Friday 21st November: a failed mission
I awoke to a grey morning with heavy clouds blotting out the view of the surrounding hills. Assessing the contents of my wardrobe, I decided to wear my walking shoes as last night’s choice of flip-flops had exposed my toes to things they’d have been happier not exploring. The city, I had already discovered, is a mix of old and new jostling side-by-side. The old can look a little grubby and tatty but that’s because the rain and high humidity does nothing for anything other than encourage black mould to creep over concrete buildings.
Setting off to explore, I spent an intellectual morning in the main building of the National Museum where the artefacts told the story of the customs, costumes and cultures of the diverse races which make up the Malaysian population. You did have to look past the rather moth-eaten mannequins but, once that was done, the information was illuminating. For example, did you know that there are 101 ways to fold a square of material to make the distinctive headwear worn by Malay men? Next I found the circumcision display luridly fascinating, and seemingly it too could be done in 101 ways. There was an eclectic selection of secondary exhibitions including some splendidly ornate gold which was part of a temporary exhibition of installations designed by a Mexican artist: the museum tried to link Malaysia and Mexico but apart from them both sharing the letter M, the link seemed rather tenuous.
The final exhibition was dedicated to marine salvage activities and that too was surprisingly interesting. There were reconstructions of rotting 17th-century hulks with rotting crates of broken cargoes of pottery. In amongst the broken pieces were acres and acres of delicate Chinese celadon (green ware) some of which had survived intact in superb condition but was now doomed to be immersed forever in water in the museum viewing tanks. Musical instruments, weaponry and (dry) ceramics completed the national collection.
After a wander around the grounds, I set off for the Central Station, a mission that was easier said than done as it seemed impossible to cross the maze of roads. Eventually I conceded defeat and asked directions which led me safely to the rear of the station. Having located myself, I was then able to head towards the Petronas Towers – this iconic structure being the main reason for choosing KL as a stopover: homework, homework. Presenting myself at the ticket office I learnt that trips to the top take place during the morning only and I had therefore arrived too late to make that all important journey skywards. My KL mission had failed! The first four floors plus the basement area house a gigantic, all too familiar, shopping complex: Laura Ashley, Body Shop, M&S… home from home really.
Feeling a little deflated I boosted my energy levels with a carrot and ginger juice and then, revived, discovered the most gigantic bookshop… surely on a global scale the biggest ever…with what appeared to be every publication in every language. Spent a few minutes in the English section playing “have they got…” and “yes” they had. My disappointment at not travelling to the top of the Petronas Towers melted away.
Made my way back to the hotel via, I thought, the Central Market but due to its rather low-key state was a little uncertain; nevertheless, what I was walking past gave me a glimpse into a colourful world and one that was busy, busy, busy. I finally stopped for a cool and refreshing beer in China Town, where I lounged contentedly in an old rattan chair and watched and listened as a polyphonic world pottered by. Reluctantly I vacated this comfortable vantage point and dawdled back to the hotel. By the time I reached my room, I felt weary with a tiny niggle of despondency at having failed in my KL mission. Not wishing to end the day on a negative note, I turned around and headed back into the busy streets and found a buzzing eatery where I sampled more Malaysian delights; the perfect antidote to boost my flagging spirits. Watching the comings and goings of local life combined with my second chop stick challenge ensured a happy evening.
Finally, bed beckoned so I wandered back to the hotel, crawled under the sheets where the sights, sounds and smells of KL whooshed around in my head chasing away all thoughts of unseen lofty views.
Saturday 22nd November: phew, it’s hot
Early next morning, back again onto the streets of KL where gosh the humidity was already sweat-inducingly high. Managed an enervating amble towards the coach and taxi station and discovered the real Central Market where I made a few purchases and, in desperation, tackled an Asian loo. By now I should be au fait with squat loo etiquette but it does present a challenge or two… the greatest being keeping clothes out of the way of the floor. Enough of that – out on the road again I caught a taxi to the Lake Park and sat for longer than was comfortable in very heavy traffic (again, homework, homework): it was the end of Ramadan and everyone was heading out of the city on a five day holiday.
The journey might have taken longer than anticipated, but the location did not disappoint. As expected, large-leafed tropical plants filled the beautifully landscaped park plus orchids and a butterfly house into which I wandered. In said house, I think I may have inadvertently reduced the number of inmates by one, either that or the butterfly was feeling as exhausted as I was, as there it lay in a crumpled heap at my feet, its magical colours slowly fading as its life-force seeped away. I really hope I wasn’t the culprit but no one else was near me at the time the murder was committed… I guess I just trod on the resting lepidopteron. Sorry. Whilst this little drama was being played out, its other more savvy relations were keeping well away from me but in doing so were putting on the most glorious display. Butterflies the size of songbirds flitted from lush flower to lush flower and I watched mesmerised by all the colourful beauty.
Eventually I realised that it was time to make my way back to the hotel and decided to walk the distance, my KL bearings having improved. The walk took me down into the geographically lower area of the city where the stationary holiday traffic was sending pollution levels up to toxic danger-point. My route continued alongside the coach station where acrid fumes from row upon row of throbbing diesel engines strangled the life out of the dwindling oxygen atoms. With streaming eyes, I entered the hotel just as the light levels fell dramatically. Deciding to slake my thirst before heading back to the Central Station for the airport, with glass poised at lip level, the most almighty tropical storm exploded overhead. The low-light level screeched phosphorescently upwards almost in synch with every ear-splitting crack of thunder. Having downed my beer, without spilling a drop, I gathered up George and somehow squelched my way back to the airport for the Singapore flight with onward connection to Darwin.
My visit had been brief but incredibly interesting and enjoyable; I would certainly consider returning some time in the future. I guess that perhaps a little more research might have paid dividends, but then there is something exciting about just flitting around and watching life buzzing by – isn’t that what travel’s all about? Perhaps I’m doing myself a disservice, because I did walk miles and I did see a lot. Plus, I was totally comfortable being on my own, although on another occasion I might try to avoid clashing with a public holiday.
Transferring through Singapore for my onward flight to Darwin, the looks on the faces of the Australian passengers were downcast enough to let me know the result of the Rugby World Cup. Well done, boys!
Darwin and the Top End
Sunday 23rd November: hello Darwin, where it’s five in the morning and raining heavily
Fighting the usual sensations of sleep depravation, I was happily relieved when just one hour after landing, the Holiday Inn allowed me to check-in early at 6am. Yippee, as sitting around in a hotel lobby hot, tired and sweaty waiting to be given room keys is a bit of an anticlimax. And talking of sweaty, emerging from the cold of the aircraft hold into the high humidity of Darwin, George too found himself covered in a glistening sheen. The humidity in Kuala Lumpur had been laced with the acrid aroma of car exhausts; this humidity was just pure unadulterated, hair frizzing, damp.
Up to my room to sort myself out, take a cooling shower and flop in
to bed: my usual arrival routine. A deep dreamless sleep was abruptly interrupted at two in the afternoon as, suddenly wide awake, I knew I had to head outside to explore. No sign of the earlier rain as I emerged from the hotel to walk into the central area of Darwin and then back down and along The Esplanade, where the hotel sits in a prime spot with commanding views across the open expanse of Darwin harbour. Darwin still retained something of an outpost feel and I lapped up the atmosphere.
The Esplanade is a paved walkway which gently dips and swoops for about 3km as it runs parallel to the harbour. Lush lawns and softly rustling palms create a peaceful environment in which to wander. As I ambled, I came upon Government House, the oldest European building in the Northern Territory. Emerging from the unkempt greenery and standing before this neatly kept historic building, which seemed to float on a sea of manicured green grass, created the sensation of having stepped back in time. Built in the early 1870s, it remains a fine example of mid-Victorian Gothic enlivened by its sparkling white coat of paint. Gothic and confection don’t seem natural bedfellows, but that’s what it looked like: a pristine Gothic confection. I’m guessing that perhaps the white picket fence was hammered in place to distance the colonial Administrator from the passing public. The building has every reason to stand on its headland position with pride, as it has withstood cyclones, bombs, pest infestations and a rioting rabble. Moving on, I could almost hear the distant chink of porcelain teacups and the swish of ice-cooled gin-slings.
… These were large specimens of the insect family…
Having wandered far enough, I turned and retraced my steps back towards the hotel, where I found my own peaceful sea of green complete with sea-facing bench. Here I sat – just me and a whole bunch of crazy ants busily fossicking in the grass for discarded crumbs – and watched as the sun dipped below the flame-red horizon. Something magical happens at dusk and here, as the light level dimmed, a whispered hush fell over the ebb and flow of the waves and the rustling leaves fell silently still: bliss. Oblivious to the scenic glory and the romanticism of the evening light, the ant activity continued apace. These were large specimens of the insect family so I kept a wary eye on my exposed toes.
Not wishing to change the mood, I reluctantly thought it time to bid farewell to my private retreat. On the way back to the hotel I bought a few snack items from a nearby shop and had a picnic supper in my room before bed. My journal does not record of what I had to drink, but I’m guessing that the hard tack was washed down with a cold beer!
Monday 24th November: a day not to be proud of (I shopped)
So this is Australia’s Top End… I last set foot on Darwin dust in approximately 1962 when the airport was still wearing its post-war battle fatigues. It’s strange what memories you carry with you over the years: I remember being told that Darwin was the only airport where it was possible to take a shower… this (to me) unheard of luxury was simply a way of providing sweat-drenched travellers with some respite from the Top End’s sweat-inducing high humidity.
Life has never been easy in this particular spot on the Australian landscape. Darwin was bombed by the Japanese during their many World War II raids on this strategic area. And the weather has also maintained its own intermittent bombardment. Whether flattened by bombs or flattened by cyclones, Darwin just pulls itself back into shape and life continues.
Sadly, all these historical facts slithered off me and instead my holiday continued less notably than perhaps should have been the case. Most of the day was spent shopping and then at a dressmakers for some alterations; well worth it! I bought a swimming costume, which remained a constant holiday friend for years, until the elastic began to rot and I decided it was time for us to part, before it publicly reached a similar decision. But before I could step into it and head for the water, it needed some tweaking to safely encase my embonpoint.
Joan, a dressmaker working in a tiny shop, was an absolute gem and promised that a little extra strap arrangement would save my blushes. As I worked up a Darwin sweat in her minuscule changing cubicle, wriggling into and out of my new costume, she chatted away telling me all about life in the Top End and visits to Perth in her youth. Living out in the bush, she and her friends would go into the big town for dances on Friday night. There in the dance hall, the men nursed their beers and the women their lambs and baby roos. Carried in the girls’ cardigans, the joeys would climb up the woolly sleeves and into the body of the garment emulating the trip up a mum’s tum and into the pouch.
Whilst Joan set to with her needle, I walked out to the harbour and watched as a storm built up out at sea. Towering cumuli sat on the horizon, where I guess the weather conditions were rather less calm than here at the water’s edge.
At the appointed hour, I was reunited with my new snugly fitting purchase. Thanking Joan for working her magic, I suddenly felt a little sad not be spending more time listening to her tales. Almost feel a tape recorder would have been a worthwhile ‘journalistic’ investment. In pensive mood, I wandered back to the hotel for an early bed in readiness for an early start the following morning.
Tuesday 25th November: Kakadu National Park
It was just six-fifteen in the morning but I was outside enjoying the early morning calm, ready and waiting for the coach. On cue, it lumbered into view and stopped right beside me, a good guess as I was the only soul visible at that hour. Climbing aboard, was surprised to see that my single ticket had increased the day’s tourist total from six to seven: not the high season, obviously. Perhaps it was the early hour, but my fellow travellers did not seem a very cheery bunch, except perhaps for one recent widower who was struggling a little without his much-missed travelling companion. At some point we struck up a conversation and he told me about a luxurious trip that he and his wife had taken to Mandalay sailing up the Irrawaddy River. Made a mental note to add that destination to my still lengthening travel wish-list…
We headed out of town towards the Yellow Water River in Kakadu National Park. The first stop was to allow those who wanted to add a little extra to their day, to do just that. Yes, I was first in line. And why not? Recalling my conversation with a concerned Tammie several months ago in the Cook Islands, I nimbly scrambled aboard an even smaller plane than the Aitutaki aircraft. This time I was about to take a trip in a tiny single-engine four-seater Cessna 127. Taking my seat next to the pilot, I settled in my seat with my nose close to the window, ready to enjoy a fifty-five minute scenic flight over the Arnhem Land Escarpment, river and wetlands. The fixed high wings allow an uninterrupted view of what’s below, with only the all important strut which ‘fixes’ the wing to the aircraft body, visible. At one point we turned on a sixpence to take a closer look at a crocodile… or was it just a thrilling manoeuvre to look at a log? I’ve never yearned to learn to fly, but being buzzed up into the air in one of these tiny manoeuvrable flying machines is an experience I would never want to miss.
The next adventure was on the water, aboard a weather-beaten sailing tub, which floated serenely out to Yellow Water billabong, amid a magical carpet of pink water lilies. The wildlife interest was provided by various colourful and raucous birds and the eyes and tails of slumbering saltie crocodiles: pre-historic sinister beasts. Back on land, we visited the sacred site at Nourlangie Rock to look at the ancient rock art, portraying aspects of Aboriginal mythology and the wildlife which had once roamed the region. The naturally formed shelters within the outcrop have helped to ensure the survival of the art. Amongst the white, yellow and red ochre paintings are images of the now extinct thylacine (Tasmanian tiger) a carnivorous marsupial, with a wolf-like head, tiger-striped body and backward-facing pouch. Thought to have become extinct on mainland Australia several thousand years ago, it survived on the island of Tasmania into the 20th century. The last of this doomed species died in captivity in Hobart, where it is now dustily remembered through the questionable skill of a 1930s taxidermist and the questionable enthusiasm of a contemporary cleaner.<
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Moving away from Dreamtime, hand and animal paintings, in sombre mood we climbed to the summit of Nourlangie. The awe-inspiring panorama snapped us back to life as we gazed out across the Kakadu wetlands; which whilst now dry would, in a few weeks time, be flooded attracting migrating birds. The day was a really absorbing mix of activities which gradually drew this little group of tourists out of their shells, but even the increased level of chatter could not detract from the feeling of isolation created by the sheer scale of the open landscape. Trying to distinguish possible landmarks, made us realise the navigational skill of the indigenous people who had traversed these lands in their search for food or to join clan members at social and ceremonial gatherings; corroborees. The view across the wetlands is all geography, geology and the impact of weather and not about human intervention. Quite, quite special.
The night was spent at the remote Cooinda Gagudju Lodge; memorable for being built in the shape of a crocodile (best seen from the air). After my usual feast for when I’m hot, tired and sweaty – beer, nuts and lemonade – I went and talked to the sky… it seemed a natural thing to do. I would like to think I was looking at the Pleiades, or Seven Sisters, a star cluster which is important in Aboriginal mythology, but I still haven’t really progressed beyond identifying Orion and his belt.
Totally contented, I returned to my little room where I slept soundly, happy in the knowledge that my new hiking boots were a success. Climbing sure-footed over rocky terrain, I felt like a gecko… I could stick to anything in my boots; they were an excellent purchase.
Travels with George Page 17