The Locust Trail

Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown

t_w_d — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 08:35:00 GMT

With Christmas 2006 steadily approaching, the chanting began. It started as a whisper, far-off and barely audible. “You better watch out, you better not cry,” angelic voices decreed from afar. Sitting poolside we strained our ears to hear the divine message as it floated, dreamlike, along Soi Wat Phasi and vanished somewhere over Thonglor pier. But that was it. One sentence repeated over and over. We thought for a moment that the monks in the local wat were expanding their repertoire in time for the holiday season.

As time progressed, so did the mantra. “Better not pout, I'm telling you why.” Inquisitive souls sought the source of the sound and were confronted by a group of silhouetted figures locked into a groove on the courtyard outside our building, eyes shut in concentration as they chanted themselves into a state of climatic samadhi.

Forgetting the incongruity of hearing Christmas carols in Bangkok - we'd already bypassed that by murdering the season's standards nightly in the bar for about 3 months - we sat and waited for the message to fully divulge itself to us. Laughter and joyful whoops from below told us we didn’t have long to wait.

“Santa Claus is coming to town!” ‘Santa’, in this case, was an Australian teacher who for some years now had been organising Christmas celebrations for local families as a way of spreading festive cheer to those in a less fortunate position than ourselves. As well as being an admirable sentiment - there would be donations of clothes, food and presents to local schools and orphanages - it was a way of forging communal spirit along the soi. ‘Santa’ had even roped in his elves and, bizarrely enough, Elvis Presley to perform at the party.

With the setting sun bestowing dusky mood-lighting on the heaving courtyard and the passing river taxis providing a musique concrète backdrop of swooshes and splashes, the party kicked off. Santa’s elves, sporting some very nifty costumes, opened proceedings in a very familiar way: “You better watch out, you better not cry…”

The penny dropped! These kids were the same voices who had been serenading us over the preceding weeks. They performed admirably, even adding some neat moves to their act as their distinctive Thai brogue added a rhythmic flair that had been lacking in the originals. Rehearsals had clearly paid off as they generated the kind of goodwill and collective happiness that only comes with shared positive experience; smiles and handshakes rippled through the crowd and refused to leave for the rest of the evening.

Set against a background of political upheaval caused by the deposition of Thaksin Shinawatra by way of military coup and confusing VISA issues for farang, the party had succeeded in its goals. As we basked in the frankly surreal version of Love Me Tender sung in a strong Welsh accent unfolding before a rapt audience we looked skyward: peace on Earth and goodwill to all men had descended onto a small corner of Bangkok.

Poor Lovina

t_w_d — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 08:08:00 GMT

The immediate impression you get as you enter Banjar Hot Springs is its otherworldliness. Such is the effect of its delicate combination of heat and surrounding kaleidoscopic swirl of flowers in bloom that it propels you from a pool in northern Bali into a secret garden a million miles away from the rest of the world. It is, you sense, how living in a bubble would feel.

In a state of transcendental bliss I dipped my head beneath the water and thought about nearby Lovina. The Australian property developer I met on the bus from Ubud was convinced this small collection of villages was the next big thing. 'You mark my words,' he told me over nasi goreng, 'this place is on the verge of something special.'

On the surface, it looked like he was right. I saw a lot in Lovina that had appealed to the discerning traveller: the long, open blacksand beaches; the surrounding hills begging to be explored; the glistening ocean ripe for diving and home to pods of dolphins. The myriad bars, restaurants, warung and decent travel links all hinted at a town geared towards abundant tourism.

And yet, something was lacking. A dusk walk along Kalibukbuk’s beach crystallised Lovina’s apparent malaise. After being asked for the 5th time in as many minutes if I had any laundry, I asked a friendly masseuse why she was so desperate for money.

‘No-one comes here. I have no money, my sons have no money,’ she told me.

‘I just figured it was the quiet season.’

‘It used to have more people!’ she exclaimed, ‘But after what happened – the bombs and the tsunami – people stay away. Maybe next month they come.’

‘Ah.’

‘Yes, people will come but we still need to eat. Anyway … massage … laundry … you come and find me, okay? I do it cheap for you. Dadah.’ With that she strode off into the early evening.

Further investigation showed a town struggling to make ends meet. The fishermen slept on the beach in order to have more time on the ocean; the vendors, outnumbering the tourists, congregated in the town square to try and sell their wares. I watched again and again as one of the town’s chefs offering genuine home cookery classes was turned down; in the face of repeated refusal his smile remained but the rest of his body sagged. Gamely grinning, he continued down the beach looking for potential customers. ‘Maybe next month.’

As my head resurfaced from beneath the spring’s surface, I was caught in the beatific glow of the late-afternoon sun shining through gaps in the jungle. It was hard to reconcile this sublime feeling with the melancholy, caused by distant terrorism and natural disasters, of the adjacent villages.

When Japanese colonists first built the pools at Banjar they were mindful of the healing properties of the Brimstone in the water; in the case of Lovina I hope the effects can be felt a few miles down the road.

An Aquatic Learning Curve

t_w_d — Thu, 8 Oct 2009 07:15:00 GMT

An unusually grey dawn smothered Ko Chang as we wiped the sleep from our eyes. In a fit of enthusiastic pique we had volunteered our services for the day’s fishing expedition and now found ourselves aboard a small red boat alongside the captain and his two sons. Open water beckoned.

Our hunting ground was the strait between Ko Chang and distant, hazy Trat. As we motored along we noticed low flying cloud had enveloped the island’s forest peaks and heavy rain was heading towards us. The captain noticed our concerns. ‘It’s always dark this time of day,’ he soothed, ‘mai bpen rai.’ With that he furnished us with our tools: Nescafe cans circled with twine.

Buoyed by our new toys we set about decimating the local fish population with utter relish. Each fling of our twine brought renewed levels of let-us-at-them intensity as we pictured the growing piles of grouper, tuna and snapper capsizing the boat due to sheer volume. Although we hadn’t yet mastered the art of leaning over the sides and not falling in we felt we might be naturals at this game. Like true pros we attacked the sea again and again.

The day proceeded splendidly. The clouds provided a thin illuminated veneer that protected us from the sun and the sea had developed a halcyon gloss that was as welcoming as it was shimmering. A school of dolphins cutting a swath in the middle-distance added fire to our nautical fervour.

Roundly cursing an escaping shoal, a commotion behind us grabbed our attention and put us firmly in our place. The captain’s two sons were wrestling with a barracuda the size of a good-sized dog and after a minor struggle they landed it before nonchalantly continuing as before.

It was here that the fishing hierarchy was cemented. These experienced youngsters, their whole lives devoted to the ocean, were using empty gallon-sized bottles of washing-up liquid to catch their prey. Our Nescafe cans simply couldn’t compete. Suitably chastened with a growing sense of rod envy, I peered at our handful of fluorescent butterfly fish and caught the stoic captain’s eye. He smiled a toothy, sympathetic grin that told us everything we needed to know: the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. As if to compound our position my companion was intimidated by a seagull and fell into the sea.

However, the two young fishermen were excellent teachers and before long we had caught a respectable pile of fish that served to make an excellent barbecue. On a deserted beach at the island’s northern tip cold bottles of Chang clinked as we toasted the fishermen for allowing us to spend the day with them learning their trade.

Later, dining on Barracuda curry, we waxed lyrical about our trip. It appeared as though we had discovered an entirely new breed of fish, one that grew in size and quantity every time someone asked a question about it. We dined on it for a long time afterwards.

The Ruined Temple

t_w_d — Thu, 1 Oct 2009 08:34:00 GMT

April in southern Laos isn't the balmiest time of year. The mid-morning heat haze highlights the verdant green and brown swathes of the region's attendant hills as the mighty Mekong gurgles contentedly in the background while overhead the sun beats with such relentless aggression that everyone has been driven indoors for fear of heat stroke. In short, the atmosphere is one of tranquil repose with subtle undertones of extreme danger for the unwary. You'd be a fool to be out in such conditions without first preparing yourself.

It is with this pioneering spirit that I find myself piloting a rickety bicycle along Champasak's not entirely busy main road. My destination lies 6km away: tranquil Wat Phu, a ruined Khmer temple of first Hindu then Buddhist persuasion that lays at the base of its parent mountain, Phu Kao.

After an exhausting cycle, made impressive by the personal canine bodyguard that seemed to come as part of the package, I reach the site where my first impressions are of a colossus trying to reclaim its possession. The ruined palace buildings of the lower level are swabbed with lichen and the ground is slowly swallowing any fallen pieces of masonry that dare rest upon it. Daubs of orange, grey and black form psychedelic swirls on the weathered mortar.

And yet, the atmosphere remains vibrant with calm and serenity. All is silent save for the circling of birds and rustling of trees. In spite of the temple’s obvious disrepair the vanguard of dok jampa, Laos' national tree and planted at every Buddhist temple, provides welcome relief from the blast furnace rays of the sun and acts as a suitably grand backdrop for my ascendancy to the upper levels.

Further exploration delves deeper into the temple's history: the natural spring that has never dried out; the wall carving of the trinity of Shiva, Vishnu and Nom; the mysterious crocodile stone that might have been used for human sacrifice, depending on who you believed. All point towards a grand sense of times gone by that is at odds with the eternal slumber Wat Phu now basks in.

As I stare out over the spectacular patchwork of the Mekong Valley it feels as though the area is in the thrall of this tiny beacon; the harmony it emanates from its every corner seems to have flattened the surrounding vicinity. The neighbouring supertemples -- the brooding grandeur of Angkor Wat, the t-shirts and touts of Wat Pho, the mountainside stupas of Borobodur -- rightly have the kudos but, to my mind, secluded Wat Phu stands alone in terms of contentment.

Walking back to my yapping fanclub, I take in one last panorama of Wat Phu Champasak. There it stands: a decrepit monolith at the foot of Laos placidly surveying its domain, pleased just to exist and ride out the ravages of time. Its buildings may crumble and its borders might become indistinct and overgrown but its memory will always remain.

Midnight Bus To Nowhere

t_w_d — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 07:31:00 GMT

I had been bouncing on my toes for nearly an hour at Parapat Bus Terminal trying to regain some feeling in my extremities and was increasingly concerned that a deserted bus station wasn’t the ideal place to start my voyage down the Trans-Sumatran Highway to Bukittinggi. In the name of adventure I had taken the ferry across Lake Toba in the midst of a typhoon but was now starting to regret the decision intensely. Overhead, storm clouds were belching ominously again.

Ahead lay over 500km and 18 hours, weather dependent, of corkscrew hillside trails, dense jungle and roads that could be fairly described as 'treacherous'. A snapshot of Sumatra's untamed and dreamlike terrain waited. I prayed it wouldn’t rain.

As luck would have it, the heavens opened. The man at the ticket office surveyed the deluge: '20 hours at least now! You leave in 10 minutes!'

3 hours later, we were off.

My bus was little more than a steel cocoon, people and luggage vying for space in its cramped confines. Its communal atmosphere was broken only by the smell of kretek (clove cigarettes) permeating the atmosphere which I found infinitely preferable to the myriad sweat, dried squid and oil fumes running riot on the bus. Not so my fellow passengers; the rhythmic Indonesian bahasa took on the qualities of a machine gun as it was suggested to the perpetrator that smoking in such a restricted space wasn’t the social thing to do. I casually pocketed my lighter and pretended not to listen.

Instead I watched the scenery surrender to the encroaching dusk and tropical storm. Lightning flashes momentarily illuminated the countryside, the paddy fields flooding their attendant foothills before expanding into vast walls of cloud, the peaks of the distant Bukit Barisan mountain range eerily overshadowing them.

The bus driver attacked the ascending mountain roads with exocet precision, oblivious to the fact that the trails were more bog than road. As dawn broke the roads levelled and we were rewarded with a landscape that had changed dramatically. The early morning haze of the sun struck the wet surface of the roads and gave off a vapour that stretched over the vast plateau below. The effect was one of floating above the skyline, which continued as we careered relentlessly through the countryside. Gurgling rivers and winding forest roads, details shrouded in black a few hours previously, now sparkled in the mid-morning heat as I finally had a chance to appreciate the calm beauty of Sumatra's quieter corners.

It was with disappointment and sleep deprivation that I alighted at Bukittinggi, a mere 22 hours after we set off. The sun was shining and I wanted to see more of Sumatra’s beautiful natural landscape on this bus.

As the creaking behemoth continued down the Trans-Sumatran Highway, trailing feathers and fumes in its wake, I sat contentedly in my seat. Common sense had yanked me into the nearest cab and onwards to the nearest guesthouse. I wasn't in the mood to argue.

A Snippet of Conversation

t_w_d — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 08:39:00 GMT

I was sure that the Silk Spider was watching me, waiting for me to make one fatal mistake before trapping me in its web. It had remained stationary since my arrival 10 days earlier on Gili Trawangan, Indonesia’s notorious drink-diving island, and the only evidence it was still alive was the softly pulsating mark on its back and the ever-expanding web it was weaving.

Threatened by a Silk Spider. It was time to head out.

Strolling down the dusty strip that constituted the island's main drag, I was careful to keep an eye out for any passing cidoma (horse-drawn carriage) ferrying people towards the distant morass of light and sound at the heart of Trawangan’s nightlife. The guesthouse owner whom I’d befriended earlier called me over to one of the beach’s gazebos where he, his friends and a bottle of arak (rice wine) were waiting. Introductions made, we jumped to the business in hand: ceremonial shots of arak celebrating the supreme lethality of arak.

Before we knew it, a few hours had passed; day had faded into night as the moon shimmered and dissipated on the water’s surface. The stars were out in force over Lombok and, I thought, the night sky had taken on a silken, green hue that seemed to undulate and throb peacefully. This is how it felt to be in a cocoon.

The conversation flowed as well as the arak, or perhaps because of it. It was my friend who explained the island’s delicate eco-system, of how the coral was being eroded by destructive fishing practices and how the divers reef tax was used to counter the growing rubbish problem. Even paradise had its price. Perhaps inevitably, the issue of money reared its ugly head.

Surely, I ventured, lapsing into excellent pidgin, you must be loaded. I see many people arrive everyday and they must bring money to the island. Looks were exchanged as my companions explained how the money brought onto the island was doled out. Unfairly, it transpired.

Ferdinan piped up and encapsulated the deep-rooted divide on the island. ‘Sometimes the businessmen, they come to the island. They spend time with me and give me money. Sometimes I’m the man ... and sometimes I’m the woman.’ He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. The far-off bass thump continued.

I walked home later that night, lost in a reverie. In most other circumstances, Ferdinan’s statement would provoke outrage at the injustice of a situation that left the rich richer and the poor to fend for themselves. It was grossly unfair. And yet, confronted by such an unpleasant home truth, I wasn’t surprised. My time spent in Indonesia had opened my eyes to similarly innate issues and, selfishly, I was relieved this battle wasn’t mine to fight.

As I headed toward my bungalow, begging pardon and weaving between the herd of cows that appeared from nowhere, I spied the Silk Spider. It hadn't moved but its web had grown infinitely larger.