went, we both felt that sandwiches, cakes and coffee could never be worth S$68 (34 pounds) each.
After much wandering, and enjoying a visit to Laline (an Israeli toiletry company a little like the Body Shop, which has opened up shops in the far East), we spent an evening with our hosts in Little India, and in Marina Bay Sands - an elite indoor shopping zone where Venetian gondolas sail down the centre boulevard, between Versace, Jimmy Choo, Prada and other ridiculous brand signs, before enjoying the lights of the city at the Harbour.
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| Dressed in my finest for Raffles. No, really. I brought a T-shirt just in case, but if I'm paying that much, then they should provide the clothes. |
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| Israeli lovely smelly cosmetics for the ladies. |
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| Night time at Marina Bay Sands |
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| Gardens at the Bay |
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| Hawker central in the CBD |
Our final day in Asia had finally come, and we spent it trying hard to see every inch of Singapore; by day, the new botanical gardens which were so beautifully lit the night before were a huge let down; the massive trees lit in colours at night were in fact metal sculptures, and the only awards the gardens possess are for architecture - not exactly what botanical gardens are all about. The massive ecosphere rainforests looked impressive, but not worth the small fortune in admission charges, especially when just a few days before we were in a real one in Malaysia. A pack of ten tea bags in the gift shop would cost just S$45 (about 23 GBP). Arab street promised great Middle Eastern food, but failed to present a single humous shop, and our last hours were spent in the muggy grey rain of a typical Singaporean shower.
The most important tip for any traveller to or via Singapore; make time for the airport! Changi airport is undoubtedly the most incredible airport in the world, and if they charged an admission fee there, I would gladly pay it for a great day out. Gardens in each terminal, each with its own theme (including an amazing butterfly garden), free internet throughout the airport, free foot massage machines at departure gates, the giant spiral slide (note - only accessible BEFORE check-in), a free cinema, rooftop pool, LAN computer gaming rooms, sleeping rooms, observation decks and much much more, make this a great place to relax and spend a few hours at least.
Add to that the friendly German who couldn't finish his unopened beers in time for his flight and gave them to me to enjoy while having my feet massaged, and we had hit the jackpot.
All too soon, we were on a plane watching Asia get smaller and smaller from the window.
We knew from long ago that 6 weeks would never be enough to see all of Asia, but we gave it a run for its money. From the sheer poverty of Cambodia and happiness of Burma to the crudeness of Bangkok and the opulence of Singapore, we had seen a whole spectrum of cultures and attitudes to life. We had walked in the paths of hundreds of thousands of tourists before us in some places, and felt almost like we were breaking new ground in parts of Burma.
Exhausted but happy and with a large load of washing, we headed for Melbourne, Australia.
And the best bit - after six weeks in Asia, I still hadn't had the squits. Poor Debs.
