Following Gravity

Watch the Birdie

noreply@blogger.com (Geoff Leeming) — Fri, 08 May 2009 05:54:00 +0000

This is a part of an article on global travel adventures published in the May issue of 'August' magazine, Singapore.

A kayaking expedition through the jungle in Khao Sok, Thailand, also lets you get up close with the wildlife

Fifty feet from me at the end of a creek is a serpent eagle perched on a tree stump. Even with my zoom lens he’s still just a small speck in the center of the picture, so I quietly paddle my kayak forward, shooting photos with one hand as I go. He’ll fly off the moment I startle him, so I have to sneak up gently.

I’m in Khao Sok national park, a set of karst limestone river valleys formed into a massive reservoir by the Ratchaprapha dam in the Surat Thani province of Thailand. These valleys are almost entirely undeveloped, with just a small set of primitive floating bamboo huts for visitors. Packs of gibbons roam through the trees, and hornbills, kingfishers and white-bellied sea eagles nest and hunt here. But I haven’t seen a serpent eagle before, and it’s an impressive bird.

I keep paddling forward, certain that the eagle will flee any moment. Thirty feet, twenty feet, and still he stays. I keep shooting as he grows in the viewfinder. He’s staring at me now, clearly wondering what this strange creature is that has the torso of a human but a bottom half made from red plastic.

There are no roads in the park and few trails. As the jungle reaches right down to the water’s edge, and creeks and river valleys penetrate into the foliage in all directions, kayak is by far the best way to travel.

Our guide sets the routine for us – waking before dawn to catch birds and animals foraging for breakfast, then snooze through the heat of the day and head out again in the afternoon. With so few humans here the animals thrive, and we see so many species of animals that our guide has his work cut out identifying them. Langurs, Macaques, Muntjac, Otters, wild pigs – they say there are even Elephants, Tigers and Clouded Leopards in the park, though you’re unlikely to spot these reclusive creatures as you paddle gently through the towering limestone cliffs.

It’s only when my kayak bumps into the tree stump that the eagle finally flies away. He’s not used to being hunted, and in my kayak I don’t look like any recognisable threat, so he lets me get surprisingly close. Overhead the gibbons laugh at me, and I paddle slowly away.

Kayaking tour and guiding organised by PaddleAsia, Phuket, Thailand

Between Heaven and Earth

noreply@blogger.com (Geoff Leeming) — Sun, 12 Apr 2009 12:16:00 +0000

This is a part of an article on global travel adventures published in the May issue of 'August' magazine, Singapore.

You get to see the sights from a bird's eye view when you paraglide in Pokhara, Nepal.

Our jeep stops in a small village near the top of the ridge and we struggle up a goat track to go the rest of the way up, old Nepalese women carrying our backpacks for us. Once there, we sit on the grass at the top to recover awhile. And then we open our backpacks to retrieve our wings - 10-meter-long parafoils in high-tech fabrics that connects to our harnesses with a myriad of small lines. We walk through our pre-flight checks, painstakingly making sure that none of the lines are knotted, that every strap is aligned, and that every karabiner is straight.

When all is ready and the wind is blowing just so, we inflate the wing, take a few short steps and become airborne, the wings curving over our heads catching the rising air and pulling us up and over the valley floor. Behind us, the Himalayan Annapurna range stretches out, mountains rising two miles into the air above us. A small plane comes in to land at Pokhara airport, passing well below us.

We turn and soar, leading our wings to any scrap of rising air we can find to sustain our flight. Experienced pilots will spend hours in the air, and the best can travel for hundreds of kilometers. We aren’t that good – yet – and we spiral above a village school to gain height from the hot air rising from its roof, and soar along ridge lines to catch the wind being pushed up and over.

Our garish wings attract attention. Down below the school kids run and point as our shadows pass over them. Up here, an eagle joins me, keeping station at my wing tip for a few moments as I rise. I’m here for fun, but he’s here to hunt, and he soon slips away in search of prey.

Eventually we lose too much height and turn in to land. The landing field is a vast expanse of padi farm, rice already harvested and neatly stacked. Really, there’s no way anyone could miss this landing – unless you make a last minute miscalculation while trying to avoid a water buffalo and fly straight into a haystack.

The lack of surprise on the farmer’s face told me I'm not the first.

Paragliding tours and tuition organised by Frontiers Paragliding, Pokhara, Nepal

Adventure Capitals - Pokhara

noreply@blogger.com (Geoff Leeming) — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 00:02:00 +0000

This is a draft of an article scheduled to appear in the May/Jun 2009 issue of Action Asia magazine. Text copyright Geoff Leeming

Intro

Pokhara is a permanent adventure, in every sense of the word. Nepal remains one of the poorest countries in the world, and even getting to Pokhara can be an experience in a country whose state-run airline recently decided to sacrifice a goat to help solve technical problems with one of its Boeings… luckily the Maoist insurgency of recent years has ended, with the Maoists now forming the largest political party of the coalition government, so the potential for random violence is much reduced. Nepal is politically more stable than it has been for a long time, and its economy is starting to recover accordingly.

The town is nestled at the foot of the Himalayas, and the white peaks of the Annapurna range are visible almost everywhere you go. So many adventure sports involve toying with gravity, and with these mountains there is plenty of gravity to go around. The main activities here are Trekking, Paragliding and Whitewater, with Mountain Biking developing fast, and every operator offers a range of tours from the half-day tourist specials to the four-week extremist trips. The tourist section of town, Lakeside, is full of a mix of backpackers and adventure sportsmen, and nothing in this town is designed for the faint of heart. Don’t bring the kids – unless the kids can outpace you on a mountain bike, that is.

Everyman

Trekking

If you know anything at all about trekking, you know that Nepal is the place to be, and there is surely no better place to start than here. Those mountains are criss-crossed with trails, the local porters may be half your size but they can carry twice your weight and still outpace you with ease, and you’ll come back with views etched into your brain that will still be with you on your deathbed. Many treks run from Teahouse to Teahouse, which provide you with a basic dormitory room, food and even sleeping bags. And if you do bring the kids and they’re still small, you’ll often find that the porters will vie to carry them up the hills – they’re often lighter and certainly cuter than a backpack

There’s a trekking outfit every 20 yards or so in Lakeside, and just as many trekking outfitters that will sell you all the brand-name trekking gear you need. At these low prices there is the faintest of possibilities that they may not be 100% authentic, so caveat emptor – buyer beware!
However, if you’ve never trekked before, or you’re uncertain whether you’ll make it up those hills without someone pushing you, start gently. These hills are high and altitude sickness is a real possibility even for the veterans.

The first taste of trekking many people have is the day hike up to Sarangkot, on the first ridge out of town, or up to the Peace Pagoda on the ridge opposite. This is an 800m vertical climb spread out over four or five hours depending on your fitness levels, and at the top you’re rewarded with great views of Macchupuchare (Mount Fishtail), which looms highest on the horizon but is in fact merely the closest, not the tallest of the peaks. You’re still close in to Pokhara, so any feeling of being out in the wild Himalayas will be muted by the jeep-loads of paraglider pilots and the overladen buses heading into town.

For a longer alternative that still won’t test you to your limits, try the four-day Jomsom trek. This is in fact the last leg of the famous Annapurna circuit, but outfitters such as Himalayan Frontiers will fly you up to Jomsom and guide you back down. On this trek you will be out in rural Nepal, walking through the hilltribe villages and staying in mountain guesthouses.

Mountain Biking

Mountain biking is definitely a second-tier sport in Pokhara, and you’ll see ten paragliders and ten trekker’s backpacks for every mountain bike you see. But with this amount of untapped potential this is going to change. Tangi and the crew at the Nepal Mountainbike Club say the valley is riddled with trails, and in the five years they’ve been here they’ve found some of the best.

However, unless you have mountain-honed thigh muscles, you’re going to struggle to get up these enormous climbs, so make sure you and your guide are aware of your limitations. If you are even slightly uncertain of your climbing abilities, make sure you opt for a relatively easy trail such as the Arwa Hill, a 300m climb, the Seti River Canyon ride which is mostly flat, or any downhill that’s preceded by a jeep ride to the top for you and the bike. The club will provide you with good quality full suspension Commencal bikes with disc brakes, and helmet and armour is available and recommended.

Paragliding

Pokhara is one of the world centers of paragliding, and has some of the best conditions you’ll ever see. European pilots talk of getting more airtime in a week here than they get all season back home. There are three separate paragliding companies here, each with their own favourite take-off and landing, and the town is thronged with pilots. Get talking to one and the odds are evens that they’ll have a national or world record in something related to the sport. This is also the world center of Parahawking, the ultra-niche sport of paragliding with a bird of prey to find the thermals for you. Don’t expect to see it in the Olympics any time soon.

Don’t be fooled by the small size, however: a paraglider is an aircraft, and is bound by the same laws and regulations and highly tuned sense of safety as any other form of aviation. This isn’t the sort of sport where you can just pick up the kit in the shop and try it out to see if you like it. Of course all three paragliding companies offer tandem flights, in which you are strapped securely to an experienced pilot for a 20-minute or more flight, and the road up to the Sarangkot ridge is worn smooth by the jeeps taking up passengers and pilots.

The take-off can be nerve-wracking the first time, but the flight itself is blissfully serene and an amazing experience. If your first flight goes well, ask for Scott at Frontiers Paragliding and try it again with Kevin the Egyptian Vulture flying alongside you. Having a vulture swoop onto your fist to pluck a chunk of buffalo meat out of your grip while you’re a kilometer above the valley floor is an experience that will never be repeated. Even without Kevin, the valley is home to many species of eagles and kites, and you will be as close to these majestic birds of prey in the wild as you will ever get.

White Water

As you fly in to Pokhara, you see the 8km-high snow-capped mountains that form Nepal’s northern border on your right, and on your left you see the jungle-covered plains that form the southern border with India, a couple of hundred meters above sea level. That’s a huge drop, and the snow melt and rain comes thundering through central Nepal, carving gorges as it goes, and creating whitewater that runs the full gamut from merely impressive to pant-wettingly scary. You can get right in the middle of this turmoil in either a solo kayak, or a raft if you’re feeling sociable.

The whitewater in Nepal goes all the way up to a grade VI – the maximum possible grade, that carries a risk of death or injury even for the experts – so it’s essential that you don’t go near the big rivers unless you really know what you’re doing. The grading system is universal, so pace yourself accordingly: a grade II will be a mere ripple to a novice rafter but mildly challenging to a novice kayaker; a grade III will be challenging for the novice rafter and difficult to the kayaker, and so on.

The two main outfitters in town are Paddle Nepal and Ultimate Descents. Both offer a range of options, though Paddle Nepal tends slightly more towards the kayaks and Ultimate slightly more to the rafts. Paddle Nepal is staffed by the Nepal Whitewater Team, so you’ll be in good hands.
A good introduction to kayaking would be Paddle Nepal’s four-day beginner course, which starts by teaching you the basics on the still, flat lake then takes you on a three-day trip down the Seti river towards Chitwan park in the lowlands. Each day the rapids slowly increase in intensity, until you reach the few challenging grade III’s on the last day.

For rafting, try the Trisuli or the Kali Gandaki rivers for one to three day trips ranging between grade III and grade IV, or the Upper Seti, close to Pokhara, for a two-hour concentrated blast of grade IV rapids.

Die-Hards

Trekking

The main attraction here is the world-famous Annapurna Base Camp circuit, which will take you up to 5,400m in altitude and about three weeks to complete the full two to three hundred kilometers. Tell your friends you’re going to Nepal and they’ll guess you’re going there to walk either this circuit or the Everest Base Camp circuit out of Kathmandu.

The circuit is often named as one of the best treks in the world, and the variety, the views, and the balance of accessibility and challenge certainly justify this. On the downside it’s also sometimes referred to as the coca-cola trek, as you’re never far from someone trying to sell you a can. It’s popular for a good reason, but that very popularity can detract from the experience.
If you have the time, the inclination, and are willing or eager to head away from the crowds, you will be spoilt for choice of less well known but equally spectacular trails. Try the Korchon trek for twenty days of high-altitude camping, or head up into the Upper Mustang, the Last Forbidden Kingdom, close to the Tibetan border. Upper Mustang permits are now merely expensive, no longer as rare as hen’s teeth.

Mountain Biking

If you’re looking for adventure and have the thigh muscles to back it up, there are stunning trails and tours to suit all tastes. Try the 1,000m drop on the Armala trail, or the highly technical Mannakamara downhill. Or go out a little longer, and get the guys to take you on a Mustang trip. Longer trips run out of the same mountain teahouses that the trekkers use, and tend to do three-day loops out from base then move on somewhere new so you cover a lot of ground. Tangi’s team of guides compete both nationally and internationally, and they know their terrain well and will adjust trails according to your ability as you go along.

Paragliding

With this breadth of talent and experience in town, and terrain and climactic conditions that could have been sculpted especially for pilots, you’ll be spoilt for choice. If you’re short of time or inclination, ask for the tandem ‘acro’ flight. You’ll have a slightly shorter flight than most passengers, but it will certainly be more dramatic. Expect to lose track of which way is up at least once, and possibly of your lunch as well.

If you have more time, stay for eight days and take the pilot’s course – by the end you’ll be confidently flying solo, completely in control, and will have an international licence from the Fédération Aéronautique Internationale, the world governing body for paragliding. If you already have your licence and your own wing, there are plenty of opportunities for ‘vol-bivi’ trips into the wild, or guided expeditions in almost any directions. If you’re sure you know which way is up, book in for one of the acrobatic courses above the lake.

White Water

If you want a challenge, try the Sunkoshi, consistently rated as one of the top ten rafting trips in the world. It’s up to ten days of rapids from grade III to V, and has fairly consistent volumes. Another classic, though slightly less well-known due to the effort involved in getting to the put-in, is the Tamur. You have three days of trekking before you get to the river, followed by six days on the water traversing over a hundred rapids from grade III to grade V-. Your guides amusingly refer to the lower Tamur as “like being flushed down a huge open-air toilet”, but you shouldn’t take that to imply what they think of their passengers…

Been there, seen it, done it.

There’s plenty of fun in town, so once you’ve trekked, ridden, flown and soaked, try the Avia Flight Club for Microlight flights and training courses. Then it’s the Hearts and Tears motorbike club for riding courses or short tours; any number of Yoga schools to realign your chakras after those destabilising surges of adrenaline; the Yeti or Himalayan golf courses for nine holes with a difference; a three-day safari trip down to the Royal Chitwan park; and finally you can go lose what little is left of your money at the Fulbari’s casino.

Practicalities

I can’t say this enough: Nepal is one of the poorest countries on earth, so adjust your expectations accordingly. That said, the economy is recovering fast and everything improves noticeably year on year.

Getting there: unless you’re coming overland from India you’ll go through Kathmandu airport. If you’re used to Changi, Narita or HKIA, you’ve got a surprise in store – even Mumbai Airport looks slick in comparison. From Kathmandu you can either get a 45-minute, US$45 flight down to Pokhara, or a bus journey that can take 4 to 14 hours depending on the traffic, the number of accidents en route, and whether or not there’s been a landslide. If you’re on the plane, get a right-hand window seat on the way to Pokhara for the best view of the mountains.

Whichever way you go, domestic transport in Nepal does not run to strict timetables, and sometimes doesn’t run at all, so leave plenty of time for transfers. Most outfitters or hotels will arrange domestic flights or buses for you; take advantage of this whenever you can, especially if they’ll send someone to meet you at the airport to guide you through the waiting touts.

Staying there: Hotels range from the basic to the exceptionally basic. Check the travel guides to see who’s flavor of the month at the moment, and remember that in Pokhara a medium class hotel is one that provides a towel, and a high-class hotel is one where the towel is clean. Yes, there is a Four Seasons, but no, it’s not part of the chain. And never will be.

Eating there: cheap, filling and nutritious is the order of the day with a couple of notable exceptions - try Bistro Caroline for a quick fix of haut cuisine. Don’t drink the tap water, and be wary of the bottled water. The beer’s not much better as it’s all locally brewed on licence, and packs a powerful headache. Bring your favourite brand of stomach medicine.

Links:

Himalayan Frontiers Trekking http://www.himalayanfrontiers.co.uk/trekking/nepal/trekkingnepal.html
Pokhara Mountain Bike Club http://www.nepalmountainbike.com/
Frontiers Paragliding http://www.nepal-paragliding.com/
…or search for ‘Kevin Neophron Percnopterus’ on Facebook
Hearts and Tears Motorcycle Club http://www.heartsandtears.com/
Paddle Nepal kayaking http://www.paddlenepal.com/
Ultimate Descents rafting http://www.ultimatedescents.com/
Yeti’s Golf Course http://www.fulbari.com/golf.htm
Himalayan Golf Course http://www.himalayangolfcourse.com/
Avia Club Microlighting http://www.aviaclubnepal.com/

Dances with Hawks

noreply@blogger.com (Geoff Leeming) — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 02:36:00 +0000

This article will appear in the Jan/Feb issue of Action Asia magazine. Text copyright Geoff Leeming

It’s 10am on a Tuesday morning, and I'm standing in a small clearing cut into the side to the steep slope of Sarangkot, one of the foothills of the Nepalese Annapurna range. I’m strapped into a harness of nylon and webbing; my harness is strapped to Scott’s and his in turn is connected to a massive nylon wing by some scarily thin lines. Scott calls out, expertly pulls the paraglider into the sky above us, then three steps and we’re airborne, Sarangkot dropping away below us. There’s a small flurry of wings and a bell behind us and an Egyptian Vulture is on the wing in pursuit. It’s traditional to describe raptors as ‘majestic’, but this one’s called Kevin.

Photo provided by Frontiers Paragliding

Kevin, or Kevin Neophron Percnopterus to give him the full formal name he uses on Facebook, is to be our guide for the next hour. We know where we are – in the air almost a kilometre above Pokhara, in central Nepal – but Kevin knows something we don’t. He knows where the thermals are, the rising columns of warm, eddying air that are vital to a paraglider pilot. A paraglider is the bastard son of a hang-glider and a parachute, and as such has no power of its own. It flies in a perpetual state of sink, so unless you want your flight to be a gentle, scenic drift down to the valley floor, the trick is to fly into air that’s rising faster than you're sinking. Air that will, if handled correctly, take you and your wing up to cloudbase.

Scott manoeuvres the wing over a slight ridge and gains a little height from the wind that’s pushing up and over it. He immediately banks to the left and flies along the ridge, blowing two short blasts on a whistle as he does so. This is Kevin’s signal to swoop down behind us and land on my outstretched hand, pluck a chunk of buffalo meat from my fingers, then open his wings and let the wind take him off again.

Photo by Geoff Leeming

Scott talked me through this exercise, and I know this is to reward Kevin for finding a thermal for us. But I also know that this first time, Kevin’s found nothing yet, and it’s no coincidence that we’re flying right past two other launch sites. Scott’s grandstanding, and it’s working: the other pilots and passengers are pausing their preflight checks, all eyes on the vulture feeding from my fist in mid-air.

After you’ve understood the basics of take-off and landing, a paraglider is a simple thing to fly. Modern designs are so foolproof that they’d almost fly themselves if the pilot just hung there motionless. Steering is simplicity itself, in-flight adjustments to the wing are mostly made to ease the effects of turbulence on the pilot’s stomach, and many minor incidents can be solved by advice that boils down to ‘give the brake lines a quick tug and it’ll sort itself out in a moment’.

The real art to paragliding is in finding thermals, and in staying in them as they swirl, eddy and peter out. A good crosscountry pilot will take off, gain height in a thermal, then set off to find the next one. Climb, fly, sink, search, climb, fly, sink, search... in good conditions, and with enough luck and skill to find and exploit these thermals, a competent pilot can cover hundreds of kilometres in elegant, relaxed soaring flight. But finding thermals isn’t easy. We can see hints – trees blowing in the wind while their neighbours are still, darker patches of ground that heat up in the sun faster than lighter patches, geographical features that funnel rising air, the small cumulus clouds that form at the top of a thermal when it peters out in colder air – but we can’t see the thermals themselves. We can’t, but Kevin can.

Scott’s suffering a little from his grandstanding. Our little display was fun for the spectators, but it made him miss the first, reliable thermal that makes Sarangkot such a popular takeoff, and he’s too low to get back into it. All his concentration is on flying now, and he’s scrabbling for every piece of lift he can get, pulled down by the dead weight of his passenger. Then Kevin spots something – only he knows what – and slips off sideways, spiralling up ahead of us. Scott follows him in, a bump as we move from sinking air into rising thermal, then we too are spiralling up, Sarangkot again dropping below us. The whistle goes again, and this time Kevin’s earned his chunk of raw buffalo.

Photo provided by Frontiers Paragliding

Pokhara may be famous for trekking, but it’s also one of the world's best paragliding sites. A combination of reliable weather, hills and ridges that stretch off to the horizon, and spectacular natural beauty make this an amazing place to fly. Pilots visiting from Europe speak of getting more airtime in two days here than they got over the whole of the European summer. These conditions attract a dedicated group of flyers, many of whom spend most of the year here if they can. My companions over lunch include Adam Hill, the man who pioneered paragliding in Nepal, and who thought nothing of helping Bhutan draft it’s new air law when he wanted to lead paratreks there; Brad Sander, the world altitude record holder with a 7,750m flight in the Pakistani Himalayas to his credit; Sebastian, a 22-year veteran test pilot and instructor who first discovered some of the basic manoeuvres that are now taught to paragliders around the world; Jamie and Ajay, talented competition pilots; and many others. In this group, Scott stands out. He is a talented and competent pilot himself, but he describes the competitions as “not really my thing”, and confesses that the endless paragliding talk does sometimes get a little repetitive. Scott’s not a paraglider in the way these guys are paragliders; he’s a falconer that can fly.

Photo copyright Geoff Leeming

A few feet from our lunch table overlooking Fewa lake is Scott’s small menagerie. Egyptian Vultures, Black Kites and others stare disinterestedly at us as we eat. Scott runs the Himalayan Raptor Rescue project, a conservation effort aimed at threatened birds in the region. When a chick falls from its nest, or a sick or injured bird is found, or a Nepali is persuaded to give up his wing-clipped trophy pet, the chances are the villagers will bring the bird to Scott. He nurses them back to health wherever he can: Steppe Eagles, Griffon Vultures, Kites and Hawks of all types. The aim is always to release them back into the wild, and Scott describes a recent release of two enormous Griffon Vultures with quiet satisfaction on his face. But sometimes the birds can't be completely rehabilitated back into the wild – a pet may become imprinted on humans and has lost its natural instincts – and it’s those few birds that get trained for a new life, as guide dogs for thermal-blind
paraglider pilots.

Photo provided by Frontiers Paragliding

We’ve followed Kevin up through thermal after thermal, and we’re now about 500m above Sarangkot, nearly 1,500m above Pokhara and the valley floor below. There are 12 mountains in the world higher than 8,000m, and I can see three of them right now. Another tandem pilot came up with us, and Kevin’s shuttling back and forth between us, taking his rewards wherever he can. We’re out over the lake now, and water provides no thermals, so Kevin’s spending more time with us and less time climbing. He hovers inches behind the pilot’s head, minutely controlling his flight to avoid the wind’s control lines, then shifts up to surf the invisible bow wave off the wing’s leading edge. Sometimes he fumbles and drops his food, and being a scavenger, not an acrobatic hunter, he lets it fall, perching on my outstretched hand and watching for a few seconds to see if I’ll offer more. But the feed bag is strapped to my harness just above my crotch, and I have too much respect for his claws and hooked beak to open that bag while he’s watching.

Scott’s Rescue project has a monumental task ahead of it. In the last ten years the vulture population in the area has crashed from one million to a scant few thousand, a catastrophic decline. The culprit is a veterinary medicine called Diclofenax, a miracle drug for poor Nepali farmers who depend on buffalo and horses for their livelihood. Diclofenax is a fast-acting antiinflammatory, and in the right circumstances it can have a sick buffalo back on its feet in 20 minutes. But sick buffalo don’t always recover, and some die in the fields, their systems full of the failed drug. Then the scavengers gather – Kites and Vultures, mostly. Diclofenax has a similarly fast-acting effect on the birds, in this case causing acute renal failure and inevitable death. With up to 80 vultures feeding from one buffalo corpse, one dead medicated buffalo can swiftly lead to 80 dying vultures.

Vultures are not what you’d describe as cute – though the Egyptian Vultures do have an appealing punk ruff of feathers around their heads – so it’s not always easy to excite sympathy for their plight. But the swift decline of scavenging vultures means a swift compensating rise in scavenging dogs, and an increasing number of animal corpses left to rot in the sun. Scott’s job is to convince Nepali farmers living below the poverty line that the short-term gains from the miracle drug are causing them longer-term health problems. This campaign to educate the farmers, combined with legal pressure to convince vets to stop selling the drug, are pushing Diclofenax out of many areas of Nepal, replacing it with alternative treatments. But Diclofenax is also licensed for use on humans, and Scott doesn’t expect success in getting it banned just for the sake of his birds. The pharmacist’s directly opposite his office sells it over the counter. And it’s hard to stop a farmer buying it for his own use then feeding it to his precious animals.

Photo provided by Frontiers Paragliding

Scott’s next plan is to set up a ‘vulture restaurant’ in the area. There are two already in Nepal, and he’s keeping an eye on their progress. A vulture restaurant provides a safe environment for the birds to feed. The restauranteur buys up dead and dying animals from the local farmers, then puts them out to pasture until they due from natural causes. Then the vultures descend and tear the corpse apart, stripping meat from bones. In this environment, every scrap is used: the meat feeds the birds, the hides are made into leather, the bones are ground for animal feed. And the farmers know that they can still make money from a dying buffalo, so see less need to use the now banned Diclofenax.

Kevin’s not the only bird in the sky. Never in my life have I seen so many birds of prey in one place. Wild Steppe Eagles and Black Kites cruise the air; near one landing site a small white hawk with black wingtips performs acrobatic manoeuvres that no paraglider could ever emulate in its search for the insects rising from the harvested rice. Scott identifies it in passing as a Montagu’s Harrier, a graceful bird that’s probably migrated in from Poland or Russia for the winter. The farmers continue their harvest by hand, using techniques that seem not to have changed for centuries, oblivious to this display of avian life. Elegant white herons follow the buffalo around, feeding on the insects turfed up by the buffalo’s grazing. It’s not unusual for a pilot to share a thermal with two or three birds. What the birds make of these strange aerial humans is anyone’s guess.

As ever in the wild, there’s no love lost between competing birds. In cloudy conditions, when the hunting is hard, an eagle may decide that it’s easier to take a nearby vulture than to continue a failing hunt for earthbound prey. Kevin has survived two attacks already; one brief mid-air attack, and another that took him right down to the ground before the attacking eagle retreated, wary about getting a life-threatening injury from prey that fights back. Scott has only lost one bird to eagles, preferring to fly his birds in better conditions when the eagles are less likely to risk a fight. On that occasion, Scott used a high-tech tracking device to locate the tiny transmitter attached to his birds’ backs, eventually finding it in a pile of feathers and bones.

We come in to our final approach, and Kevin lands ahead of us, called in by another falconer. We land, orange feed bags flapping in the wind, and Kevin waddles towards us on the ground, always in search of another meal. I have to lift my feet up to clear his head as we come in to land.

After the flight, the pilots gather round the lunch table for the traditional post-flight chatter that’s integral to this otherwise solo sport. One pilot starts to tease Scott about his girlfriend, who’s arriving in Nepal soon. “Is she into you or the birds, Scott?” he asks flippantly. Scott answers quite seriously: “It’s got to be both, really”.

The Lion City hares

noreply@blogger.com (Geoff Leeming) — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 13:20:00 +0000

This article originally appeared in the November/December 2008 issue of Action Asia magazine. Text and photos copyright Geoff Leeming.

As I loaded my bike onto the back of the car, my Singaporean neighbour asked me where I was going: “Cycling”, I said, “off road”. “There's space to do that in Singapore?” came his incredulous reply. I was to remember that reply an hour later as I cycled past a sign saying 'Beware of the Crocodiles', not a building in sight.

The truth is, I had no idea where I was going. And that was the whole point. For I was about to go out with the Singapore Bike Hash, a group of mountain bikers that meets once every three weeks. For some, the rides are just exercise, but to others they are also an extension of a 70-year-old tradition in Southeast Asia.

On that occasion we met in Kranji, on the northern coast of the island, for a ride that took in dirt and gravel paths through secondary rain forest, rubble-strewn derelict land, and the occasional bit of connecting tarmac. For most of that time – as with every bike hash – only a few people would know exactly where we were: only the techies with their GPSs, old-timers who have been running and cycling round Singapore for twenty years, and the hares – the ones setting the trail. For the rest it was a chance to discover places that they’d otherwise never see, and in the process get totally lost in a natural setting in a country that often seems completely urbanised.

The hares are . . . well, to understand that you've got to go back a bit. "It's very reminiscent of fox hunting", explained first-timer Dori Ross, riding with her twelve-year-old son Theo. And no wonder, for the first hash was started in Kuala Lumpur in the 1930s by a group of British colonial officers and expatriates. They followed the typical structure of a hunt: the hare goes out first and lays a paper trail, and the pack (‘the harriers’) tries to follow. It may sound simple, but the hares do their best to throw off the pack by laying false trails, dead-ends, and by taking the pack through 'interesting' terrain. "There's lots of confusion, people milling around watching to see where everyone else is going, waiting to see who's picked up the trail", said Ross.

That first hash was a running hash, and from these origins in Kuala Lumpur a worldwide phenomenon has grown. The first hash having been interrupted by the war, the second hash started in Singapore in the 1960s, and from there it has grown to over 2,000 clubs on all seven continents – even in Antarctica. Bike hashes are a more recent addition, having started in the 1980s and spread to around 50 clubs. The Singapore Bike Hash, led by the current Grand Master, ‘Barbarian’, is proud to be recognised as the world’s original bike hash.

Michael Hinterbrandner described the trials of being a hare. "You have to go out to do at least two or three recce rides to work out your trail. It's going to take you three hours at least to recce a 25km trail, and twice that when you're marking it". The hares mark the trail with a variety of white, biodegradable marks: chalk marks wherever there's something to write on, sometimes flour or toilet paper.

Veteran hashers who know all the tricks will keep a wary eye on any hare seen standing on the course near a mark, as they know that when enough of the pack has gone past the hare is likely to scrub out the mark and put in a new mark pointing off in another direction. The fast riders that have already gone past eventually realise they can see no more marks and circle back, while the rest of the pack gets a chance to overtake the front runners.

Loo Ching Soo and Mike Maxwell, fast and fit mountain bikers who are clearly a level above most of the pack, love these false trails. "The beauty is that everyone gets a real ride", they say. "A good hare will get all the riders to the end of the ride at about the same time." Colin King, a veteran running hasher who now rides on bike hashes as well, is clear that this is not a competitive sport: "you've got to get the pack round together. Coming in first is frowned on".

It's clear that the hashes inspire loyalty. One hasher, newly returned to Singapore from his native Sweden, said he hashed in the city 10 years ago and it was one of the things he missed when he went home. Swedish hashes, he says, are not the same. Another is so loyal that at the beginning of each year she books flights from Singapore to Bangkok for the last weekend of every month. Going up to see friends, it's no coincidence that her trips fall on Bangkok Bike Hash weekends.

Sometimes the trail markings have been known to cause problems. Although the same marks – chalk, flour, toilet paper – have been used throughout most of the hash's history, more recently the flour has caused problems. Hashers in the US and Beijing have run afoul of the police. Suspicious of why the group are dropping an 'unidentified white powder' on the trails, authorities in both places have reacted decisively – to red faces all round. To be on the safe side in squeaky-clean Singapore, flour isn't used by the bike hash, though there is also a more prosaic reason, says Jeff Bradford, veteran Hasher and ex-Grand Master: monkeys eat the flour.

Another common concern among bike hashers in the city is the preponderance of expats in the group. There are native Singaporeans, but it is rumoured that the reason for a surprisingly high proportion of them being female is that they are looking to meet foreign guys.

Not to be drawn to comment on this factor they are certainly outnumbered by the rest of the very international pack. One of those expats instead describes the hash as: "A fantastic way to discover parts of the country you'd never find on your own." That makes it sound like a larger place than you might otherwise think. Perhaps my Singaporean neighbour should come along after all . . . ∆∆

North from Singapore, part VII

noreply@blogger.com (Geoff Leeming) — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 12:51:00 +0000

This was originally published on www.advrider.com in March 2008. Text and photos copyright Geoff Leeming.

The resort in Cherating was wonderfully peaceful - a massive place with very few people in it and an unspoiled beach. There was a Halliburton group in, and a couple of oil rig divers propping up the bar while downing a bottle of the whisky they're not allowed on the rig, a few Chinese families but that was it. It took me a while to convince myself to get back on the bike this morning.

...and then back home. My last day of riding was down the east coast of Johor, a province with a remarkable history of disembowelled wives and sultans murdered in revenge. The road was clearly designed by a drunkard, as it seems completely incapable of going in a straight line. Twists, bends, dips, hills, and just when you think you have a straight bit there's potholes to keep you surprised. Parts run alongside the beach...

...while other wind through plantations...

...then over estuaries dotted with fishing boats...

...and everywhere there are dirt trails leading up into the jungle.

I have to find someone who wants to come explore these with me.

As I ride through Johor Bahru (the Malay town just over the causeway from Singapore) I see some police bikers on large Hondas, and it suddenly strikes me how long it has been since I saw 'real' bikes on the road as opposed to the ubiquitous 150cc scooters. I saw quite a few on the first couple of days on the Highway up to and around KL, and one more just after I crossed the border into Thailand (Harley Electraglide, with Thai plates but ridden by a Farang), but that's it. Since KL that's about 3000km with only one other motorbike.

Finally home to Singapore, through the customs post with helpful and efficient customs officers who zip through the paperwork so they can ask me about the trip, and straight into a welcoming rainstorm. I don't mind, it's warm and refreshing and everything electronic is in the waterproof panniers, and besides, it's over in 5 minutes, I'm dry in another 5 and home 5 minutes after that. The girls have made me steak and put some bread in the oven, the beer is in the fridge and everything's right in the world.

Things I've learned:
1) Check which way the wind's blowing before you stop to wait out a thunderstorm
2) The only road law that's observed in Malaysia is F=MA. A bike has A but not M.
3) 3,500km on a KTM is going to hurt your bum.
4) I always knew Singapore had achieved a lot, but compared to its neighbours it's truly astounding.

Hope you enjoyed the trip with me.

Cheers
Geoff

North from Singapore, part VI

noreply@blogger.com (Geoff Leeming) — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 12:45:00 +0000

This was originally published on www.advrider.com in March 2008. Text and photos copyright Geoff Leeming.

Ah - the Grik Highway.

Yes, as you say yempaul, the twisties. Lovely. 150km or so of absolute unspoilt wilderness...

...with puddles of refreshing cool air washing down off the mountains, views across whole valleys with not a trace of human habitation, and dirt tracks leading off in all directions - just what the KTM was built for.

There were warnings everywhere - from the wild elephants...

...to my guide book's note that soldiers are stationed along the highway, there to clear the booby traps left by the communist insurgents in the 80s. Oh well, it's an old guidebook, I'm sure they've found them all by now. Every 100 yards or so there seems to be a great big "AWAS" sign, which I think means 'warning'. Sometimes it just says "AWAS", sometimes "AWAS!", but most of the time there's a description underneath of exactly what you should be awassed of. In Malay, of course. So I have no idea what it is I should be awassing, and carry on regardless. The word 'hadappan' does crop up quite a bit, and I think it means roadworks. Or landslides. Or possibly roadworks to clear up landslides. It did crop up again later for a pedestrian crossing outside a school, but who knows - maybe there were a lot of schoolkids, coming down the hill in an unstoppable rush. Who knows. I survived it all, possibly because I awassed so well.

Finally on to Kota Bahru, capital of Kelantan province and the cradle of Malay culture (according to the roadsigns). By the time I get there, I'm exhausted - I've crossed the peninsula twice that day, from the East coast of Thailand to the West coast border crossing, now back to the East coast of Malaysia, and all because a bureaucrat demands that I must permanently export my bike from the same border crossing that I temporarily imported it at last week. No matter, if I hadn't I would have missed the Grik Highway and would also have had to drive through Pattani and Narathiwat in Thailand, two hotbeds of separatist violence. They car-bombed a hotel in Pattani last week that the Lonely Planet recommends as the best place to stay in town.

The language barrier is still there in Malaysia, but with occasional gaps. I stopped by the roadside in Kota Bahru to check my guidebook, and a Malay gent wandered over and asked, in an accent that a BBC newsreader would be proud of, whether he might be of any assistance?

I ended up staying at a hotel at Pantai Cahaya Bulan, the Beach of Passionate Love. Well, you have to try somewhere with a name like that, don't you? No, you don't, because I have and can tell you not to. The guidebook doesn't explain how it came by the name (though it does say that nearby Pasir Mas is reputed to be home to Malaysia's prettiest women) and being as charitable as I know how I can only suggest that it's because both seem slightly more appealing after dark.

I was probably being a bit harsh, being so tired after a long ride, but think tat, tack, everything done on the cheap, rubbish lying everywhere, and a sliver of a beach with filthy sand backed by concrete breizeblocks, packed full of people, who decamp after dark to sing truly terrible, over-amplified karaoke outside my hotel room window. The hotel itself didn't help, being a depressingly run down place, with an incongruous picture above the reception desk of Queen Elizabeth and Prince Phillip signing the visitors register in the early 70s. That's probably why they haven't bothered cleaning, renovating or fixing anything since - they're trying to retain the essence of HRH's visit as unchanged as possible. The kitchen, a slovenly lean-to inhabited by a dispirited cook, even managed to find all three ways to foul up breakfast toast - bread stale to the point of mouldering, butter rancid and jam that tasted more of chemicals than of fruit - three out of three, well done! The coup de grace was attempting to charge rates that would give the Kuala Lumpur Shangri-La pause for thought.

On the road again, as early as possible, and down the beach road through Terengganu province, which is a long string of beaches, backed with casuarina palms (the tall slender ones in every brochure picture of a perfect beach), oil palms with fruit that looks like capsules of crude...

...and beachfront shacks serving food. There seem to be elections on at the moment, and every party has its flag proudly displayed anywhere that will hang it. Rhusila, where I had lunch, is known as the center of Islamic fundamentalism in Malaysia...

...and I'm betting that theirs was the flag with the scales of justice crammed in as many times as possible. This is, after all, the country that makes it illegal to convert anyone away from Islam, and is perfectly willing to enforce that in the courts.

The waitresses dissolved into fits of giggles over my attempts to order lunch, but we eventually settled on Nasi Goreng (Nasi means 'rice', Goreng means 'plus whatever we've got in the kitchen today', I think). Trying to pay was harder, as they kept saying "Ferringhi, ferringhi" ('foreigner, foreigner') at me. Yes, I'm a foreigner, but I'm sure you've seen others before so how much do I owe you? Eventually I cottoned on and sheepishly paid them the Four Ringgits they were actually asking for.

On south, and it is possible - only a faint possibility, mind you - that I may have got a tiny bit lost as this didn't look like the highway I was looking for

I got to Cherating in the end, a fabulous beach of pure sand facing the South China Sea and lined with everything from basic guesthouses to five-star resorts.

After last night's fun I'm in a resort that has beer, a swimming pool, beer, western food, beer and a comfortable bed. Excuse me, I'm off for a beer.

North from Singapore, part V

noreply@blogger.com (Geoff Leeming) — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 12:40:00 +0000

This was originally published on www.advrider.com in March 2008. Text and photos copyright Geoff Leeming.

I saw another Farang! There was a white guy down by the swimming pool at today's hotel - I'm not the only foreigner in Songkhla province after all. He's definitely the first white guy I've seen in a couple of days now.

I'm in Songkhla today, after a ride down the east coast. This is my last night in Thailand; tomorrow I'll ride down to Malaysia and either go down the east coast there or go down through the middle and try to spend some time in Taman Nagara national park - the oldest surviving rainforest in the world (the ice age didn't get this far down). Not sure how practical it would be to go offroading there - we'll see!

I had a work call to do this morning and it was a strange feeling to be talking to someone in an office block in Tokyo while I had my feet up gazing out over the waves. Quite hard to stay focused on work, too.

One little mystery solved: every day while riding in Thailand I've seen quite a few scooter riders carrying a large cloth-covered cube in one hand. I haven't been able to work out what it was - my best guess was a birdcage, but that made little sense - so today I flagged one down and asked him.

It was a birdcage! I have no idea why so many Thais ride around carrying songbirds with them, and I couldn't ask him as he spoke not a word of English and I speak neither Thai nor Bahasa Malaya. There's been quite a big language barrier over the last couple of days, but it's amazing how far you can get with a smile and some inventive sign language. Try as I might, though, I couldn't make "what time in the morning will my laundry come back?" understood with sign language, so I could be riding back into Malaysia in my underpants tomorrow.

Most of today's ride was spent in an area called Ko Yo (I think) - a long strip of land separating the Gulf of Thailand from a massive inland lagoon. Kind of hard to describe - have a look on Google Maps to see what I mean. This is big sky country - the land is a lot more open than the usual rampant press of jungle plants...

...and the whole area is very rural. The promontary seems to consist of one immense beach, backed by an endless line of beach shacks, then the road, then an expanse of prawn farms. I stop for lunch at Pak Trae, a tiny hamlet, and the six-year-old girl who's been pressed into service as a waitress for her dad's food stall gingerly approaches me, quickly puts down the menu (in Thai only) in front of me, leaves her order pad and pencil next to it, then smartly steps back a few feet and watches me warily. Either that or she just thought I smelled a bit, which I probably did.

A few local boys who speak some English strike up a conversation, very eager to practice their English. We talk about this and that, and Maa tells me how he rode his 100cc scooter to Chiang Mai. Hang on - yes, we're near the southern border; yes, his skin is darker than the average in Thailand - yup, the Malay bikers strike again!

Fishing round here hasn't yet been mechanised and rolled out on a vast scale - traditional fishing boats moor in a small estuary...

...and another is filled with old wooden fishing... fishing... *things*, I believe is the correct term.

On down the coast, passing estuary after estuary...

...until finally I reach Songkhla. Songkhla appears to be an oil town, hence the sight of another Farang by the swimming pool, and it's surprising to see the clear distinction between the rural, ramshackle peninsula on one side of a bridge, and a bustling, rich city on the other side.

In rural southern Thailand the roads seem to be exclusively populated with three types of vehicles: the ubiquitious scooters, pickup trucks (Toyota Hi-Lux or Isuzu only), or large trucks. But here in Songkhla I actually saw an old VW Beetle and a new Merc - ah, these cosmopolitan city folk.

North from Singapore, part IV

noreply@blogger.com (Geoff Leeming) — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 12:37:00 +0000

This was originally published on www.advrider.com in March 2008. Text and photos copyright Geoff Leeming.

Wednesday was a rest day in Ao Nang

It's a hard life.

I got talking to Ya, a cookery teacher in Ao Nang, who told me something of her life growing up in a rural village near the Laos border in North Eastern Thailand. She says that shrimp paste occurs in so many Thai dishes because for many villagers, like her, it was about the only protein they could afford. They had no money at all when she was a child, but then what is there to buy in a village in the jungle? She saw a Farang (foreigner) for the first time when a helicopter crashed near her village when she was six, but then no more until she left the village when she was ten. Now, she sees them every day, she says, still sounding surprised at how things turned out. She even went as far as marrying one, moving to Europe with him and ending up as a cook in and eventually chef de cuisine for a hotel in Luxembourg, before coming back to Thailand to found her own cookery school.

Today I'm back on the road, but with a change in plan. There's still at least 1000km to go to Chiang Mai, my original vague destination, but that's two or three days highway riding there and the same back again (if there are any Malay bikers listening that's two or three hours, one-handed, and I'll have six whiskies at the end and head back South doing a perpetual wheelie) and I won't get to see much of the intervening country. So instead I'm off onto the local roads, heading east into Surat Thani province, then will potter more slowly down the East coast of Thailand and Malaysia.

The roads, again, are luscious green winding affairs...

...usually lined with flowering and fruiting trees...

...(is that Jackfruit?) and roadside stalls selling everything you might want...

...as long as you might want dried fish.

I pass hundreds of scooters laden with all sorts of cargos - vegetable, mineral, animal and human - some of whom are even wearing helmets. Most smile and wave, though the two long-distance cyclists I saw baking in the midday sun, in the middle of nowhere, didn't but then I'd be surprised if they had energy to spare to wave.

Finally on to Hat Piti, a beach south of Surat Thani, and I'm getting the feeling that not many Farang head out this way. All but the major road signs are in Thai script, people look surprised to see me, and when I road over a small wooden bridge over a tiny stream in which some kids were swimming, one was so shocked he ran off yelling. I haven't seen a Starbucks for quite a while now. But as I was wandering down the side roads near Hat Piti, looking for a hotel I'd heard about, I paused at a street junction trying to figure out if I could recognise ANY of the road signs as the one I wanted, and a street vendor looked up at me then pointed emphatically down the road to her left. She was right as well, though I have no idea how she knew where I was going.

I guess most of the Farang just head through for the Ferry terminal for the world-class resort islands of Koh Samui, Koh Pha Ngan and Ko Tao, just offshore. Everyone I speak to certainly assumes that's where I'm headed, but although Koh Samui is great I'm deliberately avoiding it. I had my honeymoon on Koh Samui and it was the perfect time in the perfect place with the perfect woman. Nearly ten years on she's still perfect, so I don't want to go back to Koh Samui and find out that it isn't - I'd rather remember it the way it was then.

Hat Piti is almost deserted...

...though Muy, the hotel owner, proudly tells me she's expecting a group of 800 bikers from Singapore, Malaysia and Indonesia next month, en route to the nearby small coconut-farming town of Sichon. I'm not sure why.

A walk along the beach shows more evidence of animal life than of human...

Now it's off to the restaurant to find out whether Muy is a Buddhist or Muslim - i.e. can I get a beer with my dinner?

Edit: Buddhist. Lovely.

North from Singapore, part III

noreply@blogger.com (Geoff Leeming) — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 12:28:00 +0000

This was originally published on www.advrider.com in March 2008. Text and photos copyright Geoff Leeming.

I knew this was going to be a long day, so I set off before dawn. It was going to be a long day because I wanted to head straight through the deep south of Thailand as quickly as possible. Sure, the separatists don't target tourists as a rule, and sure, there haven't been any attacks for a while (I think), but a bomb is a bomb and I don't want to end up as the exception to anybody's rule. It doesn't make for a good epigraph.

I'd hoped to escape much of the traffic but it seems that much of Georgetown also gets up before dawn, so I had to contend with the dawn rush hour. On the plus side, the bridge from Georgetown to Butterworth looks lovely in the dawn light.

From there it was a good 100km up to the Thai border, which wasn't something I was looking forward to. However, I adopted my favourite look of helpless but benevolent incompetence, and a kindly customs officer shepherded me through with minimal fuss. Note to American readers: yes, kindly customs officers do exist, though not in JFK. In Singapore they even give you sweeties.

To tell the truth I wasn't looking forward to it because I knew I didn't have the right documents. One necessary document was the bike's registration card, to prove you own the vehicle you're temporarily importing. I don't have one. I have a letter from the Singapore Land Transit Authority telling me I had registered the bike and they'd forward the registration card soon soon, but the registration card never actually turned up, and I hadn't chased it up. A minor detail, but the sort of detail that tends to excite bureaucrats. I shouldn't have worried, as with the help of my kindly customs officer, things went smoothly. I could read the expressions on the customs clerk's face: a frown as she realised this wasn't the document she was looking for; a sideways glance at the smelly bearded biker who she knew couldn't be relied upon to speak a word of Thai; another frown as she realised how hard this was going to be to explain in her limited English; then a 'what the hell' expression as she decided it must be ok if another customs officer was looking after me so closely, so clickety-click and a temporary licence to import a motorcycle appears off her printer. Job done. Kindly customs officer, whose job it should have been to search my luggage, decided instead to move part of the barrier to let me through to Thailand. Marvellous. Onto the bike and off up the road before anyone changes their mind.

Just then, Buddha himself floated by on a lotus blossom to bless my journey.

Which was nice.

Up the highway for a while, through Hat Yai (the epicenter of the separatist violence) as quickly as possible, then off onto smaller roads to head towards Krabi. These roads were glorious - rolling by-ways through luscious greenery

...lined with trees dripping flowers...

...of all sorts of different colours...

...then through Krabi and out onto even smaller roads towards the beach at Ao Nang. The closer I got to Ao Nang, the more dramatic the scenery got

...so dramatic, that I missed the turning for Ao Nang and went 10km in the wrong direction. So turned round, missed it again, and went another 10km back the way I'd come. Eventually, after spreading the (again, 1 to 1,500,000 - oh for a proper Ordnance Survey) map across the petrol tank with a puzzled look and attracting a friendly helpful Thai driver to explain what had happened, I realised that it wasn't the dramatic scenery that made me miss the turning, it was the fact that there were absolutely no signposts on it and it was so hemmed in with shops it looked like a small alley. 100 yards down the road there was a GREAT BIG signpost telling you that you were on the right road, but somehow nobody had thought to put one at the junction itself. I'm sure there was a very good reason at the time.

Finally, into the rapidly expanding resort of Ao Nang in time to get the necessities of life: shower a day's worth of mud, grit and exhaust fumes off my face, a beer, and a barbequed squid while watching the sunset.

North from Singapore, part II

noreply@blogger.com (Geoff Leeming) — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 12:25:00 +0000

This was originally published on www.advrider.com in March 2008. Text and photos copyright Geoff Leeming.

My rest day on the beach turned out to mean only half a day on the bike, as it would be rude to come to Pulau Penang and only see one place, wouldn't it? A quick lap round the island seemed in order.

First stop was the Buddhist Temple of the Azure Cloud, improbably set in the middle of an industrial estate south of Georgetown.

The Church of England is worried about constantly declining attendance, and now I know the reason why: they don't have Pit Vipers!

Buddhist temples do (well, this one does, anyway) and Buddhism doesn't seem to have declining attendance. This must be the reason. Being confronted with one of these things would certainly keep people awake during sermons. Apparently these ones are the descendants of snakes tamed by the monk who founded the temple, and seem to have grown accustomed to camera flashes and the occasional manhandling by an overzealous photographer (not me, I don't entirely trust the claims that they've all been devenomed) in return for a steady supply of tasty eggs.

Further on round and a brief stop at the Titi Kerawang waterfall (gotta love these names)

...and a pause to inspect a hitchhiker I picked up somewhere...

...then back to Batu Ferringhi ("Foreigner's Rock") for an easy afternoon by the beach.

Yes, that upside-down thing above the horse is a parrakeet/macaw/parrot/bird-thing. It was tethered to a branch of a tree by the bar, but regularly fell off and swung there, squawking, until it could right itself and regain what little was left of its dignity.

One thing I will say about the Malay bikers is that they all seem to have remarkable bikes and riding ability. The barman here can apparently make it the 1,000km from Penang to Singapore in six hours, which is not bad for an old Vulcan, and a guy I spoke to on Saturday had a friend who would ride the 1,600km from Singapore to Bangkok in 10 hours, just to have a coffee. And then turn round and do the return trip. Remarkable. I clearly have a lot to learn.

Tomorrow? Up to Thailand, probably, to see if I have the right documents to be allowed to temporarily import my motor vehicle. Wish me luck.

North from Singapore, part I

noreply@blogger.com (Geoff Leeming) — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 12:13:00 +0000

This was originally published on www.advrider.com in March 2008. Text and photos copyright Geoff Leeming.

I have time off work, the family's gone home for a holiday, I have a large KTM that can ride in, through or over pretty much anything, and all of south east Asia is at my doorstep. Not a hard decision.

I left yesterday morning, with everything I need for two weeks packed into some Andy Strapz panniers and a big orange (of course) drybag strapped to the back of the bike. I had this wonderful feeling of elation after crossing the border into Malaysia, faced with an open road, no traffic, the sun shining down on me and no fixed plans other than that Chiang Mai might make a good destination. If I don't get sidetracked on the way. I didn't have any idea where I was going to end up that night - maybe Malacca? KL? Cameron Highlands? A guy in KL has offered to let me try out one of his paragliding wings if I could get there that afternoon or the Sunday morning, so that might be a good place to aim for. Besides, Malacca went past too soon for me to think about stopping.

I quickly decided to put as many miles under my belt as possible on the first day, to get away from the places you can get to easily from Singapore. So I shot up the North-South Highway as fast as I could, dodging the occasional rain cloud. Then failing to dodge the occasional rain cloud. Then riding into a thunderstorm, making the best of it for twenty minutes only to pull over and wait the storm out.

This was torrential rain - cars were leaving bow waves on the highway, and visibility was very low. That expressway's hair-raising enough at the best of times, given most drivers' attitude to lane markings (an interesting guideline) and personal space (as in 'my personal space is 6 inches behind your rear wheel until you get out of my way').
I waited out the thunderstorm for half an hour or so, then got back, soggily, onto the bike and headed north again - only to find that the thunderstorm had also headed north, so I had to go through it all over again. It never really stopped after that, just occasionally got a little less torrential. Paragliding in KL was clearly going to be a washout, so I went past and just kept heading north, pitying the lass dressed in shorts, t-shirt and sandals riding pillion on her boyfriend's sportsbike as they shot past me through the rain.

The rain slowed the pace down somewhat so I knew I wouldn't make the Cameron highlands that night, and opted instead for Bukit Fraser, a hillstation about 100km north of KL. The road up to Fraser's Hill steadily left behind traces of civilisation as it wound up through the rainforest, twisting and turning for 40km or so through lush greenery. I stopped to catch my breath and could hear nothing but birds and insects - there was barely another vehicle on the road.

The last 8km or so is up a mountain road - Jalan Gap - only wide enough for one car at a time. There aren't even passing places, so instead there's a guardpost at the top and bottom and a strict schedule: cars may go up the road during the odd-numbered hours, and may come down the road during the even-numbered hours. I got there at about half six, so waited at the bottom until it was opened again at 7.

Unfortunately the historical Gap Resthouse, a colonial relic where one could have tea and scones while waiting for one's turn to drive up, was closed for refurbishment, so I spent the time chatting to a Chinese guy heading up to Fraser's Hill for a friend's birthday barbeque. He's a fourth-generation Malaysian citizen, but still refers to himself as Chinese, mostly because the Malays seem not to particularly want him or his race. Malaysia is a welfare state, so hospital fees are low - as long as you're ethnic Malay. The Malay Chinese and Malay Indians pay the same taxes that fund the hospitals, but have to pay higher fees to use them. Similar rules apply in commerce and banking - preference is given always to ethnic Malays, a legalised racial discrimination.

I got to the top just as the night drew in, and squelched into the first hotel I could find, my hands shriveled and wrinkled like a geriatric's from the hours of rain. The enticing looking Malay buffet was unfortunately set up especially for a group for the University of KL, so I had to order a la carte, choosing from those well-known Asian delicacies of chicken drumstick, lamb chop or fish and chips.

Unpacking gave me a chance to find out just how waterproof my various bags were. The panniers, the big orange dry bag and the waterproof case for my phone/gps did just fine, but my little handlebar bag clearly had given up the struggle against the rain a while back. Unfortunately that was the bag that the map was in, but as it was a 1 to 1,500,000 scale it never had been much use anyway.

Waking up the following morning I discovered that my room had one hell of a view across the mountains, all covered in untouched rain forest. I could see three or four other buildings in the foreground, near the hotel, but apart from that it was rainforest all the way to the horizon.

There didn't seem to be a great deal to do in Fraser's Hill, so I headed on North again. My original intention was to head for Kota Bharu, the capital of Kelantan, and only partly because the main beach there is called the Beach of Passionate Love. Unfortunately the road across the mountains was blocked by a landslide, so it was back to plan B: lunch in Ipoh, dinner in Penang.

The road back down from Fraser's Hill was even lovelier in the daylight. There can't have been a straight longer than 50 yards or so in 20km, and the views alternated between dripping, mist-shrouded rainforest and this lake

...which doesn't exist, as far as I can tell. I tried looking it up on Google Maps to find out what it's called, but the satellite picture clearly shows that there's no lake there. Must have been the mother of all heat hazes, then.

Ipoh seemed fairly nondescript. I'd heard good things about this town of tin-mining millionaires, but up close it seemed far less enticing. Maybe it was because it was a baking hot noon, maybe because it was Sunday - who knows. I stopped for some Mee Hoon with Cockles (!) and caused much excitement amongst the stall holders and patrons. I don't speak Bahasa Malaya, but even I can recognise the Malay words "KTM", "Singapore" and "motosikal", which seemed to crop up in every conversation in the place while I was there.

Then up to Penang, and across the world's third-longest bridge (apparently) into Georgetown. I headed through Georgetown and out to Batu Ferringhi, which used to be a backpacker hangout many years ago but is now a commercialised resort full of Holiday Inns, Hertz rent-a-cars, Australian tourists and hundreds of stalls selling fake watches and DVDs. However, I've found a comfortable guesthouse, the beach looks good and after about 1100km and 16 hours in the saddle, it's time for a rest, so I'll probably stay here and laze in the sun tomorrow. More next time I get somewhere with Internet.