Watch out for the Durian

Okay, so we know that Singapore is one of the great economic success stories of South East Asia, the city state that's made it big, and we want to visit to see our friends - Jake, another SOAS escapee, and Kenny who we met with Keng-Rui in a pokey little restaurant at Petra in Jordan more than a year ago. But the accomodation is prohibitively expensive and we think it'll be a flying visit. There are some options - maybe we could just blow a bubble-gum bubble at a policeman, toss the wrapper on the street and then jay-walk with the hope of a cheap night in clink and a warning from the judge in the morning? What are we thinking - we could Couch Surf. But we really only want to meet up with Jake and Kenny and that's not the Couch Surfer's etiquette. Thankfully Kenny writes to say we could squeeze into his family's flat - it's a generous offer and we can't refuse.

So in a whirlwind visit we meet up with Jake and his mate Jim and with Kenny and Esther for a quality curry (thank you Jake!) in Little India. It's strange to be meeting familiar faces again and out socialising but hugely enjoyable. We've done more of this in the past month than we have in a year. Luckily Kenny and Esther are just finishing their teacher training before starting the real thing in June, so they are able to show us some of Singapore's highlights. We wander through the botanical gardens which are extensive and impressive before heading to the bird park where there's a great collection of birds. The following day we get down to the zoo, something we might normally avoid, but Singapore Zoo has a good reputation, and the animals and enclosures are well-kept and fairly spacious. Again, we are impressed, although the tropical climate might be a little tough on the polar bears and penguins. They do get air-conditioned quarters though.

chopstick lesson

I think when we last saw Kenny we had been quibbling over the price of a cup of tea with a cafe owner at Petra, so we know he understands our budget travel mode. Throughout our stay he looked after us really well - tipping us off to quality cheap eats - and taking us out for a classic Singaporean meal of chilli crab and finishing off at a....er...oh 'eck, is that what we think it is? It is. It's a durian stall. In fact it's a durian bar. Now, anyone whose travelled in these parts will probably have come across this fruity delicacy and will know that this large spiky and pungent fruit is banned from most public transport systems and most hotels, simply because it smells rather strongly. In fact it stinks. But break open the outer shell and inside are pods of yellow custardy flesh that are savoured by most locals. We choose one and the vendor slices it open at the table and we tuck in. Kenny eats with vigour, but Esther is a little slower, having overdosed on durian when she was younger. Gayle seems happy enough but I'm really struggling with the strange flavour. We finish it off and we live to tell the tale.Kenny's family live in one of the four large housing estates built across Singapore, dense appartment blocks that are brightly painted and look well maintained. We are very grateful to his family for putting up with us, as their flat has only two bedrooms, a small bathroom and a kitchen/living room. Kenny lives here with his sister and parents and a necessarily small dog. Demand for housing is unsurprisingly high in this small island state and space is at a premium. Despite this, the urban environment seems to be managed very effectively. The estate is green, clean, pedestrian-friendly and well-lit at night. At street level there are cafes and food courts, shops and a market full of fresh produce. We are treated to some weird and wonderful foods which Kenny finds for us with an evangelical zeal. The majority of Singaporeans are ethnic Chinese and the food reflects this. Instead of hawker stalls on the street, most cooked food is served at food courts - with a seating area surrounded by a variety of counters, many serving their speciality dish. It's a convenient way to eat cheaply and its a sociable scene, as everyone gathers to chow down or shlurp an iced drink. When we compare this with the grim housing blocks that used to fill Manchester city centre and still survive around Britain, we are also reminded of the Soviet-era housing in some Central Asian towns we have passed through. Here in Singapore it seems they've done it much better. The small police post next to Kenny's block was closed a while ago through lack of need.
Downtown we amble along by the old quayside at the heart of the banking district, overshadowed by buildings that deserve to be called skyscrapers. We cut across past some of the city's old administrative buildings, one now a museum of "asian civilisation" with a great collection from the pacific to west asia, and mooch on past the durian-like theatre complex. This is a recent addition and it looks like Singapore is pushing the development of an arts scene. We return here on a weekend evening with Kenny and Esther and it's teeming with mainly young people. An Indonesian rock band is playing on a small stage. A large screen is showing a Manchester United match (what is it with Manchester United?) On another night we wander around the old Chinatown area, which still has streets of old shophouses and a night market. It adds a little flavour to a very modern city.
But we can't impose on Kenny and his family forever, and we finally shuffle off back to Malaysia to find a beach and a little peace and quiet.

Melakkered

Cor, it's hot. Apparently I've got to stop saying that, now that we finally made a decision on The China Conundrum i.e. when to go there. We have decided to continue on our Plan A which takes us through Indonesia and the Philippines before reaching China. We sweated over this one. Although one friend did point out to us how we sounded: "So, shall we go to China today or,hey, how about Bali?". Anyway, it's hot and it will be hot for the next six months, so please take it as read.
From the only hill in Melaka, upon which stands the ruin of a Portuguese church, Gayle spies an outdoor swimming pool, so after a morning of sight-seeing in the old Chinatown area we make a bee-line (here's one I don't get - a bee-line is a direct route and yet bees are supposed to fly in anything but a straight line, aren't they?) for the pool. There's a strict dress code - only swimsuits, trunks or penguin suits. Gayle has a bikini and I've got swimming shorts, and they seem okay with the bikini, but not with my shorts. Okay, just this once, they say. The pool is 50 metres and there's hardly anyone swimming, and even better, the water's not warm. Next day we do the same thing, only this time I bring my underpants. In hindsight maybe I should've tried Gayle's other bikini. I got past the ticket desk and into the pool before anyone saw me, but after half an hour I eventually climb out for a rest. The lifeguard is on me faster than a 'flu bug and promptly throws me out for wearing "an undergarment that might contain unhealthy diseases." Charming. "But they're clean on today!" I find myself blubbering. Oh the ignominy. In the first place, I have to wear my underpants to swim and then, I get kicked out for it. I probably offended them by only swimming widths at the 5ft marker........
After this incident it knocks the shine off Melaka for me. Compared with Penang it's a little too touristy - the old Chinatown area, full of shophouses, has been turned into a tourist trap of cafes, restaurants, bars, and souvenir shops, but there are busloads of nationals and Singaporeans so maybe it works. The shophouses are built in terraced rows, about 7 metres wide at the front, but they go back about 70 metres. The street level front is used as a shop, or workshop, or coffee house. Within the building there are airwells and open-roofed voids to allow light and air circulation, with a yard at the back. Here in Melaka the shophouses have been repainted and the fronts smartened up and some are open to the public. We follow the river along a newly built and landscaped path that takes us inland and into one of the old kampung, village communities. The houses are built out of wood in the traditional Malay style, on stilts in case of flooding. This particular kampung has very smart examples, well-maintained and freshly painted. The windows and doors are left wide open to catch any breeze off the river. We nose around and take photos and people say hello to us. It's a sleepy quiet little place right in the middle of the city.
Before we leave for Singapore we come across a second-hand bookshop with a copy of an Indonesian guidebook. Ruth had brought us one out from home, but in a rash moment we traded it for a China book. So now we try to trade it back. The man is reluctant at first and it takes some bluffing from Gayle (the old 'toss it back down and head out the door' bluff) before we finally strike a deal. Unbelievable luck - the man had only had it about a week and he knows they're rare. Now there's no way we're changing our route plan...............for the moment.

Penannnnggg!

Let me just say, it's a real skill to eat a choc-ice without getting it all over your clothes in this part of the world. Having wandered well off the old Silk Road, we find ourselves drifting again towards the part of the world where international trade and cultural exchange also took place, but several centuries later. Because it was by sea that the Chinese and Arab traders explored these parts, followed by the Europeans. We are in Malaysia visiting what were the old British Straits Settlements of Penang, Melaka and Singapore. After a very comfortable train ride through Thailand from Bangkok we were greeted at the Malaysian border by officials all wearing face masks. Following the usual immigration and customs formalities we were asked where we are from. "The United Kingdom" we replied. In that case, would we fill out this form please and take this card? The form asked us about our health, with the obvious implication that if we ticked any box we would be whisked away by health officials in full white body suits to some unseen quarantine area. We tried to explain that we haven't actually been in the UK for more than two years and eventually, after repeating this several times, everyone seemed to relax a little bit and we were allowed through. The card they gave us was for us to take to a doctor in case we felt any of several symptons that might indicate we had swine 'flu. Apart from "loose bowel movements", "sore throat" and "nausea" I didn't have any.The old part of Georgetown, the main town on the island of Penang, is very laidback and relaxing and the buildings and people reflect the history of the place. We're happily wandering the streets, taking in the old shophouses of Chinatown, sitting down to eat at a food stall, looking inside some of the 'clan' temples of the Perankan (Malayan Chinese), admiring the peace and quiet on the streets of Little India (so unlike it's big brother across the water), and marvelling at the multi-ethnic atmosphere of Malaysia - quite a change from some of the other countries we've visited. There's one street with cheap hotels for backpackers but nothing too touristy here. At sunset the call to prayer comes from the local mosques, and the food hawkers set up their tables and chairs for the evening business of chowing down. It seems like most locals eat at least one meal outside of home, if not all of them. There's a good choice - Chinese, Indian or Malay - or you could opt for the Manchester United Burger if you're that way inclined.......

Our favourite building here is the 'Irn Bru Mansion' (it's made of iron girders from Scotland). Built by a man who left China as a penniless boy but made it big as a trader and diplomat in Penang, the Cheong Fat Tze mansion (that's his name) has been restored to former glories and is well worth a good look round. Down the road there's also the biggest Buddhist temple complex in Malaysia, with good views from one of its towers. The approach to it is through a large tat market and even inside the temples there are counters selling souvenirs and paraphenalia. This is in sharp contrast to the large mosque built by Indian Muslim workers who were brought here by the British, many as indentured labourers. The city had lost its status by the 1900's to Singapore, but one significant event did take place in the 20's - Sun Yat Sen held a conference here that laid the foundations of modern China, putting an end to the dynastic rule of emperors and forming a republic. I wonder what he would make of it all now.

Turning Siamese

"Be prepared for the culture shock", we are warned before we arrive in Bangkok. We're staying with Fiona and her partner Gordon until we have recovered. Flying definitely exaggerates the differences. No time to get used to the change, you step from the shabby departure lounge of Kolkata and emerge from the plane into the gleaming shiny space of Bangkok's newish airport. It's a relief to go from the heat and humidity of Kolkata to the...erm.....heat and humidity of Bangkok. But here everything seems to be air-conditioned. And spotless.
And it's not all temples and seedy sex shows (anyone for ping-pong?). There's the old part of the city along the river, with a variety of wats (temple complexes) and the old palace buildings, Chinatown and its markets. This area is then surrounded by the modern development - a host of high-rise buildings, shopping malls, busy roads and the Sky Train - the elevated railway which makes for a great ride through the concrete jungle but cuts out the sky when you're down on street-level. This is the most modern city we have visited on our journey by far. We are very well looked after by Fiona and Gordon, who are generous hosts. They feed us well on healthy breakfasts and good dinners and take us out to swim and eat at the British Club, an oasis of calm and peace slap bang in the middle of it all. With a very good all-day English breakfast to boot. Out on the streets it's a totally different eating experience, as hawkers sell food at pavement stalls everywhere. Sometimes the stall does a one-dish speciality, or there's a few things to choose from. Of course our Thai is lousy, but the old finger-pointing and a lot of smiling does the trick. Everyone is happy to help. We're not always certain what we are eating (what is this mushy green mini-loofah thing in the soup?), but the standard is good. We haven't eaten so much pork for a long time, and we're hoping the swine 'flu doesn't make it here.....
Bangkok is awash with markets and some are open only in the evenings. It seems like Thais love shopping - what with all the shopping malls, the markets and a 7-11 every 50 metres down the street (handy for choc-ices). We can pick up guide books, flip-flops and clothes - the price determines whether you are buying a fake copy or the real thing. It's difficult to discern in such a short time spent only in Bangkok whether there's anything more to the country than just eating and shopping.........(did someone say beach?)
Gayle and Fiona were at SOAS together and at the week-end there's a 40th birthday party for another SOAS friend, Ashvin, at the beach. There's a chance to catch up with other old lags from university and meet some of Ashvin's colleagues. It's our kind of party - Ashvin has arranged for a barrel of beer, wine and some tasty food at a little beach shack. Sadly, the DJ gets drunk and ends the night playing maudlin songs from the 80's, but you can't have everything.
Back in Bangkok we start to have second thoughts about our route plan. Our intention was to travel southwards through Malaysia to Indonesia and then up to the Philippines before heading to China. Now we are considering a quick visit to Malaysia and then returning to Thailand and getting to China via Laos. This leads us to think about Myanmar as well. Our route plan is in danger of looking like a monkey-puzzle tree. As always when faced with a choice, we are lousy at making a decision. However, we are good at procrastination, so we buy a train ticket that will take us to Penang in Malaysia and defer any decisions until we've done some research/coin-tossing.
Our last night in Bangkok is spent wandering around Chinatown looking for food. We are accosted by Dia, who was at the beach party, and who is helping out at her mum's stall. It turns out that pork dishes are not doing so well, what with talk of swine 'flu, so chicken has been added to the menu. Dia's grandmother left China to come here and gave her daughter a Thai first name. Dia's mother in turn has given her a full Thai name. When we ask what part of China her grandmother comes from she doesn't know, and neither does her sister. So, we ask, are you Chinese or Thai? Both, comes the reply.

No chicken no egg

Everywhere in Sikkim when we try to order food, we are told "No chicken no egg". Sometimes there's not much else left on the menu. The problem lies in the neighbouring state - an outbreak of avian flu in West Bengal. Ironically we had no problem finding eggs or chicken there. In Sikkim we have become 'pure vegetarian'. On our way back to meet Ruth in Yuksom we have a transport problem - there are 7 of us waiting when a jeep with only two spare seats pulls up. A local man gets in and the jeep drives off. We are left in the company of three Poles, two dressed as Buddhist monks. One of them, a well-fed, bearded and pony-tailed man pops out his mobile and starts trying to summon up another vehicle. The problem seems to be that so many jeeps have been seconded for 'election duty'. That is, they are being used to ferry party cadres and voters to campaign meetings where food and drink is laid on to enhance their appeal. We are stranded. But fortunately, the monk has a silver tongue. "How much? Eight hundred rupees? Tell him when I see him I'm gonna kick his ass! No, of course I'm joking!" Eventually he agrees a better price and a jeep appears sometime later. They've been here to study? No, to practise. Practise what? Well.......... They tell us that they purchased 130 local goats in order to save their lives. The goats are still kept by the local farmers, but have been bought in order to save them from slaughter. We have visions of farmers surreptitiously pushing goats down the steep hillsides whenever they feel like a barbecue. But pony-tail monk is not a vegetarian - he describes himself as a "meat monster". They seem to have an adaptable approach to Buddhism.........
Our last stop is Gangtok, the current state capital, a large but fairly peaceful city that, like Darjeeling, sits on a ridge. It's hard work wandering around when there's so much uphill. In the centre is a pedestrianised main shopping street, full of benches and plants and completely clean and tidy - extremely un-Indian. Ruth and Laurence are on the hunt for presents and souvenirs to take back. I'm on the hunt for chicken or egg. Finally we head back to Kolkata, and catch the Darjeeling Mail overnight. We arrive at about 9 in the morning, almost three hours late, and it's already hot. Laurence is flying out in the evening and Ruth departs tomorrow morning so we have a quick shopping spree. The thermometer is pushing 40oC. Even the locals are sweating.
Saying goodbye to Laurence and Ruth makes us quite sad because we've really enjoyed being with them. It's only been a short while but it comes at a significant point in our journey - just as we are about to leave South Asia. It feels like we've just had a little holiday from this tough business of travelling. So we say our farewells to them and our farewells to India. The ride out to Kolkata airport early in the morning is a classic - with people up and about performing ablutions, setting out stalls, getting a snack to eat. A taxi driver is laid out comfortably across the bonnet of his Ambassador, oblivious to the city's awakening. We love India, for all of its faults, but it's time to move on.

time to pack

On a clear day you can see forever

'Ghorkaland for Ghorkas' proclaim the posters in Darjeeling. It's election time in India and over the next month up to 700 million Indians will have the opportunity to vote. We're still in the state of West Bengal, but having climbed the rough road up into the hills where Darjeeling sits, surrounded by tea estates, it feels a long way from Kolkata. The majority of locals are Ghorka and there has been some deal done where the local movement for an autonomous state has expressed support for the BJP (Hindu nationalist) candidate. This is horse-trading with a capital 'H'.

After our day's ride on the Kanchenjunga Express and a mosquito-ridden night in Siliguri it is a relief to get the shared jeep up to the old hill station. There's the occasional glimpse of the old colonial life - the Planters' Club, the clocktower, a couple of churches and the governor's mansion - but the town has sprawled over both sides of the ridge and is a maze of stairs and compact five-storeyed buildings squeezed together. On a clear day you can see Kanchenjunga, the world's third highest peak, on the skyline from the hotel rooftop. The weather has a distinctly English feel about it, with cloud and a bit of rain - a relief after Kolkata. The other English throwback is the tea and cakeshop, Glenary's, where we arrange to meet Laurence, who has travelled over two nights to get here from the other side of India. If we are John & Paul and Ruth is George then Laurence's Ringo makes us the Fab Four. But we're not, so that's alright then. However, it is a lovely feeling to have Ruth and Laurence's company even if it's only temporary. At the Happy Valley tea factory we learn how tea is produced. Quite simple really - it's picked, dried, aired, dried again and packed. There seems to be a lot of fuss over whether the tea is picked in Spring, Summer or Autumn and whether the leaves and bud are broken or not. Ruth remembers once being shown someone sweeping up in a factory and the guide saying "and that's what goes to England."

We head north into Sikkim, changing jeep in a little town plastered with election posters and flags for the main Sikkim party, the SDF. Their symbol is, appropiately, an umbrella. Each party has a distinctive symbol which appears on the voting machines for anyone illiterate. The road we take to Pelling winds its way up and over ridges and down into valleys - there's plenty of traffic in both directions, mostly jeeps. Suddenly we are engulfed in a heavy rainstorm and the driver slows down slightly, which is a relief as he can't see the end of the bonnet through the windscreen. At one point he stops. There's been a mudslide across the road and the smell of wet earth fills the jeep. The driver gets out in the rain and pokes his toe into the mud tentatively. Then he gets back in and starts driving forwards. To get across the mud he drives across the shallow side, on the edge of the road with the big drop off. And stalls right in the middle. We're stuck, it's still raining heavily, and we're inches from the edge of the road. A couple of the passengers get out to push. We four are jammed in the back row, with no door, and while we wait for someone to let us out Laurence pulls himself out of the window. The driver tries to move forward but the back wheels are spinning and sliding around from side to side. We want to get out right now, but no-one else is budging. Laurence sticks his head through the window with a worried look, "Aren't you getting out?" It occurs to us that there are some occasions when you don't want to be in a vehicle with a driver who believes in reincarnation. Eventually, in a panic, I howl in anger and we are allowed out, to wade through the mud, whilst Laurence helps the others shove the jeep free and across. We pile back in and the driver gives us a big "What's the problem?" grin, and then all the locals have a good laugh at my outburst, mimicking it for laughs. Later we stop for a puncture and they all smile when they see our boots and trousers caked in mud. Funny folk, these English.

We walk up to one of the old monasteries that are dotted around in strategic positions in these parts. In an upper room is a fantastical model representing the Buddhist world. Around the walls are the usual stylised paintings of Buddha and his disciples in various scenes and postures. Some of them are covered, and underneath we discover scenes of tantric sex - presumably they are covered to protect the modesty of visitors. On another knoll, just below, are the ruins of one of the old Sikkim capitals. There are views overlooking the deep valleys and out over to other ridges, other monasteries. From Pelling we head on to Yuksom, stopping off at a holy lake en route, which is more of a tarn, but impressive nonetheless for the masses of prayer flags, row upon row, around its banks.

Yuksom is the site of the first Sikkim capital, with the original stone thrones of the coronation now dwarfed by a huge tree. The village is busy with trekkers heading off northwards for a closer look at Kanchenjunga. The days are cloudy and sometimes rainy and not so promising. We leave Ruth here and walk for a day along old paved paths that link the high villages and lead us to Tashiding. We stop for lunch by a gompa with a view, of course, and are greeted by cavorting young monks. When we move on they have disappeared, but from a windowless shed there comes the sound of chanting students repeating their lines. After a lovely long walk we arrive in Tashiding just as torrential rain begins.

Oh 'eck! Calcutta

We meet Jess & Duncan on the Naxalite Express to Kolkata (or Calcutta for anyone over 20 years of age) and it turns out that they too are intending to meet visitors, Jess' parents and sister, at the airport there. We're meeting Ruth, John's sister off an Emirates flight. Jess' sister is called Ruth and also lives in Hulme, Manchester. And they're all going to be on the same flight. Wha-hey! And on the basis of such coincidences we bond quickly and before you know it we're playing Scrabble in 2-tier A/C luxury aboard the night train. Amazingly, everything is still cordial and jolly even after the game, which is a new experience for me and Gayle - we had to give away our travel set after 18 months because the game always led to spelling disagreements, arguments, and sulks....usually before we'd even started. Anyway after a short kip we pull into Howrah station at the unearthly hour of 4.30 am, which actually turns out to be the best time of day. We take a taxi, a bouncy old yelllow Ambassador, on deserted roads to Sudder St. and head straight for a chai stall. The sky has brightened quickly and there's a stirring on the streets of men in vests and checked lunghis. Some are still stretched out on charpoys. Taxi drivers recline on their back seats. It is very warm and it's only 5.30 in the morning. What's it like during the day?

Hot. Very hot. Unseasonally hot, apparently. We wander the streets and take occasional refuge in air-conditioned shops, cafes or restaurants. I'm not sure if this survival method works - the body has to adapt from hot and humid to cold and dry and then back again. But c'mon, we're not dinosaurs. We really enjoy the city. My preconception of the city is based on an old English cliche - "it's like the black hole of Calcutta", Mother Theresa's work,and the film 'City of Joy' starring that bloke from Dirty Dancing which I've never actually seen (I mean City of Joy and Dirty Dancing, although sadly, and to my shame, I did see Ghosts twice), so to find wide tree-lined roads, uncrowded pavements (wow, pavements), and some attractive old buildings scattered around comes as quite a pleasant surprise. The Black Hole turns out to refer to a cellar in which some annoying English were locked up overnight by an irate Indian, in the early days of the East India Company. Many suffocated. The city's main post office now stands on the site of this infamous incident which seems quite appropiate. If you can survive the heat and the sort-of queues to buy some stamps for your postcards, there's the umistakable feeling, as you hand them over to the franking clerk behind the counter that they are destined for the black hole of the Indian Post Office.

It's great to see Ruth at the airport - she's been here before, a long time ago - and we spend a couple of easy days pootling about. Early one morning we wander off up to the Hoogly river, through streets that are full of the usual public daily rituals of bathing, breakfasting, clothes washing and teeth cleaning with those frayed twigs from the Neem tree. At the river the ferries are busy with commuters and school children. By 10am we're hot and exhausted and done for the day.

Our plan is to head up to Darjeeling, meet up with our good friend Laurence from home who is also in India at this time, and go on to Sikkim. Ruth specially requested that we take the day train northwards out of Kolkata, to enjoy the scenery and the train 'action', and there's plenty of it. Throughout the day there's a steady stream of people through the carriage. Small boys crawl along with a rag in their hand, wiping the floor and asking for tips. A respectable looking sadhu in bright orange robes gives us a tune, George Formbyish, on his tiny ukelele (not a bad Scrabble word, if only I could spell it). A couple of times hijras (transvestites) strut in and go up to the men, say a few words and collect a few rupees - it looks less like begging and more like extortion - some men look very uncomfortable. It seems the hijras hold sway over them. And then there's the chai and snack wallahs. As the journey progresses, there's less food and more stuff, like toys, torches, tea towels and at one point, a man with a casio keyboard. Imagine buying a keyboard on your train home? Our journey to the foothills takes us through miles and miles of fields and over the Ganges. We stay in Siliguri which is a little bit cooler than Kolkata, although after a twelve hour 350 mile journey we are still only 100 metres above sea level, so not quite in the hills yet........