Stage 10 - SE Asia

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8 months and 15,000 kilometres into this little distraction, I am acutely aware that I've been detached from reality for a long, long time. Existing inside my artificial bubble, I am never quite sure if I'll be able to easily slot back into society. Normality now has new parameters, rules of engagement have been re-addressed, perception of sensory standards has been dislocated.
To survive in this bubble of mine, I have had to adapt new “skills” that would not necessarily be seen as positive character traits back home. I must be self-absorbed, exploitive, and non-compromising - not exactly personality traits to bolster the CV with.
But I do have some reminders and associations to real life. Something to burst my bubble for a bit. Having people I know from home come out to meet me allows me to re-familiarise to the rules, the behaviour and the interactions of normality. Family and friends have appeared with surprising regularity throughout Southeast Asia, and then left again with a quick hug and a handshake.

Leaving my friend Per in Bangkok to continue his Muay Thai training, I rode to Pattaya, Ko Chang and Trat on the south-eastern coast of Thailand. I met several memorable characters en route. This one guy, Dan, had just ridden a tuk-tuk (the motorised type) from Kathmandu to Chennai in southern India. There was Richard who worked for the Lonely Planet, and who destroyed everyone's romanticised idea that the job was anything other than tiring, unmotivating work. Then there was Michelle (or possibly Michael), a resident ladyboy. Or an aspiring ladyboy at the very least. Along with my friend Helen, we spent an evening together openly chatting about all things ladyboyish. He was still a he, keenly awaiting his 18th birthday, so he could be allowed to have the necessary snippage to become a she. I wished him luck, and next morning I was more aware than ever how uncomfortable it is perching my undercarriage on a small, hard, protruding saddle.

I crossed into Cambodia in good time, avoiding the scammers and con-artists offering their services at the border. Then two more days over a small mountain range and down to Sihanoukville on the Gulf of Thailand coast. The city is a backpackers favourite, and almost all the tourist bars and guesthouses are owned by Aussies, Brits or Europeans. Whether this is good or bad for local business, I remain unconvinced. Cambodians tend to pull the pints, clean the rooms and the employment rate must have increased, and I'm sure the government is taxing the cream off the top too. But the big profits are finding their way out of Cambodia and into foreign bank accounts. Maybe it's win-win? Make your own mind up.

Most foreign investors will tell you they're here for the lifestyle, and who can argue? Sihanoukville has some great beaches and a party vibe. When I was there it was full moon, and therefore the night of the Full Moon party - a big deal in these parts. A mammoth monthly party for young revellers. Bar-workers would employ dozens of trendy types to stroll the beach during the day handing out flyers to potential partygoers to entice them to their particular beachside bar that evening. The first couple of coolsters walked straight past me. Oh, they haven't seen me, I assumed, so next time I sat up looking interested. Again, I was by-passed by the flyerman. Hmmm, strange. So the next occasion I made sure I caught this girl's eye and stuck my open hand out, beggaresque. She paid me not the least attention. Sorry, what is it about a 32 year old loner in Spandex that doesn't appeal to these party people?

Via Kampot and up to Phnom Penh. Having been shunned the opportunity to show off my party prowess a couple of nights earlier, this time I managed to piggyback onto a group of backpackers going out for the night. We were walking towards the riverside, the main nightbar strip in Phnom Penh, when I spotted a little local place advertising 1 dollar whiskies. “C'mon, a quick chaser can't hurt” I suggested. So we sat down and ordered a whisky each. Except when they turned up it was a full bottle each.
“1 dollar per bottle, seriously?” I questioned. Indeed it was. And what could possibly be suspicious about a $1 bottle of local Superwhisky? A few hours and an unrecollectable series of conversations later, we somehow found our way back to the hostel. We never did it make it to the riverside.

I left my bike in Phnom Penh and took a tour to Angkor Wat, where I met up with Ian and Mary, friends from back home. After a long days watting, we treated ourselves to a fish massage. With Anchor beer in hand, we'd dangle our feet in a paddling pool filled with Doctor fish that nibble away at dead skin and dirt. My grimy, cheesy pads proved unhealthily popular with the poor little squirmers.

After returning to Phnom Penh to collect my bike, it was 2 more solid days riding to Ho Chi Minh city in southern Vietnam - or Saigon as you might know it. I arrived just as the sun disappeared and the chaos of Ho Chi Minh's night traffic began. Every country seems to have differing rules of the road, and a differing hierarchy of car, motorbike, bicycle and pedestrian. In Holland the bicycle is king, in France the cyclists are well-respected, in Bangladesh it's every man for himself, in Russia you are invisible on a bike. In Germany traffic lights are unarguable enforcers of law, in Thailand you can turn left on a red, in India traffic lights are there to be ignored. You don't usually get long to work out these rules (or lack of) before someone shouts or hoots or bumps you into place. In Vietnam I quickly learned that there is a strange order to this chaos, and you just need to be assertive and the space in front of you will be yours. I could (and should) have probably arrived a couple of hours earlier, but I have never been able to resist a free meal, and the hotel I stayed at the previous night was offering exactly that, with the breakfast buffet starting at 8am. So I delayed my departure for a couple of hours. Breakfast is especially important for me on the road and I will usually scoff as much as I humanly can. I tend to have a light lunch, if anything at all, although I will snack on fruit and nuts and the like throughout the day. Then I'll reward myself with another big feed in the evening once I've found somewhere to stay, showered and stretched.

In Vietnam, a big feed can mean experimenting with a big selection of unknown edibles. Vietnamese cuisine includes almost anything that walks (Or slithers, swims or crawls). Often I have to take pot-luck with the unreadable menu, by just pointing at something on the list and waiting to see what delights arrive on my plate. Whatever foodstuffs they might be, you can be sure they'll be fresh and tasty, although I couldn't honestly tell you what half of them were.

Across the South China sea from Ho Chi Minh to Manila, I was in the Philippines. At customs I swapped my remaining Vietnamese dong, my Cambodian riel, my Thai baht and my Burmese kyats for Filipino pesos. In the last few weeks I've changed currency more often that I've changed underwear. No, seriously.

Manila is not the most attractive capital city there is, and I had no good reason to hang around. Just one night, as I was told of an All-you-can-eat buffet at one of the nice hotels. It was steep at $15, but the challenge of a hefty feed drew me in. Half way through, one of the waiters started chatting to me and asked why I was dining alone. In a moment of spontaneity I told him it was my birthday and I was treating myself to the best meal in town (it's not, so don't worry that you forgot to send me a card). Another surge of inspiration and I produced a candle that I was saving for dessert. Genius!
He disappeared into the kitchen, and once I'd finished my first dessert, he appeared with the chef, the manager, and a piece of cake for me. “Of course, sir, you will not need to pay for this meal tonight”. Thank you Intercontinental Hotels, I owe you.

There are 7,107 islands in the Philippines. I visited 6. From Luzon to Cebu to Bohol, noted for its wildlife and scenery. A couple of days in a rainforest retreat, I was privileged to see the native tarsier, a bushbaby/lemur-like primate. Not far from our camp were the Chocolate Hills, a range of impossibly identical mounds that look like something straight out of Hobbit land. Then onwards to the island of Negros and finally Mindanao, the southernmost Filipino island. Mindanao has hit the headlines recently due to some unsavoury incidents, including the massacre of an opposition candidate, his delegates and dozens of accompanying journalists. It is the only Muslim-dominated island in the Catholic-centric Philippines and there is a history of civil fighting and dissident factions. During my travels I have found that, more often than not, those regions with reputations of instability turn out to be the safest and easiest to travel in. My theory is that anyone actively looking to scam tourists will not be found in the remote areas and so there is no-one ready and willing to exploit you, local people in these lesser-travelled areas are usually just so pleased you have decided to visit that they put an extra effort in to make you feel safe and welcome, and in areas of civil unrest neither side wants to attract unwanted headlines and lose wider support by causing harm to a passing tourist. If anything you are probably better protected in such areas, within reason.

But unlike in other known hotspots such as Georgia, northern Afghanistan, western China, Tibet, Burma or Maoist areas of Nepal and India, I did actually get a real sense of local anxiety and rival tensions. As I stepped off the ferry at Dipolog, a taxi driver told me I should not be here and it would be better if I turned around and took the next ferry back to Negros. Unfortunately for both of us, I only had one plausible route out of the Philippines and it was at the port of Zamboanga, a 2 day ride south of here.

The road to Zamboanga was teeming with police roadblocks - the curse of the cyclist, as you lose all that well-earned momentum. Often you can ride straight through with a shrug of the shoulders and an innocent smile, but not here. Along the side of the road there were many graffitied signs, pleading “STOP POLICE SHOOTINGS” - I'm not sure whether this refers to police being shot or shooting the public. But I expect both.

I had reached Zamboanga 3 days ahead of schedule and took the earlier ferry to Borneo. Within 24 hours of me leaving Zamboanga, the Philippine marines fought a battle with Al-Qaeda militants a few miles away. The militants are associated to a rebel group called MILF. With an acronym like that, you can't help but give a wry smile to those armed separatists - think American Pie.

The passenger ferry from Zamboanga to Malaysian Borneo departs twice weekly, at 2pm Thursday and Sunday. This means the immigration officer (just the one of him) only really has 4 hours of proper work to do per week - ie. 11am until 1pm on those days. But still, he insisted on taking his lunch break from 12 til 1pm. Whilst a growing queue of passengers waited impatiently for him to finish his roti, lick his fingers and have a further 15 minute kip. That's just the way things are here, I'm told to accept.

The ferry ride to Borneo across the Celebes Sea was long and rough. It was over-crowded, and the boat was a rusting deathtrap, not fit for purpose. Drunk men were fighting for sleeping space on deck, drunk women fighting for the karaoke microphone. I loved every moment! This is travelling without the knobs on - without the air-con shuttle bus, without the imported wine list, without the concierge. Raw and dirty.

Karaoke is huge in Philippines - and throughout SE Asia in general. Small rooms with a giant TV screen and microphone line many a street. I've also noticed that the Oriental mentality is that noise equals fun. The louder the racket, the more fun we must be having. I have ridden past many wedding receptions or other parties and you can hear the amps blaring out unrecognisable tunes from a mile away, before I speed up for the ear-drumming pass, then being audibly chased for another mile up the road by the “fun”.

My mum met me in Borneo for a short holiday. We had booked a jungle excursion and a few other activities. The jungle lay between the port at Sandakan and where I needed to head into Indonesia. Therefore, instead of back-tracking later I decided the sensible thing to do would be to cycle to the jungle and meet mum there. The bike would never make it out alive, and as it turned out I did have to back-track anyway. For multiple reasons, which will become evident. The 3 days in the jungle were a wildlife wonderment - we saw orangutans, Proboscis monkeys, gibbons, long-tailed macaques, snakes, Monitor lizards, Leopard cats, Malay badgers and crocodiles to name but the highlights. But it would be an encounter with another creature that would have the most lasting affect.

After leaving the jungle, we visited the Orangutan Rehabilitation Centre - which I assumed was a Priory-like complex for washed-up celebrities. I was expecting to see King Louis in rehab for O.D-ing on Um Bongo, Clyde from Every Which Way But Loose confronting his sex addiction, and Cuddles recovering from traumatic flashbacks ever since Keith Harris removed his hand. Or maybe they were all just suffering from being bullied by the rest of the jungle clan for being ginger and bald.
But as it was, it was a centre for orphans and injured orangutans, preparing them for release in the big wide jungle world. Just as disappointingly, there was no sign of Michaela Strachan anywhere. She'd obviously finished filming her Orangutan Diaries before I got here. No re-living my Waccaday youth for me.

After mum left, I had a couple of days riding distance to the Indonesian border - Borneo is the third largest island in the world and contains both Malaysian and Indonesian regions, as well as the entire country of Brunei.
I set out early next morning, intending to cover half the distance. For the first time this whole ride I seriously misjudged my capabilities. Underestimating the temperature, my speed and the effort needed to cover the distance. I found myself stranded miles from anywhere, surrounded by nothing but acres of palm trees. Early afternoon I was exhausted and found an abandoned workman's hut that provided a modicum of shade and comfort. I thought if I rested for an hour or so, I would regain my strength. I was annoyed at myself for allowing myself to get heat-stroke. Sweating, with a banging headache and zero energy I collapsed inside and fell asleep. I woke up 5 hours later. Still feeling fatigued, I downed a litre of rehydration mixture and slowly back-tracked to the last town. Shivering and weak and still with an outrageous headache I sat up all night in a hotel room. I wrote a paragraph for my diary, and as I read back over the symptoms mentioned, it suddenly occurred to me that these are remarkably similar to some tropical diseases. At daybreak I took a lift to the nearest hospital, where they did a blood test and immediately diagnosed me with Dengue Fever. I was kept in hospital for several days and immobilised for nearly 2 weeks. Of all the incredible creatures in the jungle, it was the mangy mosquito who left its indelible mark.

So whilst you were curled up on your sofa watching Celebrity Masterchef, I was cooped up in an unventilated, overly-bright, 40 degree hospital ward in Borneo, with a throbbing head, a dangerously high fever, squeezed in a bed that's too small for me, in between a guy who screamed all day and another with gangrene, whilst hooked up to a drip for days, with no-one to speak to and no-one to feed me grapes. But being hospitalised with a tropical disease was not all bad news, as I got free accommodation and food and got given a clean set of clothes every day. They even tell me the yellow skin and red eyes will probably recover sometime.

Once bitten, twice shy, and all that. Or is it smitten? Either way, I've got something to look forward to.

Keep movin' on (but get some rest first)
Tim
www.fullcycle.org.uk

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Photos

Full Cycle to date
London to Indonesia - 15,380 kilometres

Welcome to Thailand
14,400 kilometres from London

Welcome to Vietnam
14,850 kilometres from London

King of the Swingers
The jungle VIP

Comments

[Your King]

4 tickets!
I have 4 semi final tickets - if you drink plenty of that rehydration fluid and start pedaling now I am sure you can make it...come on I know you want to!