Climbing Mount

World-famous Bali is celebrated for the artistry of its people as well as for its cultural intensity, spectacularly sculpted scenery and well-developed infrastructure. It is arguably southeast Asia’s most stylish destination, with some of the most understatedly opulent resorts in the world vying to outdo each other in the fine lines of their architecture and the often exquisite taste of their fittings and furnishings. These designer resorts usually perfectly complement their often stunningly beautiful settings, either baking on white sandy beaches, nestling on terraced hills or perching atop sea-cliffs.

5-star resorts the world over are often beautifully designed, but on Bali the 5-star vacation experience is different. Here it is not necessary to insulate yourself in luxury establishments in order to avoid the outside world, as is unfortunately necessary in the capital Jakarta. The beauty of Bali’s rice terraces can not be adequately described in words or art and must, like those in the Philippines Banaue, be seen with the eyes. These landscapes, sculpted by human hands, sometimes feel too man-made to be real and almost like journeys inside a painting, in which a careful artist has skilfully enhanced the bounties bequeathed by nature to maximum effect and optimal proportion. The serried rice terraces compete for the eye’s attention with burbling irrigation canals and with the jungle-shrouded rivers which sometimes form a convenient path-way for Balinese women to sway gracefully beneath improbably precarious loads perched on the top of their heads. In a society where art is regarded as so fundamental a part of a person’s life that the local language does not have a word for it, the entertainment is also stylish. Balinese dance is justifiably world-famous for its subtle sign language and beautiful costumes, but not so well-known are the coming-of-age dances in which one teenage girl at a time dances surrounded by a circle of up to a hundred boys. After she taps a boy with her fan, he dances with her, but in a very different style to hers. Whilst she is attempting to maintain grace and elegance, his sole objective is to squeeze her bum. It sounds uncouth, but is just hilarious, as she vigorously defends herself, often by jabbing her fan, to painful effect, into the most sensitive parts of the boys’ anatomies.

In a deeply religious Hindu society, everybody pays great attention to the ceremonies that mark life’s major events, with funerals in particular being very grandiose events full of colour and excitement: a Balinese’s last journey takes so long to organise that bodies must be temporarily buried while the myriad arrangements are made.

All Balinese bear one of only four given names, Made, Nyoman and Ketut. A family’s first child is always christened Putu/Wayan, with the second known as Made, the third as Nyoman and the fourth as Ketut. From the fifth child on the naming cycle starts afresh, with any fifth child that makes an appearance known as Putu/Wayan.

The latest threat to the lovely rice-terraces, after the solution of the pest problems caused by the Asian Development Bank’s ‘Green Revolution’ project, comes from an unlikely quarter: prosperity. Balinese farmers, especially young ones, are leaving the land in droves for better-paid and physically less demanding jobs as caddies and waiters. It is hoped that some of the huge numbers of tourist dollars flowing into Bali can be spent subsidising rice farming, in order to preserve this unique landscape and its aquatic traditions. The best time to see the rice paddies is during the hour before dawn, the hour the Balinese call “the silk time”. But, even for the chance to experience heaven, that is a little too early for most visitors, who prefer the twilight hours.

The night was balmy and, after supper, the moon rose, yellow and huge. After a short walk along a tree-lined lane we came to a gap in the trees. Water chattered and laughed in the gullies all around us and, spread out before us, was a blue, moonlit valley. The terraced paddy fields hugging the contours of the hills were filled with still water, drained of colour by the night. Each patch of black water reflected it’s own little moon. A breeze crinkled the satin-like surface and scattered the golden moon-beams. Then the breeze died, the gold reassembled and the moons settled back into their pools. Frogs croaked. Water gushed. Briefly we mourned the loss of all those moons until our eyes adjusted to the dark and the banks of the terraces came alive with more light. Sparkling sequins of white light flashed around as our minds reeled in the attempt to take in such beauty. Whether the moons or the fireflies were the most beautiful is impossible to say, as both art and words are inadequate to the task of framing such serenity. If heaven exists then maybe it looks a little like Bali.

Water is sacred in Bali. Everywhere you go, you hear it bubble and gurgle and giggle and splash. The ancient irrigation system consists of a network of gullies and channels, dykes and runnels that carry the precious fluid from the river and through the sinuous, rice-paddied, terraces. Water is so vital to rice, and so to life, that in Bali the temples control its flow. The priests are the experts in how the waterways work. They know where each channel runs and when each sluice needs opening, and it’s their duty to ensure that every terrace gets filled and that every farmer gets an adequate flow.

Every day, in the late afternoon, all over Bali, you’ll see villagers, in their sarongs, sauntering down to the rivers to bathe. The women gather in one place, dipping and laughing, shampooing their long black tresses. The men gather in another, splashing each other and playing with their children. “They want to give us taps,” I heard one man exclaim, “they say it will make life easier. But we don’t want water from taps. It contains chemicals. We have this beautiful river, how can anybody improve on this?”

Tirtaganga is a special place where, in bygone days, Balinese Kings built a great Water Palace. The kings are long gone, but there is enough grandeur left to enable you to imagine attendants in vivid sarongs laying gold cloth on gleaming stone steps to aggrandize the journey of the king and his courtiers to the three jade-coloured swimming pools. These days the steps are mossy and the spirit statuary is mottled with lichen. Instead of gilded princesses, rice farmers wallow and chat while their wives offer flower-filled palm-leaf baskets to the Gods.

It is unsurprising that Balinese love their island, but it might surprise some readers to know of the lengths to which these gentle people have in the past gone to defend it. In the 1840s the Dutch established a presence by playing various distrustful Balinese realms against each other, before mounting large-scale naval and ground assaults, first against the Sanur region and then against Denpasar. The Balinese were hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned, but rather than face the loss of their island, 4,000 of them marched to their deaths in a suicide attack on the invaders. Afterwards the Dutch governors were able to exercise little control over the island, and the religion and culture remained intact.

When Japan occupied Bali during World War II, a Balinese military officer, Gusti Ngurah Rai, formed a Balinese army of freedom fighters. When the Dutch returned to Bali to reinstate their pre-war colonial administration, they were opposed by the Balinese rebels. On 20 November 1946, the Battle of Marga was fought in Tabanan in central Bali. Colonel I Gusti Ngurah Rai, 29 years old, rallied his depleted and nearly beaten forces in east Bali at Marga Rana, where they made a suicide attack on the heavily armed Dutch. The Balinese battalion was entirely wiped out, breaking the last thread of Balinese military resistance.

The well-developed infrastructure for leisure activities, including golf, sailing, diving, dancing and partying, complements the island’s idyllic landscape and turns Bali into, for many holiday-makers, the best destination in southeast Asia if not the world.

If dancing is your way of reviving your energy and spirits after an aeon behind a desk, then you will be pleased to hear that Bali has the clubs you need. Try the 15,000 watt Double Six, where DJs from across the world play eclectic and variable mixes that have only one thing in common: the ability to make you want to shake your bits till dawn. If you get bored of getting on down to the music then get on down in a more extreme way, courtesy of the club’s bungee jump. KUDOS, the hippest place on the island, prides itself on a computerized colour mixer that synchronises the music with pre-arranged lighting sequences of the bar and interiors.

If visiting Thailand, why not visit one of the country’s currently best three beach destinations:

Koh Lao Liang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/kohlaoliang.shtml

Ao Nang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/ao_nang.shtml

Railay/Tonsai: http://www.andamanadventures.com/railay-tonsai.shtml

Tarmac-bound at high speed, by Rosie Ramsden

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AJ Hackett opened the world’s highest sky jump, a plunge off the 233m outer rim of the Macau Tower, in 2006. You, too, can jump off the Macau Tower – if, that is, you fancy plunging towards tarmac at a hundred kilometers an hour.

A hybrid of bungee jump and skydiving, the sky jump is a controlled aerial journey involving no rebound or hanging upside down, which ends with a gentle landing at the base of the tower. The system is regulated by a cable brake and the fall takes 14 seconds. The inaugural jump was completed by Mr. Hackett, from New Zealand, on 17th December 2006. His career as a sky-jump installation tester began on that day and thankfully can continue, due to his having got his sums right.

Dare-devils are clad in specially tailored suits and connected to three cables, so ensuring absolute safety. At approximately 10 metres above the ground, the cable drum switches down-gear to allow for a soft landing. Unlike a bungee jump, Sky Jump is a controlled aerial journey, so you won’t bounce back and you won’t end up upside down. There is also no chance of the cable wrapping itself around your neck, as has happened to at least one bungee jumper.

I had a great experience at Macau’s Great Tower and would like to share it with you. When my Dad asked me what I wanted to do on his day off in Macau, I said I wanted to see the sights, one of which is the Macao Tower. I didn’t know about the jump, so you can imagine my surprise when I looked up to see someone plunging earthwards from the top. “Wow? Dad! That’s amazing. I want to have a go” I said, tugging at his shirt, as I realized what was happening. “I thought you would,” he said as he fished for his wallet. A little later, as an attendant helped me into a harness and tightened the straps, I watched the orange jumpsuits walk around the outside deck as if they were training for a moon-walk. A Chinese man got suited up before me and I watched him enter the crew pit, then be guided outside to where the jump gate is located. A crew member grabbed the “Big Man” (a long, thick set of cables wrapped together in material) and hooked it to a loop on the man’s back. After the checklist he guided the man to the gate.

He told the jumper that at 50 feet he would stop his fall to take a photo and asked that the jumper look back up at him. The man nodded in agreement, looking as though he didn’t trust himself to speak for fear of emitting an un-macho squeak. The attendant opened the door and led the man to the edge. He didn’t hesitate and was gone in seconds. I doubted whether I would be so brave. I felt adrenaline entering my heart as I took a deep breath, trying to control the mounting fear of knowing it was my turn. I stepped outside. Out on the deck, the crew member said “Don’t worry, Losie, it’s safe”, pronouncing my name in the usual Asian way. Its used to find it sooooo annoying that Asian’s can’t pronounce my name “Rosie”, but I changed my attitude when our Filipina nanny pointed out that I couldn’t pronounce her name properly either. He yelled back the checklist and asked me, “Are you ready?” But he wasn’t really after an answer and so didn’t give me time to open my mouth and say:

“NO, Definitely not, I’ve changed my mind, don’t bother about a refund, I want to go down the slow way. I mean, I can’t feel any wings sprouting out of my shoulders, so I can’t possibly fly, right, so this is lunacy. I might be a young British female, but DO I LOOK LIKE A B***** BIRD ?

He opened the gate and told me to put my hands on the top bar of the railing as the gate swung open in front of me. I did, but realized I really had changed my mind and was not going to jump – no way, José. “Look over there, Losie, look at Hong Kong” the crew member said, pointing at where my sister had been born. “You’ll be fine. Trust me” he assured me. “No. This does not feel right. I do not want to do this,” I said, standing at the edge with the gate wide open.

The crew member attempted to reassure me, closing the gate and talking some calm back into me. I didn’t hear him – the only thought filling my mind, heightened by the blood throbbing almost audibly in my temples, was that jumping off the tower was suicidal. Life suddenly seemed even more precious than previously, I was far too young and thought myself much too beautiful to die. Besides, I’d never had any children, never been rock-climbing in Krabi, never seen a sunset from Annapurna base camp, only seen Boyzone in concert nineteen times.

This felt very different from jumping out of an airplane in Australia. That had seemed only slightly daft, as the airoplane was perfectly serviceable and I had no particularly pressing appointments on the ground. The crew member continued to try to reassure me “Come on Losie, you don’t want to come this far and turn back”, he said.

Before I could give voice to my objections I heard the sound of cheering and realized that everyone on the top floor had gathered behind us and was cheering me on. “Please don’t do that,” I said, waving feebly at them while smiling wanly. More afraid of the embarrassment of turning back than of the dangers of proceeding, I turned round, faced the open expanse and leaned forward. The cable stopped after 50 feet for the attendant to take my photo. “Look at me,” he yelled from above as I hung suspended below. “I can’t,” I yelled back, “My head doesn’t turn that far. It’s impossible, my neck’s not long enough. Who can do that, anyway? I mean, how many giraffes do you get jumping off this thing?” The cable was released and I started a pleasurable descent, slowing down about 30 feet from the bottom and landing softly on my feet, right on target. Dad’s eyes were the first things I saw as I hit the landing pad. He was laughing a somewhat nervous laugh, presumably relieved it was all over. I suddenly realized how much he loves me, that he was willing to put up with watching me do something that must have scared him witless.

 Our driver Andrew greeted me at the exit. “You crazy lady. Your Dad say you no like be high, why you jump?” he asked. “Because I wanted to beat the fear” I said. Today, the spectators on the top floor had given me the courage to jump by shaming me into banishing the fear. Andrew asked Dad why he didn’t jump too. “I have no desire to do things like that,” he replied. “I’m old enough not to need to bother with proving things.” What is brave? To jump or not to jump. Which is braver? She who jumps or he who jumps not? AJ Hackett once chided reporters. “You must jump before reporting,” he said. So, now, after having completed the same feat, I feel I have earned the right to ask, “If you are young, do you have what it takes? If not, is the only reason that you wouldn’t do it that you feel you don’t need to bother?”

Whilst in Thailand, why not visit one of the country’s currently best three beach destinations:

Koh Lao Liang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/kohlaoliang.shtml

Ao Nang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/ao_nang.shtml

Railay/Tonsai: http://www.andamanadventures.com/railay-tonsai.shtml

Borneo – The Wild Heart of SE Asian Adventure

Borneo is the third largest island in the world, located east of Singapore. The Borneo jungles are not only magnificently spectacular, but they are also relatively untouched. When one finds oneself amongst the many segregated worlds of lush vegetation that Borneo has to offer, one can only wonder … “How could an exotic land that offers so many species of wild life have escaped mass tourism?”

In the modern age, when tourism has a tendency to develop and then envelop any place of beauty, Borneo has so far escaped this fate. This is an extra benefit that heightens Borneo’s natural and unspoiled charm and which will, we hope, continue to enhance Borneo’s majestic splendour through the years. So remote is Borneo that one of its many superlatives, the world’s largest and most overwhelming cave system, the Mulu, was only discovered by the West in the latter half of the twentieth century.

About the size of Texas, Borneo is the third largest island in the world. Most of it belongs to Indonesia, but the northern provinces of Sarawak and Sabah, former British colonies which are now part of Malaysia, draw most of Borneo’s visitors.

The primitive image of Borneo which we held in the last century is out of date. Malaysian Borneo is civilised; Kuching and Kota Kinabalu are modern, bustling little cities, plus the island has a reasonably effective tourist infrastructure. The blend of old and new in Borneo is nicely summed up by a sign in the Limbang airport that sternly prohibits the carrying of blowguns aboard aircraft.

Because of its great variety of attractions, Borneo trips tend to be smorgasbord-style affairs. You may be climbing 13,455-foot Mount Kinabalu one day (no technical skills required, but nevertheless a stiff hike) and sleeping in a longhouse with Iban tribesmen the next. Although headhunting is now outlawed, you may meet some folks who remember it—or may even have practised it in the ‘good’ old days. Jungle treks and cave explorations in Mulu National Park, visits to Sepilok orangutan sanctuary, white-water rafting trips and scuba diving along the 3,000-foot sea wall just off Sipadan Island are also popular Borneo diversions. Whatever you do, it’s virtually certain you’ll ride in a boat at some point—Borneo is so mountainous and densely forested that roads exist only along the coastline. In the interior, rivers are the only highways.

Practically speaking Borneo is not an easy place to see on your own. Attractions are widely scattered and require a variety of transportation. Many cool spots are reachable only by longboat or small aircraft, which require advance planning. On the major rivers such as the Baram and Rajang, however, there are fast, cheap express boat services (if you have the bottle to ride them). These incredibly sleek, speedy and claustrophobic craft look much like wingless jet airliners—the drivers even paint on fake cockpit windows to further the illusion—and have a terrible safety record. Local tour operators in the main towns of Kuching and Kota Kinabalu offer Kinabalu climbs and visits to Iban longhouses. The downside, of course, is that, almost by definition, any outing that’s easy to arrange on the spot is going to be more crowded with tourists.

Simple guesthouses in the larger towns go for $10-$20 a night, while Western-style hotels run in the $40-50 range. Jungle lodge prices are in the same range.

And don’t worry about the leeches. The pesky little critters usually manage to get through any protective clothing, but you won’t even notice that they’re sucking your blood because they first inject you with a local anaesthetic. It doesn’t hurt a bit, but it can be a bit of a jolt when you remove your shoes and find blood-soaked socks. But unless you’re seriously squeamish or a haemophobe, Borneo leeches are not that big a deal. Really.

Whilst in Thailand, why not visit one of the country’s currently best three beach destinations:

Koh Lao Liang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/kohlaoliang.shtml

Ao Nang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/ao_nang.shtml

Railay/Tonsai: http://www.andamanadventures.com/railay-tonsai.shtml

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The Mekong waltz, Vang Vieng 

As sports go, in terms of sophistication ‘tubing’ is right up there with darts. Further similarities between tubing and darts are that, like darts, tubing is a sport which involves virtually no physical exercise and during which the ‘sportsman’ is encouraged to consume large volumes of beer.

If you want to go tubing, all you need is a tractor tyre’s inner tube and a river. Then you deposit yourself in the middle of the tube, legs dangling over the edge, and float downstream. The objects of the exercise: relax, drink as many cold beers as possible and flirt with the maximum number of strangers.

I know the ins-and-outs because I presently find myself in Vang Vieng in Northern Laos, the tubing capital of the world.

The Vang Vieng tubing experience lasts three or four hours and essentially entails soaking up sunshine and cold beers at riverside bamboo bars kitted out with music, rope swings, zip wires and jumps. Between bar breaks, the day-tripper floats down the Mekong’s majestic tributary the Nam Som, bumping into random strangers and admiring the spectacular scenery, which consists of limestone cliffs rising from rice paddy fields.

I am about to climb aboard one of the tyres, but before getting carried away down the river, I want to ensure that the river does not swallow my phones (I have more than one but not, I must repeatedly tell every Laotian I come across, because I have a ‘Mia Noi’ – ‘little wife’, or mistress). In theory, I should be fine because I have a dry bag: an elongated rubber pouch folded over seven times and fastened with a backpack-style click-clip.

Earlier, the dry-bag shop assistant had insisted that his product would do the job. I was dubious and cross-examined him – I examined him so much he got cross. Eventually I splashed out to the tune of 20,000 kip, suspicious I was paying a zero too many, before jumping in a minibus with six other travellers – a mix of middle-aged Koreans, gap-year British kids and goateed, dreadlocked Scandinavians.

Around 500 adventurers make the journey down the Nam Som every day. I notice that I am the 195th, according to the marker pen squiggle on my hand, as I kick my tube into the river.

The tube promptly takes off, forcing me to run after it. I jump in and fall out, scraping my knees on the stony riverbed, provoking several small children to snigger and whisper “farang ting tong” (crazy foreigner).

I climb back in. This time, the tube rears up like a malevolent horse and I collapse, backwards, back into the muddy Mekong’s tributary.

Finally, I succeed in planting myself inside and, steering with my hands, start cruising slowly down the somewhat dirty green river, whose flow is interrupted by rapids which, thankfully, have less kick than a fengshui-inspired garden water feature.

Soon a skyscraper-high bamboo platform rears up on my left. Next to it the first bar looms into view, belting out Ricky Martin’s La Vida Loca, a song commonly sung by drunk pirates en route to a firing squad, I once read.

Grabbing the bamboo barge pole that a barman extends, I reel myself ashore and meet a scattering of Brits led by Guy, a Home Counties type with air ace looks and not a hair out of place. While I sip my skittle-sized bottle of Beer Lao, Guy tells me that getting too drunk is a bad idea. Only the previous week a girl who jumped off one of the podiums crashed head-to-head into a tube-rider.

The tube-rider apparently escaped serious injury. But she “ripped her jaw off”, Guy says, lending credence to a blog posting I read, which reported a drowning. I squirm. Everyone falls silent.

Just to prove that I’m just as childish as the younger crowd which I’m drinking with, I feel obliged to pull at least one Tarzan stunt. So I finish my beer and make my way up the skinny bamboo ladder, grip the handle of the aerial slide and check that nobody is lurking below. I zoom down the wire and collide at speed with the river.

A rumble of bubbles. My body knifes through the water, experiences traction, hits a halt, gathers upwards momentum and then bursts through the surface. That certainly blew away the cobwebs.

Coaxed and cajoled by the boys, Guy’s English rose girlfriend eventually heads for the ladder, looking like someone walking the plank. In the wake of her splash I move on, soon followed by Guy’s squadron. The last time I see him, he is mounting another much higher platform with a cheery wave.

As I turn a bend in the river and he disappears, I imagine him executing the perfect swallow dive. Enticed by a barrage of Britpop, I head for the next bar, dip into my dry bag and rummage around for a wad of notes, only to discover that I am already down to my last 40,000 kip. Ouch!

Over the din of Faithless and The Arctic Monkeys, I ask the ruddy Liverpuddlian barman what that pittance will buy. “A small beer,” he says.

After finishing it, I am obliged to go tee-total, which is maybe, in the light of Guy’s observation, a blessing. As the party revs up and gets into full swing, I tire of the noise and all the tediously young and clichéd traveller-talk – how much this and that bus/boat/plane/dinner/shirt/battery/box of matches costs. I continue downriver, then settle for a while into a peaceful riverside berth formed by an overhang of undergrowth.

I fall into conversation with a Guangdong legal assistant who recently quit her job to go roaming. We bump together and become a double doughnut until, in the run-up to a series of rapids, she steers away and waves good-bye.

I do nothing – I just spin and watch a goat chew grass. It seems to do this in extreme slow motion, but maybe this is just an illusory effect of me having slowed down. The improbable happens – I relax. I am suffused by a pleasant and unusual sense of in-the-moment tranquility. I can see why some people become hooked on tubing and do the journey as many as 10 times in a row.

I slowly revolve through the haze towards a herd of buffalo taking a dip. They are disembodied, a surreal jumble of huge heads with ropes through their noses. As I near, they startle, then settle.

Beyond the buffalo, two locals wade across the river, looking statuesque with impossibly large bamboo bundles on their heads. One splashes my camera, reminding me that, here, if you want to take someone’s photo, you should ask first. Laotians are shy people.

All the more wonder that, during the 1960s, America saw fit to drop more bombs on their country than were used during the whole of the Second World War. Laos has the dubious honour of being the most bombed country in history. Thanks to the bombardment, people – often children – still get maimed in the fields of Laos today. But the little girl who now approaches me in the shallows at the end of the tube ride has an air of indestructibility.

She tries to take my tube off me, whilst demanding money. I do not pay as I have heard that, if I do, she will walk away with the tube and never return it to base, forcing me to pay a fine.

As I am returning my tube I bump into the Guangdong legal assistant and am not too surprised when she refuses my dinner invitation – well, it was a rather optimistic one, I suppose. Maybe I’ll take another ride down the river tomorrow.

If visiting Thailand, why not visit one of the country’s currently best three beach destinations:

Koh Lao Liang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/kohlaoliang.shtml

Ao Nang: http://www.andamanadventures.com/ao_nang.shtml

Railay/Tonsai: http://www.andamanadventures.com/railay-tonsai.shtml