Lounging in Langkawi

18-20th June

Having spruced up my toenails with a pedicure at Pretty Nails in Great Eastern Mall – the hot wax wrap is particularly good – we head to the airport once again for one last blast of rest and relaxation on this trip. We are heading to Langkawi, a pretty island off the west coast of penisular Malaysia. It has to be said, that it is also a bit touristy, tacky these day, but we don’t see much of that as we hole up at the delightful Bon Ton resort. This consists of a pretty garden adjacent to bulrush an lotus packed marshes which eventually give onto the sea. The feel is rural rather than beachside. Its claim to fame is that each of the seven guest rooms scattered around the garden are old Malaysian timber houses saved from ruin on the mainland and lovingly restored. Raised on wooden stilts, with thatched roof, timber shutters and beautifully crafted fretwork, the structures may be traditional, but the interiors are contemporary classic, and would grace the pages of a glossy magazine. We even have a bath made from teak on our private terrace.

A long, thin, rectangular blue swimming pool – its chlorine-free water the perfect temperature for lazy laps – forms a centrepiece to the garden, with enough teak loungers shaded by white parasols for every guest, and attentive waiters on tap with chilled water and refreshing fruit. Bon Ton also has the best restaurant on the island – serving the best mashed potato in the world. You don’t have to take my word there are restaurant reviews to prove it. With all this on hand, who wants to venture out? Apart from the obligatory massage, not us – we are here to relax after all.

It turns out that you can probably discover more about Malaysian history here than anywhere on the island. Next door, Bon Ton’s sister resort, Temple Tree, also offers accommodation in a range of reclaimed houses. This time the theme is colonial, with larger properties originally built by the English ruling class in the 1930s,40s and 50s, together with a red timber building that was originally a Chinese shop house. Rather than each building serving as an individual room, as at Bon Ton, these each house several luxurious guest rooms and terraces and comfortable communal lounges. One of the largest is still being installed and you can see the timbers and columns are carefully numbered to ensure they are recreated to the original plan.

Some of the hotels’ profits support a dog and a cat sanctuary. The dogs are in kennels somewhere but there are a dozen or more lucky rescue cats wandering round thinking "this is the life". As in Tioman, there is a peculiarity to many of the cats here – they have short, stumpy tails. The Tioman variation – short with a kink at the top – is meant to be due to inbreeding, so I guess it’s the same on Langkawi. Whatever the length of their tail, they each have a favoured spot to spend the day – inside a decorative wooden pot by the pool, under the shade of a bar stool, beneath the steps of a chalet – but as the heat of the sun fades they come out to greet the guests, chase lizards up trees, or sit by your side as you sip a cocktail and watch the sun go down. Like pampered cats the world over, they’ve got the right idea.

Butterflies, birds and Bijan's

17th June

Back in KL, we head for one of its biggest parks – yes, dear reader, you can still find oases of green amongst the high rises and expressways. It would take more than a day to do justice to this extensive park, so we limit ourselves to a stroll round the butterfly park – as it is the only place we can find to park the car – the bird park, and the ornamental lake. It must be butterfly season, as there are many hundreds of them flying around, dipping their proboscis into the colourful flowers, resting with wings spread like kites to take in the sun, and sipping water from one particular puddle which obviously has superior qualities to all the others. My favourites are the large black swallowtails with an iridescent blue band across their wings.

The bird park is just as packed – but with children as well as a huge variety of birds, from eagles to songbirds, peacocks to flamingos, and even two of the cassowaries we first encountered in Australia last year. My favourite is the hooting, hopping Great Hornbill. What appears to be a banana on its head turns out to be its voice box – producing the loudest hoot in the park as it hops kangaroo-style round its cage. And a special mention goes to the crested pigeon – it does sport a lovely crest, but its size is the real cause for celebration. Imagine Trafalgar Square full of pigeons the size of turkeys.

While local holidaymakers and daytrippers are out in force in the bird park, the lake and surrounding gardens are populated by local workmen armed with leaf blowers, strimmers and mechanical diggers to plant yet more trees. Their desire to keep the area neat and tidy is admirable, but it’s not the peaceful walk we had in mind. No matter. A final treat is in store as we follow the signs to the mouse deer park. Surely the smallest deer in the world, the mouse deer stands 20cm high to its shoulder and is about 40cm long – the size of a large cat – and stands on legs so spindly, its back knees are knocked. So cute!

The evening starts with a visit to Pavilion - the Westfield of KL.  But our minds are on food rather than shopping. KL restaurants offer food from every country in the world – except their own. Finding a Malaysian restaurant brings needles and haystacks to mind – perhaps they have that at home everyday so want something different when they eat out. Malaysian food is distinctly homestyle – essentially large portions of comfort food. But the internet is a wondrous thing, and we discover Bijan’s near Bukit Bintang. We can’t claim to be the first, as the place is packed, and the friendly staff magic tables from nowhere to fill every available corner. Having sampled the food, I can understand why it’s so full.

Three days on Tioman Island

13th-16th June

No time for a Sunday morning lie-in as we head to the airport for a short flight to Tioman Island. It’s school holiday time in Malaysia and we had trouble finding accommodation, so our three nights are split between two resorts. There are virtually no roads on the island and the airport transfer is by water taxi. Our first stop is slightly north of the airport, an area known as ABC, which is popular with locals and backpackers. Our hotel is one step above backpacker, but definitely budget. On the plus side, there is a pretty beach and warm clear sea, and life here revolves around this prime piece of real estate. We lounge in the shade of the trees alongside the backpackers playing cards, watching the antics of Malaysian children in the water. Snorkelling and an ever-capsizing banana boat are on offer to those who swim. This pleasure has passed many Muslim adults by – most wear life jackets even sitting in a water taxi – so I’m impressed by a mum in a bright blue swimming burka, teaching her children to swim.

Happy Hour at the beach bar starts at 5, but a handful of middle-aged Brits have been propping it up for several hours by then, the drone of their world-weary tales the irrating background hum of barflies the world over. After dinner, beach chairs are turned away from the sea towards a giant screen showing live football – no escaping the world cup here. The barflies and backpackers have settled in for the night, but I’m soon nodding off and head to bed.

Half an hour down the coast in a speedy little boat we arrive at our second destination, and I can't think of many people who won't find paradise at Bagus Place. This delightful little resort - just 5 rooms - is a restful, rustic, haven nestling almost invisibly in the rocks and rainforest that fringe the South China Sea at the southern tip of Tioman Island. We are staying in the boat house, which looked like Noah's Ark washed up on the beach. Inside there is a downstairs lounge and shower-room with open tread stairs to the bedroom, outside deck, and a second indoor lounge complete with daybed and splendid sea view. We had planned to scuba-dive but, if truth be told, the restful style of Bagus Place lulled us into a soporific stupor of contentment. We managed to interrupt our lounging, reading and sleeping with an occasional snorkel from the end of the jetty, where baby reef shark chased shoals of tiny fish. The jetty bar is also a lovely place to watch the sun go down and stars come out. Robinson Crusoe, eat your heart out.

After two days of simple pleasures, it’s time to head back to KL. We wake to a flat, calm sea, but an hour later, when our boat is due to leave, a wind has sprung up, swelling the sea making white crested waves. This time we are given life jackets for the bumpy ride back to the airport, and are thankful that we are not on one of boats full of snorkellers that we pass on the way.

If it's Saturday it must be KL

11-12th June

I'm taking advantage of Robin’s Kuala Lumpur house-swap to do a lightning tour of Malaysia – a 10-day mini-break covering KL, Tioman Island off the East coast of the peninsula, and Lankawi off the West Coast.

With my flight landing at 7.40pm , there’s only time to drive back from the airport to the flat in the Embassy district, Robin’s home for the next month, meet the cats he is looking after – not quite as needy as the two I’ve left at home – and drop round to the next door bar for a late supper to the sounds of a local jazz band.

On Saturday I get my first real sight of KL, from the top of the Menara Tower. KL’s own twin towers – Petronus – dominate the skyline, but there are skyrise blocks all around and many more being erected - a clear sign of Malaysia’s booming economy, deliberately spurred by massive population growth. In the 1970s, the government decreed that the population must rise from 15 million to 65 million by 2015 to generate economic growth. It seems to be working. Sadly the buildings needed to house both businesses and workers in KL seem untouched by any architect’s hand, with function rather than design to the fore. But, as in many south-east Asian cities, there is a real vitality here. Designer labels, and the latest electronic gadgetry (there’s a least one iPad on show in every coffee shop we visit), sit comfortably alongside outdoor food stalls, where old style restaurant entrepreneurs vie for your custom at night. We enjoyed a great meal in Jalang Alor – famed for its Chinese food – brought to our table from 4 separate kitchens. Then onto Bukit Bintang, for a leisurely bar crawl leading up to England’s first World Cup match, against USA at 2.30 in the morning! When Gerrard scores after 4 minutes, the late night seems worth it, but after USA draw level we call it a day at half time. The street is still teeming with ex-pat and local supporters, including a Brummie with the physique of Matt Lucas masquerading as a flag of St George in a striking one-piece - “It’s really sweaty in here”- covering him, literally, from head to foot. I guess you could say KL's cosmopolitan!

Blissed out in Bali

8th-14th January

What can I say about Bali? Or more specifically, Ubud? It is, quite simply, a little piece of heaven here on earth. And after last night’s worst of the worst hotel experience, we enter another world at Greenfields. Our beautiful room does indeed over look green fields - and we become intimately acquainted with the life-cycle of a paddy field over the next few days. It’s a brand new room, with a huge, comfortable bed – with no bugs – opening onto a large terrace, with a sofa, two chairs, coffee table and another massive bed seat that just invites you lounge and contemplate the view. And best of all, there is a huge bathroom, with the best shower in the world – you could have a party in it, it’s so big – as well as wonderful bath. After Catimoer and the sulphur mine, we are almost dancing with joy.

While most of Indonesia is Muslim, Bali is Hindu. But Balinese Hinduism is a one-off variety. We are to learn a little about it in the days to come, but you could study it for a lifetime and still have more to learn. The atmosphere is much calmer and more orderly than Java – and the 3.5 hour road journey from the ferry to the hotel is the first example of this.


There are one or two instances of commercialism. And with apologies to Jane Austen – It is a truth universally acknowledged that a Westerner on the streets of Ubud must be in need of a taxi, if not today, then definitely tomorrow. But this hardly amounts to hustling. We grow used to a gentle daily cycle: – breakfast, check paddy field activity, pool, lunch, check paddy fields, stroll, massage, check paddy fields, sundowners, supper. Occasionally this varies with a visit to a traditional dance performance – with wonderful vocal accompaniment, a hundred men chanting “chaka, chaka, chaka” – an art gallery, the monkey forest, a little light shopping, or even a cycle tour of the surrounding countryside. But we are here to relax after our hectic tour of Java. And for me, it’s a perfect end to an amazing 12 week trip, where I daren’t think how many miles I’ve covered. Writing this, I realise my six nights in Bali is the longest time I’ve stayed in one place. But that’s another story.

Back to Balinese Hinduism, and the concept of harmony. There are human beings, plants and animals, which are inseparably from each other. The three are called “Tri Hita Karana” – which means three ways to respect. The concept of respect includes respect from humans to the Gods, through ritual, prayer and celebration which is integral to Balinese life. Respect for each other, through communication and discussion, and respect for the environment.

I spend an hour talking to a local artist about his life in Ubud and life in London. He cannot understand why we have so few religious celebrations – I manage Christmas, Easter and harvest festival – nor why we only go to church on Sunday (“what do you do on Monday, Tuesday etc?) – nor that so few people go to church, and that the rest of the community don’t mind. In Bali, everyone makes an offering of thanks every day, sometimes three times a day – you see these little baskets of flowers everywhere on the streets. Every family has its own temple, and there are several community temples in each village, each of which has a specific purpose. Giving thanks is a way of life. Just as respect for your neighbours and the animals and environment that support you.

The simplicity of this life is evident in the paddy fields. The women, for it is largely women, work from dawn until dusk, occasionally scurrying for cover during a downpour. They form an effective production line - our fields are ready for harvest, so we don’t see the earlier process – but a team of 10 can enter a field, cut, beat and winnow to sort rice from chaff, bag the rice seed and move on within a morning. But when they move out, the duck tenders – mainly men – move in. I learn from my artist friend that most work is done by women. I ask what the men do. “Cockfighting!”. And gambling on the outcome, of course, Paddy ducks are a specific breed, or they have had their wings clipped, as they can’t fly away. But our ducks are perfectly content and merrily quack their way through the cut fields feeding on discarded rice. We notice that some field have young ducks, while others have fatter ducks – some of which disappear into a bag each night. Female ducks may lay eggs, but they don’t get to hatch them. They are put under hens, and the ducklings follow the hen around until they are old enough to go into their own nursery field. And so life goes on in rural Bali. Five days is not enough. I will go back soon.

Fire and brimstone

8th January

Now run by the Indonesian government, the coffee plantation where we stay employs over 500 people who all live in tied cottages in a small village surrounding the plantation house. Built by Dutch colonialists, the plantation house now serves as a guest house, but its former glory has definitely faded. Although our enormous rooms seem impressive at first sight, we quickly discover the awful reality of Catimoer Guest House – which was dirty, crawling with ants, unfolding the towels released a squadron of large flying insects, and we found the wings of many of these inside the bed, along with other long dead creepy crawlies. Our unimaginative dinner was cold as it been on the table for half an hour before anyone told us it was there, and consisted of vegetable soup, prawn crackers, steamed rice, noodles, potato croquets and tiny chicken drumsticks. Breakfast was even worse – a boiled egg and a sandwich of rancid butter and chocolate sprinkles. But the crowning glory of Catimoer is the complete lack of sound insulation as both the interior and exterior walls are latticed canework – you can see daylight through them. We went to bed listening to the TV lounge next door; thought someone was using our bathroom as you could hear their ablutions so clearly; and, to cap it all, were woken up a little before 4am by the village mosque calling the faithful to prayer and broadcasting the entire proceedings over the tannoy system for the next hour. Prayers over, work obviously started for the day as several lorries revved up and reversed into our room – at least that’s what it sounded like. But if you want to visit Mount Raing and see the turquoise lake within Ijen, its crater, there are very few accommodation options. Apparently, this is one of the best. Hmmm. But we are easily up for our 6.15am departure.

It takes about 4 hours to climb up the volcano, walk around the rim, down into the crater and back again. Fortunately, we still had a packet of chocolate biscuits and some rambutin (fruit) in the mini-bus, so we didn’t have to do it on an entirely empty stomach.

What’s unusual about Ijen is that it is an active sulphur mine. But though we knew this, nothing prepared us for the vision of hell that unfolded below us as we crested the rim of the crater. We had already encountered cheery sulphur miners carrying two baskets of yellow sulphur balanced on one shoulder. They sulphur looked like broken blocks of wall insulation but, as Robin and Tim found out when they tried to lift one, each load weighs between 65 and 85kg – which, even at the lighter weight, is about 10kg more than me. Essentially these guys were hauling the equivalent of me and my luggage for 3 months up from the crater and down to the bottom of the mountain two or three times a day. And for that they received the princely sum of 900 rupiah a kilogram – about £4 for each load.

We could barely see the famous turquoise lake from the top of the crater as it was covered by yellow, grey and white sulphurous plume spewing out of the crater. This is where the miners worked, and it would make a good set for a desolate planet in Dr Who. It took us a good 20 minutes to stumble down the rocky track inside the crater to the mine itself, I only managed it with the help of Katung, who has done it so many times before he knew which rocks were solid and which would shoot down the rock face if you tried to balance on them. The miners had to come up this with their load, even they found it tough, ironically pausing for a fag break along the way.

Once we reached the makeshift mine we could see that the vapour from the volcano was directed through a series of pipes so it condensed on exit and formed hard yellow sulphur on the rock. Some of the sulphur liquefied and turned red, forming strange shapes either naturally or with the help of the miners, which they sold to tourists for extra cash. Being a scientist, Robin was in his element. For me it was a scene of medieval hell, made worse by the often choking fumes. At one point on the trek back up we were enveloped, and despite the wet scarves over our mouths, the eye-watering fumes scorched the back or our throats.

To our Western eyes it looked as if it would be pretty easy to mechanise the process of hauling the sulphur up from the crater, and use donkeys, at least, to carry it down. But in a country with a population of 235 million and no social security, Katung argued that the work was needed. And so the men we saw will carry the sulphur until they drop – and do it willingly.

We were happy to walk – or rather gallop, same foot always forward – back down the steep mountain slope to our mini-bus for our final journey in Java, to the ferry that would take us over to Bali. Once across the narrow channel we entered a different world.

Bromo at sunrise

6th & 7th January

We are off on a tour through the highlands of East Java and will be visiting 2 active volcanoes in the following days. The first is Mount Bromo. On the map, this is just 120Km from Surabaya, hardly any distance at all. But on Java’s busy, single lane roads it’s a 5 hour journey – made worse since the demise of a major bypass in 2005 when an Indonesian company drilling for oil struck boiling mud instead. The mud engulfed 17 villages as well as the bypass and is still gushing out millions of cubic metres every day. International experts have been called in, but no-one seems to know how to stop it. The Government is containing the spill by means of an earth bund, currently 30ft high, but this will presumably keep growing as the mud lake deepens. A great many people have lost their homes and livelihood, and many more just outside the bund have seen their properties blighted. But the compensation offered by the company responsible is not enough to replace the houses lost so far. Our guide – Katung – looks on the bright side, “It’s Indonesia’s latest tourist attraction” he says. We are not convinced. But it does show how unstable the earth’s crust is here. East Java has at least 8 active volcanoes and we are about to see two of them.

But first Tim insists that we discover another Javanese attraction. It’s durian season, and stalls along the road are selling the famously smelly fruit, so we have to stop at one. Durian is an acquired taste – it is said to be so evil smelling that it makes it difficult to eat the fruit. But the Javanese variety hardly smells at all, and Robin and I are happy to sample the fruit. There are many small segments inside the spiky durian, each with a little creamy flesh wrapped around a large stone. It’s hardly worth the effort of eating it. And while it’s not disgusting, it is very filling. A little goes a long way. Think I’ll leave this addiction to Tim. So does Robin. But our guide has other ideas and a few miles later stops at a durian orchard for Tim to see the fruit growing on a tree. And the very hospitable owner insists that we have yet more durian. Even Tim has had his fill by now.

As we leave the orchard the road begins to climb into the highlands, and the temperature drops. We no longer need the air-con and can just open the window to feel the cool, damp air. The higher we get, the more fertile the land. This is crop growing country, and every square inch is used – no matter how steep the incline. It looks very different to lowland Indonesia. Both the landscape and the people living here – the Tengenese – look different. The population is exclusively Hindu and many men and women have sarongs wrapped around their upper bodies to keep them warm. The houses are also different to lowland houses, with more windows and colourful woodwork and renders.

It’s almost dusk by the time we arrive at our home for the night, the aptly named Lava View Lodge, this is inside the lip of a huge old volcanic crater. While the outer walls are lined with rich red fertile soil, inside is a grey lava field. We are just a few kilometres from Mount Bromo and Mount Batok – both within the larger crater. Batok is a small, perfectly conical volcano that has not yet erupted. Bromo’s top is missing and we can see from its smoky plume that it remains very active. Its last eruption in 2006 lasted only a few minutes, but in 2002 lava poured out for 3 months and the area was evacuated.

We are in bed by 9pm, and up again at 3.15am in the vain hope of seeing the sunrise over Mount Bromo – and light up the far larger Mount Semeru, that stands over 3,670m and is clearly visible a few miles away behind Bromo. Our 4WD takes us in darkness to a viewing point at the top of the old crater, to join several hundred other hopeful tourists. But its rainy season, the clouds are thick in the sky which, together with the plume of smoke from Bromo means we can see virtually nothing of any volcano in the area.

Robin is not an early riser and has to be cajoled out of bed for these pre-dawn starts. And today is his birthday. He’s not a happy camper, but consoles himself by planning a new website “Why the f*** get up at dawn?” It would show photographs of every viewpoint tourists are conned into going to at dawn, taken on the one perfect day of the year when the sun can actually be seen rising, and contrast them with the reality of everyone else’s cloudy day or fog-bound shots.

The 4WD takes us back into the main crater – a sea of volcanic ash and lava fields – where we swap four wheels for four legs and clamber onto horses to take us to the base of Bromo. The horses are the Indonesian variety – ie too small for us – the stirrups aren’t adjusted and I have no reins to hold onto as my horse is being led by a small boy, who is probably 32. I don’t think he trusted me to do anymore – despite the small stature of the horse, I still couldn’t swing my leg over and fell off the first time I tried to mount it. Tim must look equally incompetent as he is also led. But Robin, who earlier claimed that he and horses didn’t get on, proves a natural, and is soon off the rein, overtaking everyone else, and thoroughly enjoying himself. It doesn’t take long to get to Bromo, and it is such an established tourist attraction that it has a concrete staircase leading up to the crater rim. We climb the 252 steps and peer into the cone - my first live volcano experience. As the wind blows the sulphurous plume you can clearly see the open “plug” below. Tim throws a bunch of flowers into the cone, the traditional offering to placate the fires below. Then it’s back down the steps and onto our trusty steeds for the return journey. Once again, Tim and I plod along on our old nags, but Robin’s frisky horse charges ahead and is soon out of sight.

By 9am, we have breakfasted, showered, checked out of the hotel and are on the road to our next volcanic destination. Once again, it’s a distance of perhaps 120km, but on the journey takes most of the day, and it lashes down with rain most of the time. We stop for lunch at a restaurant known for its ice cream. When he learns that it’s Robin’s birthday our guide orders us the house speciality, durian ice cream. We are fast becoming durian experts, but are puzzled that it’s served as an appetiser rather than a dessert.

The rains stop around 4.30pm, just as we reach the coffee plantation where we are to spend the night. The setting is rather beautiful, and Katung takes us to see the steaming waterfall in the forest and the natural hot springs. The waterfall is a powerful torrent of brown water, which I find quite disturbing and destructive. Maybe it’s the colour of the water, but I can only think of it as a destructive force. Apparently locals come here to meditate at the full moon - I’d be tempted to exorcise the evil spirits in the water rather than spend time in contemplation. Fortunately the water for the hot springs has already been tamed, and contained within two concrete pools, the first containing warm water, and the second, hot water. The warm water is hotter than the hottest bath you can imagine, and we have to sit on the side, splashing water over our bodies to try and acclimatise before getting in. The hotter spring is almost unbearable, and we can only stay in for a matter of seconds before jumping out again. The water is also very murky, and I daren’t think what’s in there, but hope the sulphur in the water has killed the worst of any bugs lurking. But it’s another first for Robin’s birthday and we’ve brought a few cooling beers along to toast him.