HSBC - Hong Kong Shanghai Beginners Challenge!

Dusting myself off from a surprisingly pleasant time-warp experience which was the Bhutanese airline, I arrived in Calcutta, or Kolcutta, as it is now known, to spend a couple of days exploring what is often known as a very British India.

Back in the good ol' days where us Brits ruled the world (slight exaggeration, but not by much!) Calcutta was our capital in India. It shows. Everywhere is full of colonial architecture and everyone spoke surprisingly good English. Here I enjoyed my time visiting the many markets, resting and generally taking things easy. It was uneventful, but a welcome rest from over 2.5 months of hard travel.

The only item of note, was a rather random Muslim festival which seemed to involve everyone carrying a stick and having mock fights in the street. How strange...



Upon arriving in Hong Kong, a very different atmosphere greeted me, one which was very familiar. Hong Kong is like any other large city, it has a “buzz” about it which is very appealing. I felt it the last time I was in London, and I like it every time it happens. On a sliding scale of civilisation, London is a step away from Singapore, Hong Kong a step away from London. It reminded me of the Chinatown region, everything was in Chinese, but English was common enough for those who didn't speak Chinese. On the same scale, even the most civilised Indian city was towards the back of the book. You can blame their terrible driving and filthy streets for that.

From the second I arrived, I was in no doubt, I could work here. It was a very fascinating place to be, one I wished to know more about.



It had interesting markets selling Chinese Medicine, and with the close proximity of the Spring Festival (Chinese New Year for you and I), many red lanterns and other traditional fare for sale. Like many large cities where I would like to work however, it didn't have that many tourist sights to see. It had even less which were worth a photo.

During my time there, I managed to meet someone from the UK. She too echoed my sentiment that Hong Kong would be a great place to live... who knows, perhaps I may see her if I move out there!

During our time together, we would regularly walk past many little restaurants which looked really nice; packed full of locals, I would peer in only to be greeted with an almost incomprehensible menu. When I was alone, I even tried eating in such a venue with the hope that I would be able to bodge my way though. With the menu containing no pictures and certainly no English, I played the “pin the tail on the donkey” game with the menu, finally resting on a dish which cost little over two pounds (food is really cheap, despite coffee being the same price as London!) Whilst ordering, the waitress looked really confused and said something in Chinese, which I should have interpreted as “Foreigners don't usually eat this, are you sure you want this one?”

When the dish arrived, I was a little disheartened when it was a bowl of boiled rice with some veg, sounds okay right? That is, until you realised that there were two raw eggs cracked over the top of it. Very kindly, as they served it, they gestured that I should stir the egg “sauce” in. Down the hatch.

After spending a couple of days together doing some rather touristy things including a rather impressive view of the Hong Kong Skyline, we parted company as I had to get to mainland China...



I decided it was then time to head off into China, Shanghai to be precise. Before I ventured deeper however, I would need some kind of Mandarin skills – playing charades each time I wanted some food or drink was getting tiresome, and the Chinese eat far worse than raw egg. Here fido!



Deciding that the overnight train would be the perfect way to enter the country, with time to view the scenery and and expense which would keep costs down, I opted for the lowest class – worryingly called “hard sleeper”. Despite comments in my guidebook that “No foreigners would be seen dead in this class” I decided that it was worth a laugh and booked my place on the top bed, which the guidebook also said was very cramped (but also cheaper!)

With the words from the guidebook almost ringing in my ears, I jumped onto the train, rather worried as to what I would find....



Much to my delight, the Chinese train system, despite only having about 4 classes, unlike the seven for Indian trains, is actually very modern when departing from Hong Kong. The worst seat, on the lowest class, is roughly the same, and a million times cleaner, than the second highest class of the Indian system, even on their best train. It did come at a price though, being almost twice as expensive (a whole 30 pounds for a 22 hour journey) than the highest Indian class.

After a few amusing chats with locals and expats alike (I found someone who sails almost the same class of boat I do – wow!) I arrived in Shanghai and took a taxi to a hotel I had booked on-line the previous day.



Comparing Shanghai to the scale I mentioned earlier, it is another couple of rungs down from Hong Kong – perhaps akin to Hong Kong a decade ago – but catching up fast. It is said that the most cranes in the world are in Dubai, well that may be true, but the most concrete dust in the world is currently being poured into buildings being erected in Shanghai, with a large majority swirling around in the air making a heavy cloud of smog sit over the city for days.





It was now time to sort out a decent language course, so I went off to visit a few language schools, eventually picking a private tuition course conducted by a school primarily aimed at business travellers. I would have loved to undertake a group course, but with the proximity of the Spring Festival, none were starting to absolute beginners.

Starting the course, I quickly began to realise that there is a very good reason why people say that Mandarin is the hardest language in the world to learn. Darn. Let's get things straight, I'm a fast learner, and certainly no slouch when I put my mind to something, but using this video as a demonstration, this language is hard, very hard.



In the video you can see one of my three teachers going through the different ways to say certain letter combinations. Couple this with the fact that in Mandarin the tones are very important, means that each of these almost identical sounds could have up to five meanings each, depending on if you have a rising, lowering, raising and then lower, flat, or raised tone. Arse.

I especially like the fact that I had three separate teachers – in true wrestling style, one would come in the morning and teach me for a couple of hours, before “tagging” the other teacher to continue to suffering for the afternoon. By the end of the first couple of days, I was thinking in sounds which made me think of steam trains!

I must admit that some of my time during my Mandarin classes wasn't entirely focused on the contents of the Mandarin book. For example, one day I took a photo of my air conditioning remote control and got the teacher to decipher for me what it actually meant. As my host family had only broken English, I had somehow managed to activate a function whereby it only worked for 10 minutes at a time before shutting itself off. Even when it was “working” it was like an asthmatic breathing through a straw!!



One item which amused my teachers was the rather original way by which I would tell taxi drivers to take me to various locations. Instead of trying to pronounce the words in Chinese (which always got a blank response for the first week that I was there) I simply took a photo of either the guidebook, or of the street sign and then pointed to it, saying in Chinese “I want this one please”. This worked surprisingly well!



In the evenings I had decided that sitting in a hotel room, however good, was rather dull. Resultantly, I had decided to leave my hotel accommodation and move in with a local family for a couple of weeks in what is termed a “home-stay”.

My adopted family were a family of three, father, mother and a daughter of about 13 years old. Here I was to have my social adaptability stretched a little.



At this time of year, Shanghai is rather cold, actually no, it's freezing. Due to the speed by which the city has developed, all walls are solid concrete, and no house has any kind of central heating. Our whole house had only two air conditioning units, which could just about keep up with the amount of heat being lost out of the single glazed windows and through the uninsulated concrete walls. Consequently, we all wore our outside coats indoors. This also meant that when I woke up, I could see the condensation in my breath. This wasn't my host family's fault, but it didn't make it any more pleasant when I had just come from Calcutta where temperatures were in the 30's Celsius.



Morning food consisted of a rather strange mix of a slightly alcoholic rice wine, mixed with some overcooked rice and a poached egg. Due to the social non-acceptance in western society of drinking alcohol before midday, I found it rather hard to stomach and must admit to it being an acquired taste.

Evening meals would often consist of the same mixture of perhaps eight different dishes: Fried pig skin, fish head soup, rice, spinach, a portion of chicken including bone which had been chopped into small segments and perhaps some nuts and other random vegetables or fruit. More than likely all but one dish would be cold, or slightly warm, with many being re-heated in the microwave from the day before.



As there were lots of bones or other pieces of debris, it was common for my host family to simply spit the contents of their meal which they didn't like directly onto the table cloth. This took some getting used to, but after the second day I was more than happy to do the same – although I never really got the hang of de-shelling a prawn by inserting the whole thing into my mouth, chomping and then spitting out the shell. I think I'll stick to the boring Western way thanks!

With the Spring Festival drawing closer, my Mandarin skills were improving thanks, in part, to the very patient nature of my teachers, combined with random luck. Nowhere was this more evident than in my daily morning coffee run.

Each day I would frequent the local coffee shop to purchase a latte (yes, they do have them in China, and no, I wasn't buying from Starbucks, although it was something similar!) On day one, I simply went in and asked in English, probably hashing up the Chinese pronunciation of “Hello” as I arrived. By the fifth day I was at least saying “Hello, I want a large latte please” [In Chinese]. By the last day, they were actually understanding me, and I even managed to get across that I wanted two paper cups, one inside the other to keep it warm. Although that sounds very impressive, it was actually achieved by my ordering my latte, then saying “two cups please” then saying “hot good” then gesturing to put one inside the other. It worked, so I didn't care!



Next time there will be stories of great daring as I brave the Chinese equivalent of the Gaza strip during the fabled Spring Festival. Although a slight exaggeration, the Chinese certainly like their rockets during this time of year!

The year of the Ox is coming....

Confused Conversations

Once again, it was back to being the only tourist in the village - I would probably guess I was the only tourist in the whole valley, knowing that area of Bhutan. By now this is something I'm rather used to and am actually beginning to enjoy. Though my guide I managed to hold multiple conversations and rather like in Borneo, everyone was rather amused by my hobbies. One conversation amused me greatly when I look back at it, as they have a point.



It was now time to try and discuss sailing with a land-locked Bhutanese.
"This 'sailing' then, where do you go?"
"Usually just out into the bay and back again."
"So you don't go anywhere?"
"Not really, just out and then back."
"But you fish when you are out in the bay though?"
"No"
"Why not, you are in the bay after all, does it not have any fish?"
"It has fish, but I can buy my fish from the market, we are there to race other boats instead."
"But you are out there already, why not fish and save the money?"
"Well, I race against other boats, that's more exciting!"
"So where are the other boats going then?"
"They are the same as me, they go out and back too."
"Oh, so they aren't going anywhere either?"
"[Trying to change the subject a little] I also do a martial art."
"What's that then?"
"It's where I practise fighting."
"So you are a warrior?"
"No, I don't fight anyone."
"But if you don't fight, why do you practise?"
"It keeps me fit."
"But why don't you work in the fields, that will keep you fit and will also make your family money?"
"Because I don't need to earn extra money, I have a job. I do this to relax."
[To his friend]"These foreigners have too much time and waste it doing strange things..."
I think he's got a point.



During the archery competition, we were all kept well fed with the local tuak, a kind of rice-wine which varied greatly in strength from about 10%, to about 35%, although that was just a guess as it was all home-brew! Unfortunately, the archers were also keeping up with the drinking, and being that they started before 7am, must have been close to paralytic as they rocked from side to side, desperately peering into the midday sun to see the tiny target.

In true "room full of monkeys, typewriters, Shakespeare," style though, hit the target they often did, actually more often than I would have been able to, so hats off to them. Whenever this was done, a wonderful dance erupted, which pretty much meant "well done for hitting the target, aren't we better then the opposition!" Either way, it was great to watch and something I later repeated much to everyone's amusement during our own archery competition.

Despite offers to give it a go, I was rather aware of the close proximity of everyone to the target, coupled with the fact that I haven't shot a bow in over seven years. I was [briefly] part of the archery club at uni though, so archery is something I'm pretty good at. Not that I was about to tell the Bhutanese that!

Accompanied by a few of the locals and a throng of small children eager to see the foreigner and his weird archery style, we found a small paddy field where we would try our own mini-competition. It was the driver and guide on the Bhutanese side, vs me for the westerners. We were all being rather modest and didn't really want to let the other know any level of skill.


[The target is at the base of the three trees which were propped up, it's the wider bit of trunk of the middle one - I managed to hit it three times!!]


[This is the target close up, with my arrow in it :-)]

With our target placed at a modest 70 metres, which is still a very long way away, we fired off our series of arrows. Much to my excitement, I trounced the locals! The first game was 0,0,7 to me. As you can imagine, the children found this very amusing and although I don't speak Bhutanese, the hard time they gave my Bhutanese friends was evident for all to see. They weren't impressed about the foreigner beating them and so a hasty re-match was organised, with the older Bhutanese providing a few tips to prevent a second white-washing.

My glory was short lived; we were using a child's bow and it couldn't really stand up to the forces being placed on it. So with arrow in hand, I let go and watched as the bow self destructed all over me, sending bits of string, wood and arrow in all directions. By some slight miracle, no-one was hurt and the bow was quickly repaired, but still needed a bow string to be complete. The round two of beatings would have to wait until another day.

After spending a very cold night in the house of one of the locals, which was akin to my survival experience in the Arctic (who builds a house with windows and doesn't put any shutters or glass on them - and then places it in the wind-channel of a valley!?) we were off to see some more sights and our next valley.



The following valley was significantly higher and therefore colder. Recent snowfall meant that the journey took longer than expected, but with some truly stunning views on the way there, it certainly wasn't a let down.

After a late arrival we settled into our hotel. Once again, I was the only guest. Each time I would enter the main dining room, the huddle of five employees would quickly get up from their chairs which were huddled around the fire in the middle of the room and bow to greet me. Unfortunately, the hotel's generator had failed, so no heating or hot water was currently operating. This meant that the only way to warm up the room was a small fire in the room which had to be lit. Lighting fires has never been an issue for me, in fact, it's usually the other way around. I like my fire hot, and that means I like them big. Something which had already got me into trouble whist in the jungle as I scorched one of the tarps with my inferno. Consequently, lighting the tiny little fire in my room wasn't an issue.



When I came into the restaurant for the evening meal, the hotel staff looked really puzzled. I asked what was up and one of them said that it was strange that I didn't need heating in my room: they thought that I had not lit my fire. On telling them that I had already lit my fire using the matches and wood provided just outside the room, they looked even more confused. How could a foreigner actually light a fire?? Apparently the last guest which had just checked out had been so inept, they had used two boxes of matches to try and light their fire, and eventually gave up. Wow, I'm glad I'm in no survival situation with them!

That evening we played some more cards and I took it unto myself to teach the people of that valley a game called "Big Two", which is always good fun in a large group.

The next day we departed back the way we had come, but after only 2km were coming across some difficulties. The ever faithful Toyota 4*4 which I had earlier praised for being one of the most reliable cars on the planet, had been listening. Today was its day to wind me up and stop working. Don't worry, it's only -10 outside, probably about -40 with the wind-chill. Oh, and the nearest mechanic is about a 3 hour drive away. Drive, yes, that thing we cannot do right now.



After some faffing around with the fuel pump, and multiple stops to jump out, pump the fuel pump a little more manually, and then hop back in again, the car finally managed to warm up and get going as it should. Phew.



At the ridge of the valley we came across a large queue of traffic. It seems that the fog and ice had collected on a single road and everyone was waiting for this to clear before proceeding. Not us however, for we had no fear [sense] and decided to half slide half drive our way down, with only a few twigs and some grass hidden under deep snow to keep us from falling a good few hundred metres. I'm glad our driver was good!



After another night on the road we arrived in the second largest town in Bhutan, which is about the size of Dorking (if you are from Surrey) or perhaps Hamworthy (if you are from Dorest.) If you aren't from either of those places, imagine a large village, perhaps 100,000 people. Here we were to take our flight out the following day, but first I was off to see the Bhutanese tourist sight and in true Bhutanese style, it involved a walk.

Every country has one, the "must see" sight, and for Bhutan this is a temple on the side of a cliff. I'm not talking about a temple which has been built right next to a cliff, no, this has been built ON a cliff. It was quite a sight.




After a brisk walk which the guide said takes between 90 minutes and two hours (so we almost jogged up it in less than 28 minutes - I'm a stickler for competition okay!) We took our first glimpse of the temple, which, I think you will agree from the photos, is quite a sight. Apart from the prat standing in the way that is...



Whilst there we also came across our first beggars of Bhutan, which had been a pleasant break from India where they seemed to be everywhere. These beggars were a little different though, being small puppies (everyone go "ahhhh")...



That's enough of that.

With the final major sight of Bhutan wrapped up, I can only say that it's been amazing. I can see why people say that Bhutan is one of the most unspoilt places on earth; fingers crossed it will stay that way until I return, just please, sort the food out between then and now?

The only thing which remained was to read Michael's article in the in-flight magazine for the Bhutanese airline, as I gawped out of the window at Mt Everest...





Onwards, to Hong Kong!

Bhutanese whirlwind!

Arriving in the capital of Bhutan, Thimpu, 36 hours after departure from Singapore, an early night was called for.

Rising early the next morning, we had been transported to a magical place. The small city of Thimpu was firmly lodged between the majestic slopes of towering giants, each one weighing in at over 4000m, almost four times that of England and Wales' highest peak, Snowdon.




Following a brief orientation of the city, my friend in Bhutan, Michael, was contacted and he advised me to wear my formal attire! Coming from the jungles of Borneo, I was rather surprised to hear formal attire was a prerequisite for me meeting him. We quickly went about acquiring a Bhutanese Gho, a dressing gown really, knee high socks and formal shoes. It was a good look, although probably only in Bhutan.



We rushed to meet Michael, who detailed the reasons behind the formality; we were to meet the chief justice minister, who had just been awarded the Bhutanese equivalent of an O.B.E. Oh, and most of the government would be there too!



I was then given a very brief tutorial on how to greet the minister. In Bhutanese culture, when one receives an honor such as a promotion or medal, it is customary to give them a white scarf. Apparently this says something about their purity, but in all honesty I wasn't listening. Instead I was concentrating on the required moves. One has to bow, with palms facing the person, to about shin height (the height depends on the person, king would be to foot level, normal to knee,) then one standard and flicks a concertinaed scarf from one hand over the opposite arm, offering it to the person.

I had one practice, now time for the real thing.

After being ushered into his mansion on the hill, past many other dignitaries, some with swords, we entered the giving room. Official photographer on one side, aide the other, with a grinning minister planted between them.

Only the mountain of white scarves to negotiate and it was Michael's turn to do the move. It went well, with the minister looking impressed. Pressure is on. My random presence is quickly explained and now it's my turn. Bow, stand, flick and offer. Success! I even got a compliment and photo for the occasion (the photo was rather cheeky given the queue!)



After mingling with the great and good, including the only cancer doctor in Bhutan and all the judges, we eat the chilli-based buffet and depart. I for one now was a little wiser on the subtlety of Bhutanese politics.

The afternoon was spent with a different part of Bhutanese society. The King's chief bodyguard had just been promoted and we were going to congratulate him as he was a personal friend of Michael's. This event, being important yet again, required another stab at the white scarf presentation, but was less nerve-wracking given the previous success!

After presentation, we then sat down and spoke with him, via his daughter as interpreter, on what he felt like. One thing which didn't need any interpretation was how proud he was - that shone through. We then received alcoholic rice-wine drinks with egg (mine contained almost a whole egg shell too, which I duly crunched and swallowed most of it to not offend the host). Oh, and there was some chili floating around too just for good measure!!



With new years' eve drawing in, we headed for a rather fancy restaurant service western cuisine, before meeting up with some expats to celebrate new year.

Earlier that day, I had inquired as to how many foreign nationals lived in Bhutan, my guide, instead of giving a number as I would have expected, proceeded to list the five foreign nationals he knew of in the whole of the country. He wasn't far off in his estimate!

Once at the house of an advisor to the Bhutanese government on environmental issues (as almost all foreigners just advise) we proceeded to have the most surreal of evenings. Surrounded by mostly Europeans, we all turned our hands to learning an Irish jig, followed by some line dancing. At first, I thought I must have just been a slow learner, not picking up the required moves nearly as fast as many others, but later it transpired that most of the crowd had been practicing this dance every week for the past few months. I then felt significantly less inept!

The following day it was time for the real work to begin. I was to climb with my new, fitter and younger guide to 4500m, spending the night with a Buddhist monk tasked with looking after a small temple.



Setting off early on new years' day, this was to be the most work, or anything I had done on any new year before midday! We headed off up a steep slope and within 2 minutes I was covered in sweat and breathing hard; it was going to be tough. Little did I know my guide was finding it just as hard. 15 minutes later he started to straggle; it turns out that neither of us wanted to loose face so we had almost been jogging up the slope!

With the walk scheduled to take 3 hours, I was understandably happy when we hit over three quarters of the way after only 45 minutes. We had been going fast!




Once arriving at the monk's place, my guide mentioned that he had spent much of the last 13 years in isolation; it showed. During the evening meal, the monk served up as usual. Then, as we reached to serve ourselves, he snatched the serving plates out of our hands! Apparently, he wanted the rice, and fast!

After spending the evening discussing why he chooses to live in isolation and how he came to be there, we drift off whilst the snow-storm rages outside...

The following morning everything was awash with white. It was truly a sight to behold, and captured poorly on camera. You'll just have to trust me that it was a really amazing sight. One made even more majestic as we sat on the hill, huddled around a fire we had quickly erected, waiting for the clouds to clear (which they did slowly).









With the climb down the hill taking significantly longer than it really should have done, owing to some really awful navigation (finger of blame well and truly lodged at the guide - sorry!), we headed off into the heart of Bhutan in search for a more rural view on Bhutanese life today.

Journey's across Bhutan are always amazing. Firstly, the roads are pretty darn slow, with winding roads and perilous drops resulting in an average speed of 25km/h (and he was going as fast as I could/would want to go). The speed limit across almost all roads is set at 40km/h anyway!



Arriving at a tiny village, one day's travel outside the capital, we were swiftly guided up the hillside, to an encampment where the yearly archery tournament was being run between two rival villages. In a field on the steep banks of the valley, we gathered in two huddles, one around each target. Safety "UK" style is a thing of the past there, with everyone staying only metres (about 10) away from the targets. Although this doesn't sound too bad, please bear in mind that the archers were firing from a station over 150m away - that's a long way for any shooting competition, let alone an archery one! Luckily, with archery being the national sport of Bhutan, they are all damn good.



For now I shall leave you, but I shall return with the remainder of the Bhutanese story soon.....

P.S. Sorry for not updating this in a while, but internet cafes are a rare sight in China, although WiFi hotspots are very common - I now have a small laptop and so have little excuse as I write from Shanghai!

Christmas in the Jungle, Singapore and a journey to forget!

After the departure of Patrick, it was left to Scott and me to hold the British end up with Christmas in the jungle.

Due to our collective lack of jungle experience and desire not to walk too far, we decided on an area of secondary (less old trees, although smaller saplings and spiky things) jungle, preferring the crest of a hill which would offer less mosquitoes and a better breeze. After over an hour of thrashing around with only one parang between the two of us, a clearing had been made and we set about fashioning a bench, fire bed and erecting a tarp.

With everything looking ship-shape, the job of making our evening meal soon came about. Our Christmas meal was to consist of chicken stew, Christmas pudding and custard. Yum. Despite Brunei being a dry Muslim state, we both had a can of lager and stout each. Don't drink it all at once!



With a nicely sized spider looking on and in spite of a massive downpour culminating in the loudest clap of thunder ever, we both had a good time, trying our hand at making traps and a bamboo fire saw.

It certainly wasn't a normal Christmas, but it was one to remember. Made even more special by our hand-sized visitor. How nice.



Next it was on to Singapore, and time to see a good friend and his new wife!

After arriving in Singapore, it was comforting to see little had changed; Singapore always comforts me with its ruthless efficiency whilst it strives for perfection. It's like the Germany of the east; I'm rather fond of Germany.

With the flight on Royal Brunei Airways complete, always something of a time-warp with blessings for the flight and boiled sweets before landing, I had to clear customs. It turns out, given the shocked stares as my bag goes through the x-ray machine, which you a not supposed to bring into Singapore a three foot long ceremonial headhunting sword, even in your check-in baggage. Aah.

This prompted a 30 minute conversation between Mr Customs and me which went something like this:
"Why you bring sword to Singapore?"
"It was a gift from a tribe I stayed with in Borneo, see look at these photos, it is from this ceremony..."
"Sword is not allowed in Singapore!"
"I'm not going to use it; in fact I want to post it home."
"Hummn... [Phones ministry for weapons] They say sword is okay, but don't use it in public."
"[wanted to say, how stupid do you think I am?] Yes, okay, thank you very much."
I leave with a piece of paper and my sword. Phew, glad that one was over!



The next two days were spent with John and his lovely new wife, who made me feel very welcome. Possibly the most important thing I learnt was the existence of the "Milo dinosaur" and Milo Godzilla", a chocolate drink with extra chocolate powder, and extra chocolate powder and ice-cream, respectively. Easily Singapore's most important attractions.

The other event of note was the 5-1 trouncing, delivered by Liverpool to Newcastle in a football match we enjoyed with John's parents; John [and therefore I] supports Liverpool!

After saying my farewell, it was time to start an arduous journey to Bhutan which would take almost 48 hours...

Following a flight to Madras, then a connection to Calcutta, I had an overnight train to a boarder town, about 12 hours away. If anyone has ever been on an Indian train, you know how confusing the system is, with over 7 classes and a myriad of officials to negotiate. Unfortunately at the time of departure my ticket was still wait-listed, i.e. I didn't have a seat or bed. Still, I got on the train.

Choosing an area next to the stench ridden toilets at the end of a carriage, I sat and awaited an opportunity to exploit the legendary Indian corruption...

After twenty minutes my target was identified, the ticket collector smoking right next to the no smoking sign. Initial attempts were met with silly numbers (2000 rupees, or close to 35 pounds) so I sat back and waited, pretending to sleep. This annoyed him greatly, resulting in shouts of "You no sleep here."

After another 90 minutes, he was close on buckling, so with four officials now gathered around me, I asked his best price; no less than 500 rupees. Using my fake wallet which only had 400 rupees (about 8 pounds) I gave him the lot. Success! I had managed to achieve a berth in the highest class (2 AC) for under 1/4 of the official cost. Corruption works again!

After a further 5 hour drive, I met my two Bhutanese contacts, one driver and a guide. It was now time, without any break, to travel to the capital Thimpu, about six hours from the boarder town over a very rough road. We even got a land-slide on the way - it was nothing the resident JCB couldn't handle though!!



In the next episode, we have guest stars of a Bhuddist monk at 4500 metres, most of the Bhutanese Government, ministers and all and an archery competition... I'll leave you with a little taster...



(Yes, that has no windows, and is being driven down a 3500m slope, by two guys, at about -10 degrees, with a heavy covering of snow on the roads.....)

Medal Giving

Following the departure of Mark, the remaining four members of the team washed, cleaned and made ready for the imminent visit to an Iban long-house in Sarawak, the Malaysian portion of Borneo, approximately two days travel from our current residence in Brunei.



Each longhouse is provided with a phone from the government so that the head-man can be reached in case of emergency, or if there is a requirement to waste his time with paperwork and bureaucracy. The numbers we had for our long-house were now out of service, and any efforts made to get into contact with them had failed. So the decision was made to make a 6 hour trip to the Malaysian boarder, in order to meet someone who has a relative who lives in the longhouse and hopefully knows what is going on. Luckily it turns out that the numbers had changed and that everything was still good to go.



The following day we all set off on a journey which was to take us over two days to reach our final destination. After crossing the boarder with the help of a car from a friend of Stuarts, we spent the night at a hostel, before spending the whole of the next day on a bus, and finally riding in the back of a 4x4 pickup truck, with 1.5 gallons of formic acid between our legs. That evening we finally arrived, rather exhausted, to be greeted by the Iban headman.



Last year, when Stuart had visited the long-house, it consisted of about 300 people. When we arrived, it turns out that the long house was no longer – and had actually split into two. After enquiring why the answer of “Tsunami” was given; rather unusual given that we were 200km inland and there was nothing about it on the news! Something was amiss. But either way, there were now two, slightly smaller longhouses.

We decided to visit the longhouse of the ex-British tracker, a man called Anvil, who had worked with the British military during the two wars of the late 1950’s and early 1960’s called the “Emergency” and “Confrontation” – if only to ensure that the insurance was obtained, which stated that they would only pay out if no wars occurred! Now in his late 70’s, Anvil had been given a medal by the Malaysian government to go with the British medal he received at the time. We also had badges, a full officer’s report and pictures of the people he served with at the time, both then and now.

The Iban are an ex headhunting tribe, selected by the British military for their honour and ferocity in battle. Although I say “Ex” I really mean only just ex, as the last head-hunting happened back in 2002. At that time another tribe was placed in Iban land and started taunting their new neighbours calling them a wuss. Bad idea.

During the wars, the Iban are known for sneaking into the enemy camps, slicing the heads off half, or more, of the enemy before sneaking back out again. As you can imagine, waking up in the morning with over half of your mates head’s missing is a rather worrying thing, especially because you didn’t hear anything. This had a significant psychological effect on the young soldiers sent to fight against the British and Iban. Let’s just say that I was minding my P’s and Q’s, and paid significant attention to the cultural briefing provided by Stuart. Saying this, the Iban were some of the most welcoming and warm people I’ve seen for quite a while!

As our arrival was shortly before darkness, we had only time to meet the heads of one of the small long-houses, discuss our purpose and intended length of stay, before being offered Tuak and Durian. Tuak is a rice-wine which is fermented by the Iban from the rice grown in the Iban fields. As it is home-made the strength varies greatly, as does the quality, but one thing stays common; you have to down the first glass you are given, no questions asked. Luckily I’m not too shabby with drink, and so the Tuak was quite palatable. Durian on the other hand was a different story.



Smelling of old socks mixed with cheese, the fruit durian is often banned in many public places in more civilised areas of Asia. Although I didn’t really like the smell, I wasn’t put off it, and so tucked in quite gladly. The taste was quite nice, similar to that of a pear crossed with a slimy star-fruit. But there was something extra, a little fizz on the tongue, something I didn’t like… After about a minute it became apparent what that taste was, I was having an allergic reaction to it, and it was rather strong.

So, here I was, in the middle of the jungle, at least 3 hours drive by 4x4 away from the nearest village, having an allergic reaction of unknown potency to a fruit I’d never tried before, within 10 minutes of meeting a tribe of head-hunters. Things could be better.

After quietly informing the other guys, I gobbled down three anti-histamines and proceeded to go very quiet and try to relax in the corner. With my airway slowly closing up and a bad itch spreading over my body, I hoped it would end soon.

Luckily after only an eternity filling 45 minutes, the symptoms subsided, leaving me with an asthmatic sounding breathing and a swollen tongue which would slowly fade over the next few hours. That’s drama one over, fingers crossed we wouldn’t be having any more!

The next day was filled with a trip to a “Local” field, about 2 hour’s walk away. On route we were fed almost every fruit in the jungle, felled a different palm to be taught about taking the pith for use as tinder for fires, the leaves for weaving, the heart for eating and many other uses besides.




We saw that the Iban we were with were the real deal. Nothing had been put on for tourists (especially as we were the only whites they had contact with, ever) and these people really did think of the jungle as their supermarket. Even small children, who were depressingly dressed in shorts, T-shirt and flip-flops, wondered through the jungle picking up food like no tomorrow. One child, who must have been no older than 8 years, walked right into the river with a needle made from a local palm, rummaged around for about 5 minutes whilst we were gathering tinder, only to emerge with 5 small fishes attached to the needle. Amazing.





Whilst we were slipping all over the place with our big boots and jungle gear, the Iban were dancing amongst the rocks with either flip-flops or bare feet. It’s also true that mosquitoes must like the exotic flesh. I can just imagine the conversation now
“Fancy another Iban tonight dear?”
“No thanks, I hear there’s a good English wondering through today. Never had that before and my friend says it’s like Iban but softer and sweeter – sound good?”
“Lovely, I’ll get the friends round and we can all eat some English.”
English, Scottish and Welsh were certainly high on the mosquito menu, as usual.



Once arriving at our destination, we marvelled at a home-made shotgun, made from some pipes the loggers had left behind and bits of wood. Then food was thrust in our face in the form of a creature which was half rat, half porcupine. We all chipped into removing the spines, before it was roasted over and open fire, and the traditional fare of née bong, sticky rice and assorted jungle things fed to us all.



From there we tromped back through the jungle, which had large swathes removed by recent logging activity of the logging companies who had moved into the local area with the approval of the government, for an evening of celebration and merriment. For we were being told that tonight there would be a traditional Iban festival in our honour given the purpose of our visit…

In preparation for the festival a pig was captured and we all donned suitable headwear – a hat which had feathers placed in various holes, each of which containing symbolic meaning. For example the Hornbill, whose feather was in the centre, was the most important element of the headdress, which often was used to symbolise the beginning of something important (often in Iban culture this was a battle!)



After being given our head-dresses, we were led out of the longhouse and told to march in a specific order to the front door. Here we met the pig, who after being jammed into a bag, carried 400metres squirming, squealing and being dropped multiple times, was already having a bad day. Stuart was then given a spear and told to stab the pig in the throat. Given that the pig was still in a bag, with only a snout protruding from one corner, this was not an easy task, and I suspect he hit it closer to the shoulder on the initial strike. After some jiggling around the squeals began to turn into gargled sounds and key parts of the anatomy were breached.

With the pig still twitching, we hopped over it and began to tour the long-house, shaking the hand of everyone. Once the tour was complete we sat in a line and were jabbered at by an older man who was holding two chickens, but still had a cigarette in his mouth. It seems that the ceremony was important, but it wasn’t going to interrupt his usual smoking session!

The chickens obviously knew what was coming, so one pecked his fag and took a deep drag before spluttering it onto the floor. Amusing as this was, we all tried to keep a straight face, it’s important stuff, even if you do look like a wannabe peacock.



Now it was time to create the meals for the spirits, who must eat before we can continue our greetings. About 15 items were carefully split into piles on a plate – my lucky number was 5, so that meant five piles of everything. Some people only had two piles; other people were really lucky and had a tiresome 9 piles to make. Due to the required repetition, this took about 30 minutes to complete.

Unfortunately, Scott by this time was feeling VERY unwell, probably due to a bad case of dehydration from the earlier walk, but with the real reason remaining a mystery until this day, poor Scott was desperately trying to keep down any food he had eaten. I’m not sure what the Iban would have done if he had chundered over the meals of the spirits who protect the long-house, but I suspect they wouldn’t have been overly happy.

Chunder still well and truly in his belly, Scott managed to make it through the ceremony. Now was the time for us to present the medals, make the speeches and for everyone to eat and then make merry! Don't ask me where the headman got his suit from, that's just one of those things which shocks you when you go on your travels - how civilised everyone actually is, despite their location!



Following the medals and speeches, it was traditional for us to dance. First the head-man danced, so that we can see how it’s done. The dance was very slow, with a rhythmical beat you had to keep to. The main impression was to tell a story, often of a battle. One had to start off with an impression of a horn-bill (told you that bird was important!) before moving onto your story, which mostly looked like a slow swooping, combined with pecking like a chicken.



Both Stuart and I gave this a go, with Patrick feeling tired from the walk, and Scott zonked out on a bed the far side of the long-house feeling very ill. Stuart’s was very similar, ending in the traditional props of a parang and shield, but I decided to spice mine up with the use of two sticks and a “heaven six” stick movement from my martial art’s class as an ending. The idea was for free laughs from the impression of a horn-bill and fascination from the crazy white-man’s stick twirling. It seemed to be well received.


[No videos of me dancing - sorry!]

After our initial round and the dances of some of the other members of the long-house, I decided it was time to give it another go. It’s time to have some fun and play charades! I got up for the dance and tried to act out hunting a pig, including searching for it, tracking it down, fighting it, dragging it back, cooking it over the fire, and finally eating and going to sleep.

With this fresh in his mind, Stuart added a similar story-dance, but his ended in running away from the prey. Both seemed well received and hopefully provided amusement to our hosts, mostly at our expense!

The next two days were filled with observing weaving, eating the same meals over and over again and assisting around the camp. On one day I helped build a chicken hutch.



During the construction of the hutch, it became necessary to move it into the final position. At the time the head-man (remember that he is aged about 70-80 years) and one of the young men were lifting the hutch, which wasn’t light in its construction. I quickly offered my help in place of the head-man, which he was happy to oblige. After seeing him easily handle the hutch, I was rather surprised to find it very heavy, so with him not rushing on the positioning instructions I strained, desperately trying to ensure that I didn’t let him realise that he’s probably twice my strength! These people are amazing – although far smaller than an average western man, they should start strength competitions – they would kick our ass!

With our visit drawing to a close, it was time to head back to Brunei, of course with a 5 hour wait in the middle of nowhere to try and find a bus…



As we had all traded pretty much everything we owned, including knives, flint-steels, hats, gloves and back-packs (for some of the guys at least) there was only one hat left. We were then left with a wonderful choice. Sit under the shade, and get eaten by mozzies, or stand out in the sun, with the one remaining hat, and roast alive. I prefered the sun option and as the hat was mine, spent most of the time lookng like Stuart in this picture, holding a sign with the name of the city we needed to get to!

Until next time – have a great Christmas and a Happy New Year!