I must apologise for not having posted in a while. I had my laptop melt down on me recently, and have only just got it back, minus all the stuff I've been working on for the past three weeks. This includes lots of writing and lots of photos, so you can be sure I was pretty pissed when I found out.
Besides, what I've been filling my time with recently has not been so adventurous, as I've been back in my hometown just trying to help my family out a bit due to the addition of my baby nephew William, born just over two weeks ago. I've been spending my time being a manny (a man-nanny) to my two nieces and one nephew, as well as fixing up stuff around the house.
Social activities here are as dull as a duckpond. On my rare occasions out (like last night) there is nothing much to do except for drinking yourself stupid. Last night's venture out was terrifying. I was bombarded by these girls who kept on repeating my most dreaded phrase... "One go!" Yes, the social norm here is to down your whole beer in one go, in the deluded notion that this is actually fun. It WAS fun... when I was about 16. After many years of drinking experience I have reached the verdict that it is quite the opposite.
Anyway, in other news... I'm heading off to Langkawi on Monday, which should be fun, then off to Thailand for a bit. Hoping to also get to Cambodia to see Angkor Wat if I have time, but I have to be back in Sibu for my nephew's "Man Yue". Man Yue is the Chinese custom that is observed whenever a child is born. In olden days, women were not supposed to bathe, to go out, to have any stimulus, or eat certain foods for a whole month after childbirth. Quite a ridiculous practise, but the idea behind it was to help the mother recuperate from the ordeal. Sounds like an even more arduous ordeal to me, to be perfectly honest.
The Man Yue also celebrates the first month of the child's life, and customary food is prepared for guests to symbolize the occasion. So, I look forward to being there for little Willie's Man Yue. Oh, I just remembered that I've been working on a post on religion, which I shall put up in due course.
A pre-post disclaimer: Don't read it if you are very religious and/or have a closed mind. We most likely won't be on speaking terms again if you are either of the above mentioned types.
Anyway, I have packing and more chores to do, so this will not be a long post at all. Count on reading more adventures soon.
Your resident MadMan,
signing out!
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Coming Home
Coming home is always a bittersweet experience. So many emotions, memories, sights, sounds and smells come rushing back; with such intensity that it catches you off guard and makes you wonder why you had submerged those memories for so long. Life certainly does that to you though. It relentlessly pounds away like waves against a cliff face, posing new challenges and obstacles that distract you from remembering and honouring your roots.
I’ve come back to Sibu just recently. My sister has just given birth to her third child, a strong little tiger by the name of William. I find it interesting to always check myself at the door and gauge how I’ve progressed as a person each time I walk through those doors. And each time, I see in myself chronological growth and an appreciation for my place in the world.
As soon as I got myself settled, I did my ritual tour around the whole property; re-acquainting myself with the place I called my first home for so many years. Starting off on the inside, I examined all the family photos that my dad put up around the house. It was refreshing to see that all the photos were in their old places. Made me think how it’s nice to know that despite the crazy pace of activity and action in our lives, it’s good to come back to something that hasn’t changed since you were a kid. Or not that much, for that matter. Change in some form or another is always inevitable.
I was distressed to find a few places where the wood panels had lost their battle against the elements, but what is to be expected from a house over 30 years old, that has stood as strong as a sentinel against the tropical climes of Borneo? I got to the kitchen and did what I always do when I come back, which was to go to the herb and veggie pantry, open it up, and deeply inhale all the memories of my childhood spent watching my mother and Ah Kiew cook in the kitchen. Those are happy memories. It’s funny how the sense of smell rekindles old emotions and casts one’s mind back to a time you had thought was long forgotten. I went to my old room, which is now used by my little nieces whenever they are back in town with their parents and doting grandmother. I couldn’t help but notice how I felt totally safe and secure, despite the fact that I’m more than big and ugly enough to look after myself.
As I write this, I’m sitting on my balcony, watching a tropical storm brew. The wind has picked up and the trees are rustling; serenaded by the sound of the growling thunder. The sky occasionally flashes with lightning in the distance. I miss these storms. It makes me remember my childhood, where my family would scream at me to come inside to avoid being struck down by lightning. Getting back inside, I’d sometimes sit by my father’s feet as he sat there and plucked hairs off his wise old face with tweezers.
Back to the story. Going outside was a little bit harder for me. You see, my father was somewhat of a nature enthusiast. So much so that he brought the tropical rainforest to his house. Our garden was where I spent the majority of the waking hours of my childhood. In fact, the best memories I have of my childhood were spent out there. After all, how many other kids can lay claim to the fact that they had a miniature zoo in their backyard? Dad reared many different types of bird from Asia. Birds were Dad’s fascination in life. He spent so much time talking about them in our walks around the garden. I have my father to thank for giving me a deep appreciation of the natural world around us. Not only did we have birds, but we also played host to a whole raft of other interesting animalia.
Over the course of my childhood, Dad, at different times had the garden filled with the most amazing creatures. I can remember the gibbons that dad rescued from poachers. Gibbons are the smallest of the ape family, and are natural acrobats amongst the tree tops despite their lack of a prehensile tail. They have hyper-mobile spines, and elongated, padded fingers which help them power through the trees at a great speed.
Dad also rescued an Orang Utan in similar circumstances. Unfortunately back in those days, there was a lot of poaching going on, and Dad used to do his best to rehabilitate the poor creatures until they were good enough to send away back to their natural habitat. He was a hero in my eyes for doing that.
Apparently before I was born, dad had a clouded leopard for a while, which was also sent away when the time was right. I can remember a crocodile that dad had, that we kept in a separate pond. We also had Proboscis nose monkeys, bats, peacocks, a macacque, porcupine, slow loris, deer, and squirrels. Of the deer, we had two kinds. We had the kijang, which is a jungle deer slightly larger than a goat, and we had mousedeer, which, funnily enough, are tiny. They are the smallest deer species in the world. I remember the bats with great fondness. Dad had a whole extended family of fruit bats, which happen to be the largest species of bat in the world. They have faces that slightly resemble that of a fox, and have huge leathery bark brown wings, with a torso covered in thick black fur. In their natural environment, they leave their roosts in trees at dusk and travel to other trees that bear tropical fruits, thereby helping cross pollinate plant species. They would always be upside down at the top of the cage, and as soon as you produced some fruit and stuck it in between the rungs of the cage, they’d chatter animatedly, and clamber downwards as fast as possible to get the lion’s share of the meal. Inquisitive eyes would look at you trying to figure out if you had anymore food on you, and nostrils would flare in the attempt to confirm their wily suspicions.
Dad’s birds were all of Asian origin. He had some fantastic specimens, of which include pheasants, the before mentioned peacocks (that had an attitude problem) parrots, exotic pigeons, owls, eagles, and a huge range of other smaller birds. He even had a cassowary, which used to scare the crap out of me. They originate from the forests of equatorial new guinea as well as some parts of Australia. It wasn’t long before dad found another home for this impressive beast.
We also have a freshwater pond, where we used to have scores of tilapia fish, arapaima and soft shell Chinese turtles. The arapaima were really impressive. We have had two sets of two of these fish. Their natural habitat is in the rainforest rivers of south America, and they grow to be an impressive size; some growing to up to three metres plus. Our largest ones were about two metres in length. I used to stand on the edge of the pond and throw them bits and pieces of chicken meat, and as soon as the meat would hit the water, they would jump up and snap it up with their large and powerful jaws. Now, the pond has no fish; it is home to my pet terrapins. The oldest of which I’ve had since I was five, which makes him 21. Sorry big boy, I should have brought you a big fish for your 21st.
We have always had lots of dogs at home. With large grounds and lots of trees to hide around, home security has always been a big concern. I can never remember a time in the history of our house that we didn’t have at least 8 dogs. Doing a headcount today, I was impressed with the fact that we had 16 present, despite the lack of absence of my favourite dog who ran away a few months ago. Have to say it was heartbreaking to hear that. She’s a really special dog to me, as she was given to me by a friend, and I raised her during her infancy. She used to jump up on my chest as I lay down, and fall asleep nuzzling up to my chin. I hope she finds her way home. Unfortunately for her, dog meat is still a very treasured food in my home town, so I pray that she avoids the butcher’s knife and comes home where she’ll be loved and looked after.
Most of the dogs we have now are either her offspring, or her offspring’s offspring. What a great little mother she was. Her first litter of pups all survived and grew to be beautiful dogs with personality and alertness. They all share her same sense of inquisitivity; although none match her intelligence and affectionate social charms. We still have one Rottweiler left. We used to have a pair, but unfortunately the female passed away from health complications. That’s the problem with purebreds. They’re not very resilient in the tropical climate, and are far more susceptible than the local mongrels to diseases. The female was stupid beyond belief though. She had two litters in her lifetime. Her first litter only bore two, but I suspect there were more unborn inside her that didn’t manage to get out in time. One was stillborn, but the other one was alive and kicking, and I quickly scooped him up and hand reared him. He slept beside me in a little box, and I would wake up periodically to feed him some milk. Sometimes I even took him out with me when I was catching up with friends at night. Unfortunately, I had to leave town for a bit, and partway through my trip, my sister called to say that he had died one night. Guess he was kind of doomed from the start, but it didn’t take away the feeling of helplessness at nature’s unyielding rule of survival of the fittest.
The rain has really started to come down now. The flashes of lightning and the peals of thunder growing in intensity and frequency. It reminds me of how powerful the forces of mother nature is in this enchanted land of ours. Borneo is an incredible place. Situated right smack dab in the middle of the equator, it is a land of extremes. For the heat that we experience, we also get a lot of humidity due to our abundance of rainforest. Wow, I just saw the most brilliant flash of lightning right in front of me! It lingered for a few seconds, and closing my eyes, I can still see the flash burnt into my cornea. Some fear the thunder and lightning. For me, I have always been fascinated by it. It is a permanent reminder to me that despite all of man’s technological advances and progress through the ages, we are still vulnerable and expendable to the supreme might of nature.
Soon, it will be night. The swiftlets will begin their dusk cry, and start making their frenzied way back to their nests, which in urban environs are usually situated on the eaves of houses. The Chinese believe the swiftlets bring them luck and good fortune, so many people are hesitant to remove these nests from their houses. The swiftlet nest is made up of a mixture of fibre and saliva, and is remarkably rigid, considering its construction materials. Atypical of the Chinese, even though we do not remove the nests from homes, there are farming operations where people use the nests to produce a local delicacy; bird’s nest soup. I know, I know. What a weird thing to make a soup out of. But haven’t you heard the saying? All things wise and wonderful, all creatures great and small, all things bright and beautiful, the Chinese eat them all.
Home has also been host to a bunch of unwanted pests too. Given the vast amount of animal cages we have, it has always attracted rats. I can remember fun times hunting rats by myself as well as with my father. When by myself, I always used my trusty slingshot, which was pretty much always in my pocket even if I was indoors. I became quite a crack shot with it; sometimes managing to kill a rat with a lead slug at a distance of 15 metres. I also used a home made blow pipe. But with the blow pipe, I usually liked to tease the dogs. I’d chew on some paper until it was soft, then wad it into a ball. With these wads, I’d shoot the unsuspecting dogs on the butt. It never hurt them, but it certainly made them wonder what the hell was happening to them. Unable to see me from my perch up in the trees or on the roof, they’d growl and saunter off in a confused amble.
Whenever I went rat shooting with dad, he would carry his .22 rifle. I was always his spotter, and my sharp eye was always praised by dad. Once, I can remember, he shot two rats with one bullet. He was always a hero to me. I wanted so much to be like him when I was a kid. I still do. Yeah, you may be thinking, what’s so great about shooting two rats? But my dad was just “the man”. No matter what. When you’re a kid, things like this are important to you. Sometimes I think they still are. We used to feed the rats to the owls, who would hoot and bob their heads appreciatively as we threw them their dinner.
We’ve also had snakes and iguanas. I have killed many a poisonous snake in my garden. The very first one I killed was when I was 8 years old. I separated its head from its body with a parang; a local machete. I have only ever killed one python, of which I still feel bad for to this day. Back then, I didn’t know that they were endangered, but it was in one of our bird cages and was trying to rustle up an easy meal. It was a six footer. I still have the photo of me proudly holding the snake, with my parang in hand. I can remember once, on Christmas day, Ah Kai and I (my best friend) were up early, as kids usually are during the silly season. We were waiting for everyone else to wake up so we could dig into our presents. We saw a huge python coiled up on the verandah, just outside the lounge. I ran to my father’s room about to wake him up. My sister stopped me before I could pound on his door, and asked me why I was doing such a foolhardy thing. Dad hated to be woken by anyone other than himself. I told her there was a snake. She said to me not to bother Dad with such a trivial thing. Funny, because she’s such a snake hater. To this day she still can’t look at a snake on TV. I told her to go down and have a look for herself. So she did. Nevertheless, she came screaming back upstairs hollering “Dad, dad, get your gun!” The snake proved to be over four metres long. It was caught by the resident snake catcher and released into the wild.
The iguanas are good to have around here, although most locals don’t seem to think so. They help keep the rat numbers down. We have had some large ones; casually ambling past our long driveway. Occasionally we see smaller ones, which is a good sign that their numbers are still healthy and that they are still breeding. As always though, these iguanas are also considered a local delicacy, so as long as they stay within the grounds of our compound, they are safe. I quite often despair when I think of the way we treat the wildlife and the environment. We need to do more. Much more. We kill everything in our path, and if it isn’t edible, it is simply discarded. I hope one day it will change. I hope, through my writing, a new generation will learn to appreciate the wonders that this earth has. I know I am guilty of killing animals, but I have always been guided by these principles:
1. Never kill anything endangered. I have only done that once, with that poor python. I’m sorry, Mr Python. May you rest in peace.
2. Only kill what you can eat, if it is an edible species.
3. Kill any pests that may potentially harm endemic species, or species whose numbers are low. You are actually helping the environment in this case.
4. Use as much of your kill as possible, so as not to waste. I despise people that hunt purely for the pleasure of it, and people that kill animals for some perverse thrill of control over another.
Thus endeth my sermon. I hope I have managed to paint an accurate description of where I grew up. Despite all the bad stuff that happens here, it still is my home. A home I will love for the rest of my life. A home I hope my future children will have the same experiences I had as a child.
PS. Thanks to my good friend, "li'l D" for her inspiring words today. I love you, my good friend.
I’ve come back to Sibu just recently. My sister has just given birth to her third child, a strong little tiger by the name of William. I find it interesting to always check myself at the door and gauge how I’ve progressed as a person each time I walk through those doors. And each time, I see in myself chronological growth and an appreciation for my place in the world.
As soon as I got myself settled, I did my ritual tour around the whole property; re-acquainting myself with the place I called my first home for so many years. Starting off on the inside, I examined all the family photos that my dad put up around the house. It was refreshing to see that all the photos were in their old places. Made me think how it’s nice to know that despite the crazy pace of activity and action in our lives, it’s good to come back to something that hasn’t changed since you were a kid. Or not that much, for that matter. Change in some form or another is always inevitable.
I was distressed to find a few places where the wood panels had lost their battle against the elements, but what is to be expected from a house over 30 years old, that has stood as strong as a sentinel against the tropical climes of Borneo? I got to the kitchen and did what I always do when I come back, which was to go to the herb and veggie pantry, open it up, and deeply inhale all the memories of my childhood spent watching my mother and Ah Kiew cook in the kitchen. Those are happy memories. It’s funny how the sense of smell rekindles old emotions and casts one’s mind back to a time you had thought was long forgotten. I went to my old room, which is now used by my little nieces whenever they are back in town with their parents and doting grandmother. I couldn’t help but notice how I felt totally safe and secure, despite the fact that I’m more than big and ugly enough to look after myself.
As I write this, I’m sitting on my balcony, watching a tropical storm brew. The wind has picked up and the trees are rustling; serenaded by the sound of the growling thunder. The sky occasionally flashes with lightning in the distance. I miss these storms. It makes me remember my childhood, where my family would scream at me to come inside to avoid being struck down by lightning. Getting back inside, I’d sometimes sit by my father’s feet as he sat there and plucked hairs off his wise old face with tweezers.
Back to the story. Going outside was a little bit harder for me. You see, my father was somewhat of a nature enthusiast. So much so that he brought the tropical rainforest to his house. Our garden was where I spent the majority of the waking hours of my childhood. In fact, the best memories I have of my childhood were spent out there. After all, how many other kids can lay claim to the fact that they had a miniature zoo in their backyard? Dad reared many different types of bird from Asia. Birds were Dad’s fascination in life. He spent so much time talking about them in our walks around the garden. I have my father to thank for giving me a deep appreciation of the natural world around us. Not only did we have birds, but we also played host to a whole raft of other interesting animalia.
Over the course of my childhood, Dad, at different times had the garden filled with the most amazing creatures. I can remember the gibbons that dad rescued from poachers. Gibbons are the smallest of the ape family, and are natural acrobats amongst the tree tops despite their lack of a prehensile tail. They have hyper-mobile spines, and elongated, padded fingers which help them power through the trees at a great speed.
Dad also rescued an Orang Utan in similar circumstances. Unfortunately back in those days, there was a lot of poaching going on, and Dad used to do his best to rehabilitate the poor creatures until they were good enough to send away back to their natural habitat. He was a hero in my eyes for doing that.
Apparently before I was born, dad had a clouded leopard for a while, which was also sent away when the time was right. I can remember a crocodile that dad had, that we kept in a separate pond. We also had Proboscis nose monkeys, bats, peacocks, a macacque, porcupine, slow loris, deer, and squirrels. Of the deer, we had two kinds. We had the kijang, which is a jungle deer slightly larger than a goat, and we had mousedeer, which, funnily enough, are tiny. They are the smallest deer species in the world. I remember the bats with great fondness. Dad had a whole extended family of fruit bats, which happen to be the largest species of bat in the world. They have faces that slightly resemble that of a fox, and have huge leathery bark brown wings, with a torso covered in thick black fur. In their natural environment, they leave their roosts in trees at dusk and travel to other trees that bear tropical fruits, thereby helping cross pollinate plant species. They would always be upside down at the top of the cage, and as soon as you produced some fruit and stuck it in between the rungs of the cage, they’d chatter animatedly, and clamber downwards as fast as possible to get the lion’s share of the meal. Inquisitive eyes would look at you trying to figure out if you had anymore food on you, and nostrils would flare in the attempt to confirm their wily suspicions.
Dad’s birds were all of Asian origin. He had some fantastic specimens, of which include pheasants, the before mentioned peacocks (that had an attitude problem) parrots, exotic pigeons, owls, eagles, and a huge range of other smaller birds. He even had a cassowary, which used to scare the crap out of me. They originate from the forests of equatorial new guinea as well as some parts of Australia. It wasn’t long before dad found another home for this impressive beast.
We also have a freshwater pond, where we used to have scores of tilapia fish, arapaima and soft shell Chinese turtles. The arapaima were really impressive. We have had two sets of two of these fish. Their natural habitat is in the rainforest rivers of south America, and they grow to be an impressive size; some growing to up to three metres plus. Our largest ones were about two metres in length. I used to stand on the edge of the pond and throw them bits and pieces of chicken meat, and as soon as the meat would hit the water, they would jump up and snap it up with their large and powerful jaws. Now, the pond has no fish; it is home to my pet terrapins. The oldest of which I’ve had since I was five, which makes him 21. Sorry big boy, I should have brought you a big fish for your 21st.
We have always had lots of dogs at home. With large grounds and lots of trees to hide around, home security has always been a big concern. I can never remember a time in the history of our house that we didn’t have at least 8 dogs. Doing a headcount today, I was impressed with the fact that we had 16 present, despite the lack of absence of my favourite dog who ran away a few months ago. Have to say it was heartbreaking to hear that. She’s a really special dog to me, as she was given to me by a friend, and I raised her during her infancy. She used to jump up on my chest as I lay down, and fall asleep nuzzling up to my chin. I hope she finds her way home. Unfortunately for her, dog meat is still a very treasured food in my home town, so I pray that she avoids the butcher’s knife and comes home where she’ll be loved and looked after.
Most of the dogs we have now are either her offspring, or her offspring’s offspring. What a great little mother she was. Her first litter of pups all survived and grew to be beautiful dogs with personality and alertness. They all share her same sense of inquisitivity; although none match her intelligence and affectionate social charms. We still have one Rottweiler left. We used to have a pair, but unfortunately the female passed away from health complications. That’s the problem with purebreds. They’re not very resilient in the tropical climate, and are far more susceptible than the local mongrels to diseases. The female was stupid beyond belief though. She had two litters in her lifetime. Her first litter only bore two, but I suspect there were more unborn inside her that didn’t manage to get out in time. One was stillborn, but the other one was alive and kicking, and I quickly scooped him up and hand reared him. He slept beside me in a little box, and I would wake up periodically to feed him some milk. Sometimes I even took him out with me when I was catching up with friends at night. Unfortunately, I had to leave town for a bit, and partway through my trip, my sister called to say that he had died one night. Guess he was kind of doomed from the start, but it didn’t take away the feeling of helplessness at nature’s unyielding rule of survival of the fittest.
The rain has really started to come down now. The flashes of lightning and the peals of thunder growing in intensity and frequency. It reminds me of how powerful the forces of mother nature is in this enchanted land of ours. Borneo is an incredible place. Situated right smack dab in the middle of the equator, it is a land of extremes. For the heat that we experience, we also get a lot of humidity due to our abundance of rainforest. Wow, I just saw the most brilliant flash of lightning right in front of me! It lingered for a few seconds, and closing my eyes, I can still see the flash burnt into my cornea. Some fear the thunder and lightning. For me, I have always been fascinated by it. It is a permanent reminder to me that despite all of man’s technological advances and progress through the ages, we are still vulnerable and expendable to the supreme might of nature.
Soon, it will be night. The swiftlets will begin their dusk cry, and start making their frenzied way back to their nests, which in urban environs are usually situated on the eaves of houses. The Chinese believe the swiftlets bring them luck and good fortune, so many people are hesitant to remove these nests from their houses. The swiftlet nest is made up of a mixture of fibre and saliva, and is remarkably rigid, considering its construction materials. Atypical of the Chinese, even though we do not remove the nests from homes, there are farming operations where people use the nests to produce a local delicacy; bird’s nest soup. I know, I know. What a weird thing to make a soup out of. But haven’t you heard the saying? All things wise and wonderful, all creatures great and small, all things bright and beautiful, the Chinese eat them all.
Home has also been host to a bunch of unwanted pests too. Given the vast amount of animal cages we have, it has always attracted rats. I can remember fun times hunting rats by myself as well as with my father. When by myself, I always used my trusty slingshot, which was pretty much always in my pocket even if I was indoors. I became quite a crack shot with it; sometimes managing to kill a rat with a lead slug at a distance of 15 metres. I also used a home made blow pipe. But with the blow pipe, I usually liked to tease the dogs. I’d chew on some paper until it was soft, then wad it into a ball. With these wads, I’d shoot the unsuspecting dogs on the butt. It never hurt them, but it certainly made them wonder what the hell was happening to them. Unable to see me from my perch up in the trees or on the roof, they’d growl and saunter off in a confused amble.
Whenever I went rat shooting with dad, he would carry his .22 rifle. I was always his spotter, and my sharp eye was always praised by dad. Once, I can remember, he shot two rats with one bullet. He was always a hero to me. I wanted so much to be like him when I was a kid. I still do. Yeah, you may be thinking, what’s so great about shooting two rats? But my dad was just “the man”. No matter what. When you’re a kid, things like this are important to you. Sometimes I think they still are. We used to feed the rats to the owls, who would hoot and bob their heads appreciatively as we threw them their dinner.
We’ve also had snakes and iguanas. I have killed many a poisonous snake in my garden. The very first one I killed was when I was 8 years old. I separated its head from its body with a parang; a local machete. I have only ever killed one python, of which I still feel bad for to this day. Back then, I didn’t know that they were endangered, but it was in one of our bird cages and was trying to rustle up an easy meal. It was a six footer. I still have the photo of me proudly holding the snake, with my parang in hand. I can remember once, on Christmas day, Ah Kai and I (my best friend) were up early, as kids usually are during the silly season. We were waiting for everyone else to wake up so we could dig into our presents. We saw a huge python coiled up on the verandah, just outside the lounge. I ran to my father’s room about to wake him up. My sister stopped me before I could pound on his door, and asked me why I was doing such a foolhardy thing. Dad hated to be woken by anyone other than himself. I told her there was a snake. She said to me not to bother Dad with such a trivial thing. Funny, because she’s such a snake hater. To this day she still can’t look at a snake on TV. I told her to go down and have a look for herself. So she did. Nevertheless, she came screaming back upstairs hollering “Dad, dad, get your gun!” The snake proved to be over four metres long. It was caught by the resident snake catcher and released into the wild.
The iguanas are good to have around here, although most locals don’t seem to think so. They help keep the rat numbers down. We have had some large ones; casually ambling past our long driveway. Occasionally we see smaller ones, which is a good sign that their numbers are still healthy and that they are still breeding. As always though, these iguanas are also considered a local delicacy, so as long as they stay within the grounds of our compound, they are safe. I quite often despair when I think of the way we treat the wildlife and the environment. We need to do more. Much more. We kill everything in our path, and if it isn’t edible, it is simply discarded. I hope one day it will change. I hope, through my writing, a new generation will learn to appreciate the wonders that this earth has. I know I am guilty of killing animals, but I have always been guided by these principles:
1. Never kill anything endangered. I have only done that once, with that poor python. I’m sorry, Mr Python. May you rest in peace.
2. Only kill what you can eat, if it is an edible species.
3. Kill any pests that may potentially harm endemic species, or species whose numbers are low. You are actually helping the environment in this case.
4. Use as much of your kill as possible, so as not to waste. I despise people that hunt purely for the pleasure of it, and people that kill animals for some perverse thrill of control over another.
Thus endeth my sermon. I hope I have managed to paint an accurate description of where I grew up. Despite all the bad stuff that happens here, it still is my home. A home I will love for the rest of my life. A home I hope my future children will have the same experiences I had as a child.
PS. Thanks to my good friend, "li'l D" for her inspiring words today. I love you, my good friend.
Friday, July 16, 2010
The River trip to Dalat
The other day I took a trip to a place called Dalat; two hours upriver from my hometown of Sibu, to visit a Sago processing plant owned and operated by family friends. This trip was part of some of the writing that I’m currently doing as educational work for Pearson publications in Singapore. We left at about nine in the morning to the pier, and were greeted by a crusty old experienced river-dog that obviously knew the terrain like the back of his hand, judging from his sundrenched skin and toothless grin. We went with the teenage son of our friend Martin, who was one of the six sons that helped to run the business.
The river ride was like most I have experienced in Borneo. But most of the time I have headed in a different direction of the Rejang river. I have usually headed south-east, in the direction of Kapit, Belaga and the lands beyond. This time, I was heading northeast, into land that I haven’t been into since childhood. The route we took this time saw me through a painful scene through the more industrialised areas; areas where law, environmental preservation, and common sense are second to profit margins. It was painful to see parts of the river bank inundated with waste and toxic contaminants.
Perhaps at this point I should backtrack a bit. Let me tell you about my hometown, Sibu; a place I love and hate. Sibu has been described by many as a dusty, rough little frontier town. It’s a place where many people have cut their teeth on the realities of business negotiation skills and gone on to prove themselves in the big bad world of business, but it is also a town where modern day land and river pirates thrive and survive. We are a town of some two hundred odd thousand people; of which the population mainly comprises of Chinese. Of this group, the Chinese here are mainly of Foochow origin. My people. My father was a first generation Malaysian Foochow. His parents left Southern China before the turn of the 20th century.
Back then, Sibu was a busy river port filled with traders and merchants. The people preoccupied themselves with building their families and their empires, and I’m lucky to count myself as one of those that share that ancestry. The Foochow people were, and still are, a proud people that put their families before anything or anyone else. They busied themselves with progress, and as soon as the opportunity presented itself they sent their children off overseas to gain better educations. Unfortunately in modern times, we have been left with many of the ones that had no chance, or no capability to prove themselves overseas. As a result, Sibu has become somewhat of a cowboy state where law and order is second to personal gain.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m immensely proud of my heritage, and my family still have a base here, but it is certainly not a town that I feel that I could live out the rest of my natural days in. The politics here have been mired in corruption and violence for as long back as I can remember. And as a result, business over here is determined by who has the most clout, and by who carries the biggest stick. Us Foochow people are good at business; be it legitimate or otherwise.
So when I was on the way up to Dalat, I saw scores of industrial interests that had absolutely no regard for the environment; that flouted any safeguards set in place for the protection of the very place we live in. This made me more than mad. I saw scores of boats. Rusting hulks in the water. They were no less than boat graveyards; rusting and leeching away toxins into the river. All I could do was to shake my head as we skimmed past them. About half an hour into the trip, further away from the epicentre of Sibu, we finally saw less and less buildings, however the riverbanks were still occasionally littered with rubbish. I saw the local species of crane congregating on the banks of the mighty Rejang. Upon entering some of the smaller tributaries, I saw Crabs, mudskippers, and fish in the shallows.
We powered our way through the tidal river surge, and after quite some time, entered the slower moving waters of the Dalat tributary. This area is home to many of the Melanau people; an indigenous race whose main source of livelihood is from the river. We swept past numerous water villages, whose main road was the river. I saw children clambering aboard small outboard boats on their way to school. We past rafts of sago palm logs that were tied up together; acting as small pontoons in the river. On these I noticed scores of Macaque monkeys either resting or fishing for food. Some of them scampered for the safety of the shore upon hearing the outboard motor, but most of them, more likely the experienced elders, simply carried on, unperturbed by the drone of the engine.
Finally, after much winding around river bends, we came to the factory, where we were greeted by Martin. The fumes from the industrial burning of the sago pith were overwhelming, and smelt like animal dung. We went on a tour of the factory, that I cannot at this stage reveal too much about due to copyright infringements because of the nature of the visit. After all, I can’t repeat what I have already written about the Sago manufacturing process on my blog after I have written it for my employers. Let’s just say I had an interesting time manoeuvring through a facility that wouldn’t pass even the most basic Health and Safety standards in New Zealand.
We were treated to a traditional homecooked lunch by Martin’s 80 something year old mother, and also had a brief conversation with Martin’s 80 something year old father who still runs the business, tending to daily matters. To them, it was obvious, that age was merely a number. It was amazing to see people of their age still so with it, and still so involved in something that they had built from the ground up. The factory had been in operation since 1985, just one year after I was born. There is something to be said about the traditional way that businesses are run in Asia. Family pride and continuance are common themes. Martin described and explained the way the business was run. There are 11 children in his family; 5 daughters and six sons. The brothers helped to run the business, and they had a constitution in place that prevented them from in-fighting.
A truly remarkable feat, if you ask me. Soon after lunch, we headed up the tributary again to meet the headwaters of the Igan river that would eventually flow into the mighty Rejang river. I drove the boat part of the way back, glad to break the monotony of the constant up-and-down motion of the boat by finally being able to concentrate on something else. The debris in the water was a constant reminder of the deforestation that has, and that still continues to wreak havoc on the land and waters I call home, and every now and then the craft would slam into tree trunks left floating in the river in the wake of the chainsaw’s destruction.
It was an interesting day, but also a day that made me sad, as well as a day that my heart bleed for my land and country. The land of Borneo, where the wild once roamed, and where legends were made.
My state of Sarawak.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
RWMF finale - Mud on the dancefloor, and cyclops eyes
I couldn't have thought of a better way to end what has already been a fantastic weekend.
A cruisy start to the day was needed. After much toiling and partying in the blistering heat, I decided to languish by the pool after breakfast. Spent time chatting with Prakash from Layatharanga, as well as two KL girls by the names of Sariah and Shenice. Sitting in the pool with a beer in hand was just what I needed. We played stupid games with a thoroughly un-aerodynamic ball. It was a bit like the official ball for the current world cup, only worse. There were quite a few people who had the same agenda as us on their minds, so the pool came alive with laughter and lots of splashing.
Later we were joined by the very outspoken Shenice's two friends from KL; Julie and Sylvia. Great. Two more girls to make fun of me. Yep, it seems that I'm the target for a lot of ribbing with my somewhat ebullient personality and unconventional appearance. Ah well, when in Rome... right? The girls and I thought a visit to the beach was in order, and after following dodgy instructions from the hotel staff, we scuttled through a stormwater drain and walked past bright red no-trespassing signs as well as a golf course to reach the elusive beach.
The sun was HOT. Devilishly hot. But the water was fantastic, and the company... weeeell, I suppose I can't complain too much about being the only guy amongst four pretty ladies. I heard a distant rumble. It appeared the god of thunder was not too impressed with our frolicking, and I could see some rather angry looking storm clouds making their way slowly towards the mountain, and us. It still had a while to go before it reached us, so we kept on talking trash and verbally abusing each other. For instance, sweet Julie came up to us with a spray-on temporary tattoo of a crab by her belly button, exclaiming "Check out my crab!" whilst looking downwards. I trust that you, my dear readers, have sufficient imagination to visualize the mockery that took place after that statement.
Meanwhile I was getting as roasted as a crab's underwater colleague, the lobster. My red face has also been kindly referred to in the past by a loving friend who said it resembled a baboon's ass. Nice. Thanks buddy. I've never forgotten it. We got out of the water, and took some silly photos, including a photo of all four girls pointing their butts at the camera; all under the watchful and disapproving gaze of an old Malay woman wearing traditional headscarf. Yes, the girls felt a tad sheepish walking past her. We packed up and got ready to head off to the cultural village.
While waiting for the girls to get ready, I gave myself a commando wash by the poolside, and, as any self respecting male does, did all my ablutions in record time. Finally, an hour later, the girls appeared, and off to the village we went; all the while still taking the piss out of each other. The skies were starting to look a tad more menacing at this point, and we were all wondering what the weather had in store for us. Food, glorious food, was what we needed, so we chowed down on some more of the local delights, as well as some ice cold beer. Julie, who was also one of the media attendees, gave me a TV interview for her west Malaysian TV station, which was an interesting distraction. I hope I didn't make too much of an ass out of myself :)
The place was absolutely humming! People were everywhere, and I knew right then and there that it was going to be an awesome night. Finally, the heavens opened and absolutely deluged the whole village grounds. We were joined by some more people, and decided to wait for a lull in the rain before taking a walk. Well, it didn't lull, but it let up a bit. Enough, so that we could walk around without my camera gear getting destroyed. I ducked off for a while to catch up with some friends, but rejoined the girls at the sheltered stand next to the stage. And by that stage the rain was thundering down! Hmmm, definitely going to be an interesting night!
The performances began, and while we didn't see everything that was going on, we were so close to the stage that the music was loud enough for us to appreciate. So many people came and went, and with each new addition, we made acquaintances and talked shop. I met one of the older guys from the Columbian/Australian band Watussi, who was a fellow greenie at heart, so both of us chatted about the environment, corruption, and compared notes on each other's home countries. Obviously I have two home countries so I had a lot to say. All the while, people were laughing at me and with me about how I resembled Cyclops from the X-Men with my very pronounced sunglass tanlines, that had by this stage, well and truly made their mark.
While talking, I was still paying close attention to the music. The night started off with a group called, Bakih, from Malaysia, who played a riveting jam of homegrown Sarawakian music; electric sape (traditional guitar with an electric pickup) mixed with electric bass mixed with funky rhythms infused with a blend of traditional and contemporary music. They were followed by Yerboli from Northern China, and De Temps Antan from Canada, who busted out their respective Mongolian and Quebec/ Native North American influenced rhythms. The wooden floor ocassionally shook as people jumped up and down, especially to the more energetic parts of the sets. Then, a captivating sound filled the humid, electrified air as the Musafir gypsies of Rajasthan took to the stage and showed the crowd what Indian tribal music was all about.
The rain was showing no signs of letting up, and it carried on torrentially for a good three hours before easing up enough to allow us to get comfortably drenched instead of uncomfortably drowned. But the show must go on! It was Tuak time (for those of you that don't know; a local rice wine) so we headed off to get some supplies for the night. At this stage Shenice had left, and Sariah was off with some other friends so it was down to me, Julie, and Sylvia to do the right thing and get silly off the local brew. Supplies, check. Attitude, check. Fun mode? Full throttle. I bumped into a few friends on the way over to the stage. By the look of their inebriated faces, I was glad to see we weren't the only ones down for the madness that was to ensue.
We sloshed our way through the mud and caught the last half of Galandum Galundaina, from Portugal. You must forgive me, dear reader, at this point, because my analytical mind was caught up in the revelry of the moment. And possibly, just maybe, a bit blunted from the Tuak. All I can really remember is the interesting instrument one of the performers wielded; a cow jawbone that rattled upon striking it. We slipped, skidded, slid and grooved to the catchy tunes, took silly photos, and made more acquaintances on the dancefloor. I had some people come up to me and say "Hey, nice tatts" or "Hey, you're that crazy guy that takes photos in the middle of the moshpit" or just a plain "Hey".
For the second to last performance we made our way to the centre, where I bumped into a few more friends. The MC introduced Novolima from Peru, who busted out the jams with a larger than life stage presence and some seriously funky tunes guided by Afro-Peruvian persuasions with a healthy dollop of modern DJ-ing. The joint was swingin', rockin' and sloshin'! Friendly faces surrounded me; everyone feeling the moment and celebrating truly being alive amidst conditions that would make most people run for cover. The smiles, the pats on the back, the good sounds... ahhh, so this is what it feels like to be living!
After their impressive performance, the MC announced the finale act, which was a showcase of each performances' skills. Each group had about a two minute slot, where they worked together on the rhythm. The girls and I, had all this time been attacking each other with mud. But I was fighting a losing battle, because these were two seriously determined young lasses who thought that I looked better covered in mud. Sylvia also regularly attacked my nipples, perhaps thinking that by tweaking them the volume would increase. We did stupid things, like when Reelroad'B hit the stage, we danced like hillbillies with me fiddling an imaginary fiddle, and interlocking arms as if we were at a dixie hall danceoff. Besides the mud, I had a grin plastered on my face from ear to ear.
But everything good MUST inevitably come to an end. The very last performers finished their slot to an impressive and deafening roar of approval from the audience. Much cheering and backslapping and high fiving and hugging went on. We had been spoilt by their sheer awesomeness for the whole weekend, and now it was time to leave. Reluctantly, we started making our hesitant way out of the village. While walking out, I spotted a fellow Kiwi, a Maori singing to himself in Maori, funnily enough. I went up to him and said "Kiaora cuz!" He grabbed me and said "Bro! Gimme a Hongi (traditional Maori greeting where you touch noses; a sign of respect). Then, we busted out an impromptu and loud haka for all the delighted and bemused onlookers. After that, I was speartackled to the ground by a friend who caught me off guard. We traded mud and brotherly love. What an awesome time.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, we were back at the hotel. My plans had changed. I wasn't going home that night. I was covered head to toe in mud, and when the hotel staff saw me they shook their heads as they handed me my bag that I had placed behind the counter. You see, I had already checked out of the room that afternoon, with the intention of catching the late bus home. But there was no way the bus would let me on in my state. I decided to crash with the courteous and accommodating girls. Julie used the shower first, but when it was my turn, the waterworks had given up the ghost. I was shouting to the girls for some help. So what did they do? Both of them came busting in while I was butt naked, with only mud to preserve my modesty. Hilarity and laughter ensued. I've had some ridiculous shit happen to me in my life but that moment was definitely up there.
Sylvia and I decided to go down to the lobby to check out the Netherlands VS. Spain match. By this stage it was 2-ish in the morning. Lots of people were down there, still coming down from the natural high of the night. One man with a vuvuzela kept us entertained with his intermittent blasts whenever he thought Spain was going to score. A painfully drawn out match that was, I must say. By the time Spain won, it was 5 something in the morning, and we had to be up by ten. Despite the pain I felt in my whole body, all I could feel was ecstatic about having one of the best weekends of my life. I didn't want it to end.
So, dear reader, I shall give you my word that this time next year, you'll be reading more about the magic that is the Rainforest music festival of Sarawak, Borneo, and I hope through my experiences I've persuaded you to join me in the fun next year. Mud, sweat, and beers, my friends. Mud, sweat and beers.
Santubong Mountain, I can't wait to see you again soon.
One Love
Dan
P.S. - Sylvia, my nipples are still bruised from all that "lovin'"
A cruisy start to the day was needed. After much toiling and partying in the blistering heat, I decided to languish by the pool after breakfast. Spent time chatting with Prakash from Layatharanga, as well as two KL girls by the names of Sariah and Shenice. Sitting in the pool with a beer in hand was just what I needed. We played stupid games with a thoroughly un-aerodynamic ball. It was a bit like the official ball for the current world cup, only worse. There were quite a few people who had the same agenda as us on their minds, so the pool came alive with laughter and lots of splashing.
Later we were joined by the very outspoken Shenice's two friends from KL; Julie and Sylvia. Great. Two more girls to make fun of me. Yep, it seems that I'm the target for a lot of ribbing with my somewhat ebullient personality and unconventional appearance. Ah well, when in Rome... right? The girls and I thought a visit to the beach was in order, and after following dodgy instructions from the hotel staff, we scuttled through a stormwater drain and walked past bright red no-trespassing signs as well as a golf course to reach the elusive beach.
The sun was HOT. Devilishly hot. But the water was fantastic, and the company... weeeell, I suppose I can't complain too much about being the only guy amongst four pretty ladies. I heard a distant rumble. It appeared the god of thunder was not too impressed with our frolicking, and I could see some rather angry looking storm clouds making their way slowly towards the mountain, and us. It still had a while to go before it reached us, so we kept on talking trash and verbally abusing each other. For instance, sweet Julie came up to us with a spray-on temporary tattoo of a crab by her belly button, exclaiming "Check out my crab!" whilst looking downwards. I trust that you, my dear readers, have sufficient imagination to visualize the mockery that took place after that statement.
Meanwhile I was getting as roasted as a crab's underwater colleague, the lobster. My red face has also been kindly referred to in the past by a loving friend who said it resembled a baboon's ass. Nice. Thanks buddy. I've never forgotten it. We got out of the water, and took some silly photos, including a photo of all four girls pointing their butts at the camera; all under the watchful and disapproving gaze of an old Malay woman wearing traditional headscarf. Yes, the girls felt a tad sheepish walking past her. We packed up and got ready to head off to the cultural village.
While waiting for the girls to get ready, I gave myself a commando wash by the poolside, and, as any self respecting male does, did all my ablutions in record time. Finally, an hour later, the girls appeared, and off to the village we went; all the while still taking the piss out of each other. The skies were starting to look a tad more menacing at this point, and we were all wondering what the weather had in store for us. Food, glorious food, was what we needed, so we chowed down on some more of the local delights, as well as some ice cold beer. Julie, who was also one of the media attendees, gave me a TV interview for her west Malaysian TV station, which was an interesting distraction. I hope I didn't make too much of an ass out of myself :)
The place was absolutely humming! People were everywhere, and I knew right then and there that it was going to be an awesome night. Finally, the heavens opened and absolutely deluged the whole village grounds. We were joined by some more people, and decided to wait for a lull in the rain before taking a walk. Well, it didn't lull, but it let up a bit. Enough, so that we could walk around without my camera gear getting destroyed. I ducked off for a while to catch up with some friends, but rejoined the girls at the sheltered stand next to the stage. And by that stage the rain was thundering down! Hmmm, definitely going to be an interesting night!
The performances began, and while we didn't see everything that was going on, we were so close to the stage that the music was loud enough for us to appreciate. So many people came and went, and with each new addition, we made acquaintances and talked shop. I met one of the older guys from the Columbian/Australian band Watussi, who was a fellow greenie at heart, so both of us chatted about the environment, corruption, and compared notes on each other's home countries. Obviously I have two home countries so I had a lot to say. All the while, people were laughing at me and with me about how I resembled Cyclops from the X-Men with my very pronounced sunglass tanlines, that had by this stage, well and truly made their mark.
While talking, I was still paying close attention to the music. The night started off with a group called, Bakih, from Malaysia, who played a riveting jam of homegrown Sarawakian music; electric sape (traditional guitar with an electric pickup) mixed with electric bass mixed with funky rhythms infused with a blend of traditional and contemporary music. They were followed by Yerboli from Northern China, and De Temps Antan from Canada, who busted out their respective Mongolian and Quebec/ Native North American influenced rhythms. The wooden floor ocassionally shook as people jumped up and down, especially to the more energetic parts of the sets. Then, a captivating sound filled the humid, electrified air as the Musafir gypsies of Rajasthan took to the stage and showed the crowd what Indian tribal music was all about.
The rain was showing no signs of letting up, and it carried on torrentially for a good three hours before easing up enough to allow us to get comfortably drenched instead of uncomfortably drowned. But the show must go on! It was Tuak time (for those of you that don't know; a local rice wine) so we headed off to get some supplies for the night. At this stage Shenice had left, and Sariah was off with some other friends so it was down to me, Julie, and Sylvia to do the right thing and get silly off the local brew. Supplies, check. Attitude, check. Fun mode? Full throttle. I bumped into a few friends on the way over to the stage. By the look of their inebriated faces, I was glad to see we weren't the only ones down for the madness that was to ensue.
We sloshed our way through the mud and caught the last half of Galandum Galundaina, from Portugal. You must forgive me, dear reader, at this point, because my analytical mind was caught up in the revelry of the moment. And possibly, just maybe, a bit blunted from the Tuak. All I can really remember is the interesting instrument one of the performers wielded; a cow jawbone that rattled upon striking it. We slipped, skidded, slid and grooved to the catchy tunes, took silly photos, and made more acquaintances on the dancefloor. I had some people come up to me and say "Hey, nice tatts" or "Hey, you're that crazy guy that takes photos in the middle of the moshpit" or just a plain "Hey".
For the second to last performance we made our way to the centre, where I bumped into a few more friends. The MC introduced Novolima from Peru, who busted out the jams with a larger than life stage presence and some seriously funky tunes guided by Afro-Peruvian persuasions with a healthy dollop of modern DJ-ing. The joint was swingin', rockin' and sloshin'! Friendly faces surrounded me; everyone feeling the moment and celebrating truly being alive amidst conditions that would make most people run for cover. The smiles, the pats on the back, the good sounds... ahhh, so this is what it feels like to be living!
After their impressive performance, the MC announced the finale act, which was a showcase of each performances' skills. Each group had about a two minute slot, where they worked together on the rhythm. The girls and I, had all this time been attacking each other with mud. But I was fighting a losing battle, because these were two seriously determined young lasses who thought that I looked better covered in mud. Sylvia also regularly attacked my nipples, perhaps thinking that by tweaking them the volume would increase. We did stupid things, like when Reelroad'B hit the stage, we danced like hillbillies with me fiddling an imaginary fiddle, and interlocking arms as if we were at a dixie hall danceoff. Besides the mud, I had a grin plastered on my face from ear to ear.
But everything good MUST inevitably come to an end. The very last performers finished their slot to an impressive and deafening roar of approval from the audience. Much cheering and backslapping and high fiving and hugging went on. We had been spoilt by their sheer awesomeness for the whole weekend, and now it was time to leave. Reluctantly, we started making our hesitant way out of the village. While walking out, I spotted a fellow Kiwi, a Maori singing to himself in Maori, funnily enough. I went up to him and said "Kiaora cuz!" He grabbed me and said "Bro! Gimme a Hongi (traditional Maori greeting where you touch noses; a sign of respect). Then, we busted out an impromptu and loud haka for all the delighted and bemused onlookers. After that, I was speartackled to the ground by a friend who caught me off guard. We traded mud and brotherly love. What an awesome time.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, we were back at the hotel. My plans had changed. I wasn't going home that night. I was covered head to toe in mud, and when the hotel staff saw me they shook their heads as they handed me my bag that I had placed behind the counter. You see, I had already checked out of the room that afternoon, with the intention of catching the late bus home. But there was no way the bus would let me on in my state. I decided to crash with the courteous and accommodating girls. Julie used the shower first, but when it was my turn, the waterworks had given up the ghost. I was shouting to the girls for some help. So what did they do? Both of them came busting in while I was butt naked, with only mud to preserve my modesty. Hilarity and laughter ensued. I've had some ridiculous shit happen to me in my life but that moment was definitely up there.
Sylvia and I decided to go down to the lobby to check out the Netherlands VS. Spain match. By this stage it was 2-ish in the morning. Lots of people were down there, still coming down from the natural high of the night. One man with a vuvuzela kept us entertained with his intermittent blasts whenever he thought Spain was going to score. A painfully drawn out match that was, I must say. By the time Spain won, it was 5 something in the morning, and we had to be up by ten. Despite the pain I felt in my whole body, all I could feel was ecstatic about having one of the best weekends of my life. I didn't want it to end.
So, dear reader, I shall give you my word that this time next year, you'll be reading more about the magic that is the Rainforest music festival of Sarawak, Borneo, and I hope through my experiences I've persuaded you to join me in the fun next year. Mud, sweat, and beers, my friends. Mud, sweat and beers.
Santubong Mountain, I can't wait to see you again soon.
One Love
Dan
P.S. - Sylvia, my nipples are still bruised from all that "lovin'"
RWMF day two
The hangover was DEFINITELY present in the morning. But what a morning it was. I spent the earlier part of it in the media centre getting organised for the day ahead. While there I chatted with some interesting people; performers and media alike, who were still buzzing about the last night's incredible performances. The mood was infectiously positive, and the conversation and smiles were aplenty. A quick dip in the pool just before I headed off to the cultural village helped bring down my internal thermometer a bit, but it certainly didn't keep the heat away for long.
I piled into the media shuttle van and was on my way to see the music workshops on offer during the day. The village was much more alive than it was on Friday. People were getting spray-on tattoos, buying souvenirs, and sampling the local cuisine. I had to chuckle to myself while passing the temporary tattoo stand, though. Why not just get the real thing? Much more satisfying. I was having camera problems as a result of being in the moshpit the night before. My flash wasn't closing properly, so I asked two KL guys standing next to me if they knew how to fix it. They looked like the right people to ask; they were packing some pretty serious equipment. Best decision I made. They couldn't fix it, but we ended up chatting and having some good laughs.
I went to see the Russian group Reelroad'b who were doing a workshop on traditional folk dance. People were spinning and twirling and smashing into each other, and having a great time. Bumped into the KL guys again, and we ducked into the Penan hut to avoid the oppressive heat, and we talked smack about everything from history, politics, sex, the ridiculous cost of camera gear, and food for about two hours. More of them came. Then came the food and beers. I could tell this was going to be a good night.
It was amusing to see that there were so many KL people in the mix. For those non-Malaysian readers out there, KL is short for Kuala Lumpur, which is the capital of Malaysia. I think it's a pity that so many local Sarawakians don't attend the festival, because it'd certainly expose them to a bit more internationalism, and a whole lot of fun. Admittedly, the ticket prices this year were quite steep. Tickets cost $110 RM per day at the door, but thankfully with my media pass, I managed to get in for free. I'm starting to really like this job. Still, I think that by charging $110 RM, the Tourism Board should at least put some money back into the cultural village; possibly erecting a pergola over the main stage area so that punters more averse to the mud and rain would join in, and that the performers wouldn't feel like their set is suffering because the crowd isn't going as wild as they should, due to torrential rain like we experienced the night before.
The sun was shining, the beer was flowing, and there were no threatening clouds looming overhead. A good sign for the night to come. We set up camp to the left of the stage, on a small hill, and talked more fun loving nonsense until the performances began. The festivities kicked off with A group called Shanbehzadeh from Iran, who, interestingly enough, had a bagpipe as their main solo instrument which was accompanied by traditional percussion. The bagpiper twirled around like a dust devil across the stage, stopping occasionally to sing in an impressively haunting and mysterious voice. Closing my eyes and listening to the music, I was transported to an exotic land far, far away, not only in distance, but in time. Even the bagpipe had a very middle eastern sound to it, and even its appearance was certainly vastly different to its Scottish origins.
Next came the Kimura Ono duo from Japan, who plucked away with Shamisen. I felt that their performance was more suited to a closed auditorium because of the acoustics involved, but nevertheless they did a fantastic job. The night blazed on with Minuit Guibolles from France, Braagas - an all female quartet from the Czech Republic, Leila Negrau from the Reunion Islands, the Monster Ceilidh band from the UK, and ended with a crescendo with Farafina, from Burkina Faso. It was surprising to see how many bands were using bagpipes. None, except from the UK group were of traditional Scottish design. I suppose it has good characteristics that can be modified to suit the type of music being played, hence its popularity. All bands were great on stage, and I felt that Farafina had a fantastic stage presence due to their army of energetic black men that banged away on traditional drums that hung around their necks. Both Leila Negrau and Farafina had lead female vocalists that were colourful in their presentation and entertaining with their dance. One of my newfound friends said that the woman from Leila Negrau looked like Diana Ross, and I chuckled in agreement.
We drank Tuak (traditional local rice wine), danced, talked, drank some more, forged friendships under the starry skies, and had one hell of a time. One of my newfound friends, KK, was enjoying stealing my media pass so that he could have an excuse to run up to hot girls in the crowd and take photos. Good on ya, mate. The ever present mud managed to creep its pervasive way all over my body and equipment yet again, but given the fun I was having I really didn't give a damn.
The show ended, and I was making my way back to the hotel when I spotted my friends who had come from a superhero themed costume party nearby. Joanna was dressed as poison ivy, and Jacqueline was dressed as Jessica Alba's character from the fantastic four (the name eludes me). They were on a mission to save catwoman, who was drunk and lost, so we all teamed up to search for her. We couldn't move two metres without people asking for photos, and there was only one group of people that wanted a photo of just me. Lord knows why; a muddy mohawked man with tattoos and a beard doesn't seem half as interesting as the masked marauders I was with.
I eventually got back to the hotel. I sneakily avoided the security guards and stripped off to my boxers before jumping in the pool to rinse my muddy self off. The cold water was gooood. Dragged my sorry butt back to my room, got cleaned up, and headed to the bar for some more smack talk with the locals and the performers. Did a good job of not drinking myself silly like the night before. Had to be fresh for the finale the following day.
End.
I piled into the media shuttle van and was on my way to see the music workshops on offer during the day. The village was much more alive than it was on Friday. People were getting spray-on tattoos, buying souvenirs, and sampling the local cuisine. I had to chuckle to myself while passing the temporary tattoo stand, though. Why not just get the real thing? Much more satisfying. I was having camera problems as a result of being in the moshpit the night before. My flash wasn't closing properly, so I asked two KL guys standing next to me if they knew how to fix it. They looked like the right people to ask; they were packing some pretty serious equipment. Best decision I made. They couldn't fix it, but we ended up chatting and having some good laughs.
I went to see the Russian group Reelroad'b who were doing a workshop on traditional folk dance. People were spinning and twirling and smashing into each other, and having a great time. Bumped into the KL guys again, and we ducked into the Penan hut to avoid the oppressive heat, and we talked smack about everything from history, politics, sex, the ridiculous cost of camera gear, and food for about two hours. More of them came. Then came the food and beers. I could tell this was going to be a good night.
It was amusing to see that there were so many KL people in the mix. For those non-Malaysian readers out there, KL is short for Kuala Lumpur, which is the capital of Malaysia. I think it's a pity that so many local Sarawakians don't attend the festival, because it'd certainly expose them to a bit more internationalism, and a whole lot of fun. Admittedly, the ticket prices this year were quite steep. Tickets cost $110 RM per day at the door, but thankfully with my media pass, I managed to get in for free. I'm starting to really like this job. Still, I think that by charging $110 RM, the Tourism Board should at least put some money back into the cultural village; possibly erecting a pergola over the main stage area so that punters more averse to the mud and rain would join in, and that the performers wouldn't feel like their set is suffering because the crowd isn't going as wild as they should, due to torrential rain like we experienced the night before.
The sun was shining, the beer was flowing, and there were no threatening clouds looming overhead. A good sign for the night to come. We set up camp to the left of the stage, on a small hill, and talked more fun loving nonsense until the performances began. The festivities kicked off with A group called Shanbehzadeh from Iran, who, interestingly enough, had a bagpipe as their main solo instrument which was accompanied by traditional percussion. The bagpiper twirled around like a dust devil across the stage, stopping occasionally to sing in an impressively haunting and mysterious voice. Closing my eyes and listening to the music, I was transported to an exotic land far, far away, not only in distance, but in time. Even the bagpipe had a very middle eastern sound to it, and even its appearance was certainly vastly different to its Scottish origins.
Next came the Kimura Ono duo from Japan, who plucked away with Shamisen. I felt that their performance was more suited to a closed auditorium because of the acoustics involved, but nevertheless they did a fantastic job. The night blazed on with Minuit Guibolles from France, Braagas - an all female quartet from the Czech Republic, Leila Negrau from the Reunion Islands, the Monster Ceilidh band from the UK, and ended with a crescendo with Farafina, from Burkina Faso. It was surprising to see how many bands were using bagpipes. None, except from the UK group were of traditional Scottish design. I suppose it has good characteristics that can be modified to suit the type of music being played, hence its popularity. All bands were great on stage, and I felt that Farafina had a fantastic stage presence due to their army of energetic black men that banged away on traditional drums that hung around their necks. Both Leila Negrau and Farafina had lead female vocalists that were colourful in their presentation and entertaining with their dance. One of my newfound friends said that the woman from Leila Negrau looked like Diana Ross, and I chuckled in agreement.
We drank Tuak (traditional local rice wine), danced, talked, drank some more, forged friendships under the starry skies, and had one hell of a time. One of my newfound friends, KK, was enjoying stealing my media pass so that he could have an excuse to run up to hot girls in the crowd and take photos. Good on ya, mate. The ever present mud managed to creep its pervasive way all over my body and equipment yet again, but given the fun I was having I really didn't give a damn.
The show ended, and I was making my way back to the hotel when I spotted my friends who had come from a superhero themed costume party nearby. Joanna was dressed as poison ivy, and Jacqueline was dressed as Jessica Alba's character from the fantastic four (the name eludes me). They were on a mission to save catwoman, who was drunk and lost, so we all teamed up to search for her. We couldn't move two metres without people asking for photos, and there was only one group of people that wanted a photo of just me. Lord knows why; a muddy mohawked man with tattoos and a beard doesn't seem half as interesting as the masked marauders I was with.
I eventually got back to the hotel. I sneakily avoided the security guards and stripped off to my boxers before jumping in the pool to rinse my muddy self off. The cold water was gooood. Dragged my sorry butt back to my room, got cleaned up, and headed to the bar for some more smack talk with the locals and the performers. Did a good job of not drinking myself silly like the night before. Had to be fresh for the finale the following day.
End.
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