What the Monsoon Knows

By Ian Browne

The Monsoon shakes and shudders within many a varied landscape…

Come and find yourself along the back lanes of the world’s most intense cities. Visit the tribal longhouses of the headhunter tribes of Borneo; be enchanted by the steaming hot jungle ruins of Asia. Ponder the lives of the women of India and Myanmar as ‘change’ stalks the landscape. Meander along the soothing waters of the Mekong in Laos, dodge Yala’s leopards and elephants. Be invited to the curiosity of Bollywood on Langkawi. Travel south of the equator to meet Mari the Lithuanian jungle vegan and other alternative folk of the Byron Bay region of New South Wales. Become tantalized by the colourful multicultural market lifestyle of tropical Darwin, while being feathered by the intimacy of Australia’s beautiful first nations people.

Art, music, food; vulnerable societies clinging to hard-fought cultural sanctity. The laughter - the sadness - the bruises and stomach bugs - lavished with a profound respect for the folk and fauna of such stunning locations, this expedition into exotica will see you arrive home with a sense of belonging to this multifaceted world.

 Ian Browne will challenge your senses, your empathy, whether you are the battle-hardened traveler, or those that desire familiar comforts in a hotel by the sea, discover why this creative story teller’s love of this planet has seen him being invited to Buckingham Palace, and a request to engage in project work within sustainability for the UN.

“What the Monsoon Knows”

Well, come along on the journey & discover this for yourself…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781398481893

Book preview

What the Monsoon Knows

Ian Browne

Austin Macauley Publishers

What the Monsoon Knows

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgement

Introduction Welcome to Asia

Cash Register Cats!

Come for a Stroll with Me Around This City of Cats

Tranquil Mountain Trails, Kudah Mountains

The Bearded Pigs of Bako

The Rainforest World Music Festival

River Lands: The River, the Jungle and the People of Malaysian Borneo Upriver

A Sunburnt Boat to Belaga

Belaga and the Longhouses of Sarawak

Bakun Dam

A Very Sad Sight Indeed

Niah Caves

South to Bintulu

Back to Party Town Kuching

Sabah: From Top to Bottom—Mt Kinabalu to Sipadan Reef

Sandakan, A City on Salty Stilts

Gomantong Cave

Sungai Kinabatangan

Semporna, Sipadan Island and Tawau

Semporna

Sipadan Island

Tawau

Southern Thailand

The Phi Phi Islands, Bangkok and Hong Kong

Laos

A Trickle Once Called Mekong; ‘The Mother of Laos’

Poisoning the Geopolitical Waters of the Mighty Mekong

The Shangri La of the South East

Luang Prabang

Whisky a Go-Go

In the realm of IANS

Luang Prabang’s Flourishing Ecotourism

A Trip Along the Mekong

Secret Folk of the Monsoon Mists

Just over the Hill in Northern Thailand

The Dark Underworld of the Golden Triangle

Cambodia

Siem Reap, Angkor Wat and Tonle Sap

Angkor Wat, a City Vanquished to the Monsoon

Bayan

Tonle Sap, the Sump of Asia

Phnom Penh

Vietnam

The Fascination of the Mekong Delta: Feeder in Peril

Ho Chi Minh City

The Slow-Motion Shuffle of the Mekong Delta

From My Tho City

Rice Is Life

Island Paradises Lying in the Fat Belly of the Mekong

Mekong Dolphins

The Cai Rang Floating Market

Nha Trang

Hoi An

Hue

Heatwave Hanoi

Sri Lanka: Life on the Tear Drop Isle, Colombo

Mount Lavinia

‘Duck and Weave!’ The Tropical Turmoil that Is Colombo

Crabs, Cheap Smak and Rip-Off Merchants!

Intimidation on the Streets of Colombo

Tsunamis and Roti Calamari—Hikkaduwa

Galle Down to Tissa Yala Nature Reserve

Yala Wildlife

Surf’s Up in Arugam Bay!

Up in the Highlands of the Monsoon

Nuwara Eliya and the Scars of Time

A Final Note to the Tsunami’s Lament

Down to Kandy

The Hill Temples of Dumbulla and Sigiriya

The Old Temple City of Anuradhapura

The Temples

The New Light Which Nurtures Sri Lanka

Their Desires?

Thanks to the Folk of the Tear Drop Isle

Burma

A Clever Moron’s Guide to Mystical Myanmar

In the Land of Gold

Mountains, Valleys, Rivers, Lakes and Deltas All Brimming with Culture

Aung San Suu Kyi

Yangon

The Golden Majesty of the Shwedagon Pagoda

Crumbling Mouldy Reminiscence: The Streets of Old Yangon

The Women of Myanmar

Don San Nuam: A Lady Helping Shape the New Myanmar

Don’s Story

$ Money Traded in Flesh: Slavery, This Degradation of the Soul!

The Mermaids of the Yangon River

Away in the Woods Along Rippling Streams: Life in the Rural Regions of Myanmar

Bagan, the Dusty Plain Home to the Historical Jewels of Myanmar

The Intha: Those Exotic Ladies of the Floating Gardens and Bamboo Creeklines

The Future of Myanmar’s Agriculture

Tourism—Those that Arrive with Change

Slowly, the Soul Sickness of the Rich Crept over Him

Myanmar in Mind

Little India: Life Along the Laneways of Singapore and Penang

Singapore

Explain Away Those Abrasions!

Singapore’s Indian History

Foreign Construction Workers in Little India

The Little India ‘Alexei Sayle’

A Façade in Flourishing Wealth

The Awal Muharram—Muslim Prayer Day

The Tawfik Café

Festival Time: The Colourful Fragrance of Deepavali

A Feast for Vishnu

Indian Life Is Nice!

A Tattoo Can Walk Around the Whole World!

Chalara Tattoo with Rahas and Gerrit

Royalty Visits Penang

Penang’s Ethnic Diversity

Alluring Little India

Agnija Fashion with Nachni

A Trade in Spices

Carvings in Glass: Shree Tantra Glasscraft

Behold the Glory of Biryani—‘But Served Hot Please!’

Tastebud OD!

Indian Summers with the Hamid Khan ‘Live Band’

Bollywood or Bust!

The Business of Bollywood in Little India, with Akshara Video

Bollywood on Langkawi Island

India, The Land of Dreams

Sustainability: A Notion of Equality and Sustenance for All…

‘OWN This SORROW!’

And the Innocent Did Fall to the Vultures

The Positives to a Brighter Future

Kolkata

Men: Beware the Lady Twilight of Tarapith!

Mumbai

Balloon Man, Spicy Maharajah Macs and Belly Bugs!

Don’t Bring Your ‘Porn-Baggage’ with You!

Shantaram’s Slum

A Stroll with Lady Colaba

Dharavi: Where Every ‘Slum Dog’ Has His Day!

See Ya Later, Mumbai!

Darwin, Australia

‘Darwin, Australia’s Best Kept Secret!’

Colourful Skins in an Unknown World

Market Lifestyle

Mindil Beach Sunset Markets

Parap Markets

Nightcliff Markets

Rapid Creek Markets

Darwin—the Greeks’ Very Own Endless Summer!

Faces Around Darwin

The Gagliardo Sisters

African Darwin

An Indian Festival by the Beach? Well, Yes Please!

A New Life, Darwin’s Sikhs Preparing Feasts for the Muslim Community!

Sri Lanka

Political Treachery

Our Cousins, the Balinese and East Timorese

Larrakia

The Larrakia Nation

The Great Spiritual Divide

Litter-Free Darwin

The Natural World

Tropical National Parks

Respecting the ‘Other World’

Kakadu National Park

Those Dastardly Crocs and Buffaloes!

Grunting, Dirt-Hoofing Rascals!

Hippos and Wild Banteng

Godzilla Versus the Arnhem Land Escarpment!

Northern New South Wales

Easy, Open and Cosmopolitan Subtropical Northern New South Wales

‘GentrifRied!’

Within the Shadow of Wollumbin

Bundjalung Nation

Sharing Culture

The Arakwal

Busy Being Bundjalung

Gypsy Wonderings She Talks to the Tree Spirits

Local Indigenous Artists

Jambama Chance and Jai

Chance Candle: Proud of Sharing My Culture

Doctor’s Orders: take Vitamin Q and dance to your heart’s desire! – Yuki’s Love of Byron Shire

Nuclear Fallout Paves the Way to Byron Party-Q

Loving Mullum

This feeling ‘Byron’

Cosmopolitanism

Indian Pioneers

Meet the Singh family

‘Born on the Back of a Veggie Truck!’

For the Term of His Natural Life!

The Bexhill Meteorologist

Germany in the Subtropics

Bound South of the Steamy Equator to the Exotic Antipodeans

The Land of Friendly Smiles and Goodwill

Ashtanga Yoga

Setting the Social Scene

The Mullum Café Life

My Foot in Australia

Frankie

Benny Zable: Resurrection from the Flames

20,000 Cows Halt a Stampede of Rabbits and Goats!

References

About the Author

The son of a New Zealand mother and Australian father, Ian Browne grew up in southern coastal Sydney. He loves the surf, snorkeling, trekking through rainforest; awestruck by thunderstorms, nature in general; culture, and indie-alternative music. He calls the Northern Rivers of New South Wales home. He has studied widely. His work with Indigenous groups has opened a door to a world few Australians understand. He enjoys penning articles for various media outlets within Australia. For ten years, Ian travelled Asia to capture many aspects of life with his camera. His stories have been read in more than 80 countries.

Dedication

In memory of Suzanne

creative-kind-intelligent-fun!

Copyright Information ©

Ian Browne 2024

The right of Ian Browne to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The story, the experiences and the words are the author’s alone.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398481886 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398481893 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

My father John and mum Margaret for keeping me well-grounded, while doing my best to ignore their very flowery comments about my writing style. I appreciate dad’s sharp eye when proof-reading this book, and for the original Sarawak story. Nicky Browne’s edit on the Sarawak story, my brother Geof for providing me with employment. Nattali Rize and Carlo Santone from Blue King Brown for introducing my work on Sarawak to the world. The same for the legendary Dr Karl Kruszelnicki for publishing advice and supporting my work on Sarawak, Sri Lanka and my NT Top End ‘cane toad’ series. Steve Twohill and Dr Frank Stadler for publishing advice. Jay Penfold for taking the author photos. Thanks to journalist Mark Bowling for advice on my Sarawak work. Journalist Zoe Daniel for sharing ideas and advice for my Mekong and Myanmar stories. Journalist Clare Rewcastle Brown for her communication, and for her unselfish action for the people of Sarawak. My past editors and friends: the original Sri Lanka story, Ben Johns. The original Mekong story, Rob Leigh. Some proof-reading from close friend Scott Wade for the Mekong story. Byron Life magazine and The Village Journal for sharing my passion for this book. Common Ground Byron Bay for sharing the Little India Singapore story. The Byron Bay Writers Festival magazine for the northern NSW story article. The Northern Star for my Myanmar story interview. Byron’s Bay FM for various interviews over the years.

The support of my Cronulla-Caringbah pals; my Kiwi cousins, and those I have taught alongside - who have read my stories and provided positive feedback. My Bundjalung and Kamilaroi friends and students for showing me important ‘knowledge’ in Lismore and Mullumbimby. This too for my many tropical and desert students, and fellow staff in Darwin at St. John’s College. Austin Macauley Publishers for taking me on! All the folk who partook in interviews and stories for this book, and the associated eBooks and articles. The generous people of the many countries I have visited; you are wonderful! You may not be flourishing in terms of capital wealth, but your love of culture and family gathers you a rich bounty!

Introduction

Welcome to Asia

Like glass curtains onto a new world, the airport door slides away, setting free the warm moist air of Asia to plunder the newcomer. Surging forward like an old friend and smothering me with a damp-musty hug in recognition of my return, it’s Singapore, yet again, this home away from home: my food island Nirvana, flirting with the equator. Heavy-eyed, excited, it’s time for that large celebratory ‘restart’ cappuccino, then a ticket for the metro to hurry me into Little India, so I can feast on curries, juggle the boozy delights of Tiger and Barron ale while making my respect known to the regal banyan tree that once stood larger than noble, in the back lanes of this exotic concrete wonderland. But this is just the start, an extravagant banquet relished before heading onto island societies that are not so plush in Western aesthetics, yet infinite with intrigue, and cultural lore.

Asia has seduced me wickedly, my wisdom since skyrocketing; a scorn for the West’s vulgar indulgence relinquished. Call it ‘eco-cultural-activism’, along with a thirst to feast upon the nostalgia of a long-held culture with its spicy cuisine and tropical landscapes, travel to the ‘Tiger lands’ is an itch that surely must be scratched.

Delivered via ten years of travelling throughout Asia, these stories were in part penned during a moment working in the ‘time hungry vacuum’ of teaching as a coordinator, while running an academic program from a high school in Darwin for senior students from as many as 50 Aboriginal tribal groups. My love for our first Australians runs deep. From the busy, heat-laden marketplaces of Vietnam, and Malaysia, to the sweat-drenched solitude of my hikes along lonely trails in the jungles of Borneo, this raven-haired lady of the ‘tiger spirit’ has lured me back, time and time again.

As these stories were originally formulated over a ten-year period, each new chapter has a different writing style. This was influenced in part by the authors and televisions series I was excited by at the time. Writing for me is dynamic, not a static fixture, and having revelled in variety for various media in areas of environmental, cultural and music themes sees me mixing it up! The first three countries I travelled to for my stories included me recruiting two friends and my father as editors so I could broaden my writing experience. One of these editors was an English teacher whom I worked alongside in Darwin, the other was also employed at the college, but an Englishman who had completed a degree in journalism. The majority of this book, however, was self-edited, but supported with the help of my father’s sharp eye for mistakes and advice in its entirety.

From its intensely beautiful landscapes to its dour political struggle, Sarawak was my awakening. I was invited into the sanctity of the jungle and its people, their cruel government’s actions just needed to be broadcast to the world! From then on, other callings to warm humid locations where the monsoon reigns supreme, were seen to. Down mighty rivers jostling their way through deep rainforest: the Batang Rajang, The Mekong and the river Yangon visits to the sump of Asia, Tonle Sap and other watery serpents, the Irrawaddy, and the Hooghly, industry’s vile neglect of place and people, held to account!

The sad realities for many of India’s women, the varying struggles of the Dalits, my love affair with the Subcontinent—led me to her side. Rejoicing the slum life of Hindu and Muslim Mumbai, colourful stories to share and photos to be pondered tickling your imagination from within these pages. Seeking out the celebration of vibrant street culture along the cobblestone laneways of Penang, Singapore, and Yangon. The street art, the succulently salivating cuisine, its folk from the everyday, all well worth a story to share. From the Reggae bars of Northern Thailand, the creekline fireflies and cave mummies of the Golden Triangle, I have seen so much of this exotic Asia.

Reflections of a life post-tsunami, post-war Sri Lanka while risking punishment via the hidden venom of a government who sees silent ire dealt to uninvited busybodies, I strived to encapsulate the lives of the people of the Tear Drop Isle their fears and desires.

The Monsoon a Middle Eastern title for a beast fuelled by the sun’s torment formulating moist winds that send rain squalls onto Asia from the Himalayas, to its finality Australia, only to return once again as the sun shifts north. Living their lives between tropical downpours and dry season parchment there is no story to be told here without the charisma of my old friend the Monsoon. Climate dictates culture, culture mimics GAIA, thus we are all equal, at least, that is, until one tries to manipulate and dominate Mother Earth. The bamboo-thatch-village-lifestyles of riverside and mountaintop cultures: relationships between folk, their governments, between jungle creatures too; explored and divulged.

My flamboyant Australia, her Indigenous folk; alternative-niche and multicultural desires, this nation of great antiquity of many pasts I am proud to share the colourful side to Antipodean society, and its Aboriginal wisdoms. Australians generally lack a fundamental understanding of ‘Aboriginality’ the education system is thankfully supported by Indigenous staff in some instances but many Humanities teachers derive from urban localities and do not understand the cultural and spiritual elements related to Aboriginal culture. Thus, they fail to communicate these important perspectives effectively. You will hear my voice more clearly in the Australian chapters where I have provided an insight into Aboriginal lifestyles in a modern, Western society as a white man touched by the old ways and while also allowing Aboriginal friends to have their say. Also provided in the Australian chapters is a platform for non-indigenous people to broadcast their impression of place and time: those either born in Australia or having arrived from elsewhere, discussing what a life in Australia means to them. This also includes a wide spectrum of multicultural themes while giving a voice to new age alternative folk away from the standard Australian themes usually shown to the world via television series.

This book will not fill the itinerary of the tourist who thirsts for an all-encompassing ‘cultural experience’ in Kuta Beach, Phuket or Langkawi. Instead, this book of many nations, many values, was tailored to those hoping to step off the beaten track, to take a dive into the real world, one that awaits the knowledge-thirsty journeyman away from the ‘usual’. While communicating factual data in relation to why I visited these countries, I have spaced out and clustered these ‘factual activism’ sections, as this may not be for everyone. Thus, I also speak of the everyday the casual wanderings which every traveller experiences: the flavour held in a curry, the smell of the landscape, the movement of tropical air as this illuminates the place and people as they are, in that very moment.

My attraction to women throughout is not to highlight my depleted ego. Nor is it to belittle the fairer sex or appear crass. The complete opposite, in fact. And that is the main reason why I visited India, I was compelled to do so, to act on behalf of those downtrodden in society, to share their struggle in writing! Though in countries like Thailand it is not seen so much as a deprivation of principle, the theme of sexual exploitation throughout is to acknowledge women as more than just superficial objects of lustful beauty. Equality of desire, of esteems, is the main reason for this book.

The Mekong chapter relates to my voyage through Laos and Vietnam exploring the social and ecological impacts attributed to the damming of the Mekong, allowing the reader to not only experience the colourful journey, but to learn how the river provides for people and nature. Honouring the sanctity of the jungle, I have also visited ‘up river’ Sarawak to different tribal unities, and they still hunt declining fauna, spill the white blood of rubber trees; and fish by hook and net to survive. I discovered a people’s unwavering hospitality, while doing their best to maintain self-preservation, protecting their identity in a land where industry has little regard for them or their environment as fiscal matters abrogate the natural laws of life. My journeys across the Asia Pacific, into the Bay of Bengal, and further west to the lands of the Indian Ocean have a spirit of their own. With the thrill of the adventure, I trust I have replicated them all with integrity and celebration for you to enjoy.

***

After my first visit to Singapore, with its introduction to the beer and curries of late-night Little India, I flew into Kuching. Peering out nervously from my plane window, I wondered what Borneo had in mind for me. Below, extensive mangrove communities spoke of a crocodile heaven, as the edge of an urban landscape now disappearing into the late afternoon haze promised the safe trappings of dry land.

My studies of the island’s indigenous groups’ sustainable use of the landscape, to grow crops, along with an enjoyable read of another Australian’s journey ‘up river’ while carrying a caffeine addiction and visiting isolated longhouse villages had me believing Kuching, the ‘city of cats’ would be primeval, and perhaps somewhat challenging. I was wrong!

Cash Register Cats!

Sarawak is a state of Malaysia. Its main foreign exchange earnings derive from petroleum, liquefied gas, crude-and-processed palm oil exports.¹ Australia imports 140, 000 tonnes of palm oil annually.² Malaysia itself produces 20.5 million metric tons of palm oil per year.³ Combined with Indonesia’s haul, they produce 89% of global exports.⁴

The capital of Sarawak, Kuching, which upon mentioning usually attracts the sound of cash register being hurriedly opened by the students I teach, has a population of 612,000 and lies in the southwest of the state.⁵ Engaging the curiosity of the modern world visitor, the city has interesting architecture, beautifully old, solidly built buildings doing their best to remain intact so near to the equator. Like a warning to humanity, a silent soldier sent ahead to ready the return of a jungle willing to sack a city in its wake, delightful are the large open parklands, where the spontaneity of ferns grow upon the boughs of large tropical trees.

During my three visits to Borneo, I would get to know this exotic city well and make some good friends in the bargain. Close to the equator and resting along the river Sungai Sarawak, which empties its muddy load into the ocean not so far away, it’s Kuching’s cheap and tasty café food, memorable seafood outlets, sociable bars, quaint market bazaars, and telling of indigenous culture, that make this city so memorable.

So, I arrived via taxi, somehow launching from near Green Hill, just a couple of blocks back from the river at the centre of town. I entered the Tribal Café, where the owner greeted me with a glass of tuak, the strong locally brewed rice wine, while I waited for my room next door in the adjoining hotel to become available. I was completely taken by the café’s atmosphere. Perhaps easily pleased by new experiences, even the establishment’s bathroom with its steamy air, and soaked in freshwater toilet seat, seemed exciting. I’m guessing the clientele were mainly non-Muslim, the signature dish of the café being the bamboo pork. Succulent pork cooked in a big bamboo stem, accompanied by subtle-gingery steamed vegetables, regally quelling the patron’s hunger pains.

Unknowingly at this stage, this café, its patrons, would become my comrades for a cause, while an equatorial shower of deliberation would fall upon me, changing my life forever more. The café owner would become my friend, as would the locals here in the years to come. This welcoming café of free-flowing ale, and deliciously inspiring conversation, ignited a fire in me that began back on my continent, in the colourful hippy village of Nimbin, where my community radio shows, and articles on green eco-activism, were spawned before my move back to Darwin, from where this fascinating Asia beckoned.

Come for a Stroll with Me Around This City of Cats

Kuching is a city where tiny roads swing, twist and swivel, as much as they can, before brazenly disappearing around hidden corners. Thankfully for the new arrival, the initial confusion is comforted by its relatively small urban centre, manageable enough to allow one to work out a purposeful system of navigation via foot.

Near the river, the Chinese History Museum can be found. It is a small, colourful museum displaying cultural artefacts precious to the many Chinese immigrants. Once the location of the Chinese Courthouse, within its silent walls I enjoyed the visual journey through Kuching’s historical past, where old photographs and articles depicting the Chinese livelihoods of this beautiful riverside city are displayed. As if wishing to tear down the façade onto multi-ethnic harmony, a Chinese man in his 60s approached me, urgently suggesting that the Chinese have been neglected in Kuching. He felt that they are brashly treated as second class citizens. Searching for a laundromat in the back streets of inner-city Kuching, I met a well-dressed Chinese woman of around 60. This proud lady held herself with a confident swagger, while she roamed the laneways of inner-city Kuching like the matriarch of the local Triad. She spoke of the dangers which this city of cats held for visitors.

You must be careful at night in this city. A tourist was attacked one night by the river.

She went on to explain how the forsaken had been slashed violently by a man filled with hatred and its spiteful sabre. All cities harbour their dangers, but this surprised me none-the-less, as Kuching seemed so self-sufficient and peaceful. As with anywhere, people do not suffer fools.

Thankfully, most who inhabit Kuching are earthy, conservative, and confident in their ways. I have never had any trouble during my late nights in this town. I met a twenty-something punk one night outside a club near Green Hill. It surprised me finding him here, more so than it would have had I been in the much larger Kuala Lumpur. He was a friendly bloke who was wearing a studded leather jacket, the English band GBH painted across his shoulders. A friend of mine in Sydney, Bev, tours in his band Rust with GBH, in both Oz and England. The drummer in the English band being his doppelganger, funnily enough. Anyway, this young Kuching punk was happy to hear me reminisce my 80s Sydney punk days, where I too had GBH scrawled across my jacket, only down the right arm instead.

There are enough sites to see around Kuching to keep one busy for a couple of days, otherwise the dining experiences, and strolling along the riverside, are pleasant pastimes in themselves. The Sarawak Museum with its vast array of rainforest wildlife, portraying Borneo’s wealth in biodiversity, while also exploring the jungle isle’s fascinating ethnology, is a must. The one-time courthouse from 1874, now the tourism centre, has a memorial to the British Raj, who at one time governed Sarawak. The Brooke family were popular as they allowed for the continuation of indigenous cultural practices in Sarawak. I love this old building, and I visited it regularly to sit out the heat of day, within its shady, cascading verandas, and fertile gardens, buxom with glossy spathiphyllum and cunjevoi.

Along the back lanes of Kuching parallel to the river, the cosmopolitan callings of kedai kopi (coffee cafes) with their polite service, beckon. The cheerful, playful cartoon-like Kuching Cat statues, reside flamboyantly near the Hilton Hotel, propagating a grin while making my hungry way to the popular sunset seafood dining on the roof top at the Top Spot Food Court. Affordable to those from the wealthy West, café fronts offer up many a species of fresh fish, washed down with a beverage, or accompanied by squeezed-on-the-spot sugarcane juice. Tasty bowls of Chinese Malay fusions, mee noodles, the crispy fried shells of succulent chilli-drowned-prawns, and spicy Kuching Laksa, also tantalise the taste buds of locals and visitors alike. By night, the Green Hill district surprises the early evening with funky modern bars and their Euro-Asian fusion foods, such as venison dishes accompanied by local vegetables and spices, designed to excite the senses. Courtyards with rear entrances from back lanes tip toe in serenity onto alluring stepping-stones, while hovering over trickling handmade fishponds illuminated by the enchantment of flickering candles, and further seduced with cruisy-lounge-tunes, drifting harmoniously into the warm, moist equatorial air of nocturnal Borneo. The romance and tranquillity of these café-bars, never lessening their appeal during my time in other regions of Asia in the years to come.

Being a Muslim nation, it may surprise visitors to Malaysia just how much the locals love to drink and socialise. This is unlike neighbouring Brunei; they supported my cause nicely. To drown the ale’s ‘next day sting’ before bedtime, a visit to the roadside vendors working from sizzling and spitting post-midnight hot plates, serving up sloppy white-sauced Asam burgers, sat strongly within my nightly agenda. Tangy with soya sauce and dumped sinfully with assorted layers of cheaply processed meats, they meet their purpose. Kuching is a place to indulge.

As the orange haze of pre-dusk swapped the storm-swept afternoon-skyscape for the fluorescent-serenity of sunset, swiftlets congregate like excited children along the mouldy eves of the Chinese townhouses, that run along the musky riverside. Facilitating tourists with everything from glow-in-the-dark Borneo head-hunter shirts, Batik designed clothing, and baskets overflowing in pungent Indian spices, the retail-belly of these townhouses are a magnet for the tourist, both day and night. Manure-de-human odours drifting up from drains, fail to taint the charms of this small city, elegantly harmonised by glorious, rainfed tropical foliage. Boat owners row visitors across to the Muslim community residing in thatched villages (kampungs) on the other side of the muddy river from the city. Downstream a fascinating mosque’s huge minarets reach skywards to mingle with a grey backdrop of jungle-clad mountains, laying out near the coast. On the city side near the river, a Kayan man with a face full of childhood innocence strums a Sape, a traditional stringed instrument of Borneo. With a long feather in his black hair, this man that seemed untouched by the rigours of an uncaring government, stood singing along the parkland near the river, where curious tourists stood around in passionate ponder. He emitted a gentle, pleasant air. From his waist, a Kayan tribal design of swirling and dotted trees, flew from a fine cotton cloth.

Among the many Dayaks that reside in Kuching, the Bidayuh are also well-represented here. One can invest in a visit to their longhouses, which are situated not so far from town. Other indigenous groups represented in the Kuching area include the Melanause and Iban residents. The people of Kuching are easy going, but strong-willed. They are educated to the ways of their state government, and that of the federal Malaysian system. Within the local indigenous is a fierce will to store and hold, within their bones; their hearts, the truth of an existence here, while persevering under a political and industrial system that doesn’t always promote fairness. Many Kuching locals also travel between other Asian cities for work and study. I became friends with a few academics in Kuching who had, for a time, lived in Melbourne and Darwin to further their studies.

Curiously, the locals of Kuching book ahead to obtain tickets to new-release flicks, at the theatre near Green Hill, while many stay in to watch the endless array of Malaysian soaps, pouring out their frantically whining tantrums, and face-crinkling, family-friendly humour. By day, bright-eyed, big-smiled Muslim kids in blue and white uniforms, shuffle into schools—gently welcomed within by their towering white mosques. I have been well-treated by the Muslim folk here in Malaysia, similarly the Indo-Malays in Darwin. I met Chinese and Indian taxi drivers who were also proud citizens of their much-loved Kuching, though anxious as to the low wages attributed to their choice of employment.

It appears all the residents of Sarawak are proud of their various cultural backgrounds, while their country develops its cities to suburban indenture and the forests are traded away for a very common oil befit to fill the bellies and skin anointments of the fat, nonadherent West.

We’ll dig a little now, let’s head bush: Borneo style!

Tranquil Mountain Trails, Kudah Mountains

During my first visit to Kuching, I booked a little red taxi owned and operated by a friendly Chinese Malaysian. I travelled out to Kudah National Park, no more than an hour from the city centre, happily trekking up and around its tallest peak, Gunung Serapi.

Kudah sits 20km to the west of Kuching. Many take a bus to the neighbouring Matang Wildlife Centre. Here in this floral paradise, I would hike the rainforest alone for three days, staying in a charming wooden guest lodge which was nestled into the jungle by the side of a quiet road, which made its steep incline up the mountainside. I was the only male in the guest house during the first night, grinning fervently amongst a group of 18 attractive international university students. Tough gig right! This group of mainly European and North American students were studying tourism in Singapore and had arrived at Kuching to see how things were done here. During the second night, I shared the cosy jungle abode with a gentle middle-aged Tasmanian couple with a young boy. They travelled Asia each year, describing how the rednecks they worked among back home on their section of the Apple Isle, would not understand, or be bothered to care about their trips away to cultural enlightenment. I ran into them the following year also by the river in Kuching. It was a pleasant surprise. They had returned once again to enjoy the cultural celebration of international music at the Rainforest World Music Festival.

A large, enthusiastically noisy gecko made his presence felt under the floorboards of the guesthouse by night. Stealing myself away from the sociable jungle shack, and with whisky at hand, I walked the steep road on sunset to settle in amongst the exciting jungle choir of mountaintop Borneo. The experience will stay with me forever! You haven’t lived until you have witnessed the stark shrill of the Six o’clock Cicada (Pomponia merula). The sound that is dispelled from such a small beastie is remarkable, and absolutely all encompassing.

Edible ferns that I had feasted upon in dishes on the Malaysian peninsular at Johor Bahru, bustled for space along the roadside. Showing just how fragile our amphibian companions are in this lessening world, a site was set aside for a frog pond, which was maintained and nurtured by local rangers, as the road closed in on the summit of Gunung Serapi. Juxtapose to the exuberant dusk symphony, I found the jungle here devoid of noticeable fauna. Bird call was evident, and I did find a wee snake on the trail, while also enjoying the sight of a squirrel climbing high into the safety of the crown of a huge tree. Otherwise, compared to other areas of Sarawak and Sabah which I would visit in time, by day it was seemingly tame on the side of the mountain.

The tallest forest trees I have encountered were those of the Dandenong Ranges near Melbourne. In the temperate rainforests, there the world’s tallest flowering plant species, the Mountain Ash, dominates the landscape, towering boldly above lofty ancient tree ferns. Though the structure of the Sarawak rainforest was not unlike the warm and hot rainforests of my own continent, in Borneo, the triffids grow to the tallest known of the tropical rainforests on this planet. On a trail to a divine waterfall, I bumped into a group of young tourists enjoying the exotic surrounds. They would be the only people I would encounter over the three days trekking around this lush mountainside. I watched them leave, as a cooling dip along the creeklines at the foot of the towering falls, would be mine alone to savour. Can such moments ever be deemed trivial?

Each new valley a mystery to solve as I made my way up steep ridges and down into shadowy glens. Surprise lay in the placid ‘bye-bye’ tiptoeing of a thousand tiny feet, as a giant millipede passed, and the cheeky inch-long ants graced the hidden secrecy of this Asian forest floor. Though it was cooler at this altitude, the humidity saw me breathless, and each hill conquered surrendered me to a halt. Heat-drenched in sweat, and gulping down much needed air, my oxygen thirsty lungs demanded relinquishment to conquer the next steep incline. The forest floor cover was a dazzling ensemble of small tropical shrubs. Every shade of green converged on marbled silver, glistening in their perfection within this mysterious world of tranquil, dappled light. Small rickety old bridges draped over creeks excited me as I swayed from side to side in my jungle solitude. Though thoughts of wild pig and lengthy King Cobra ignited primeval fear, the subtle comfort of familiarity feathered me with ease. For a time, I had made a living in the subtropical rainforests of northern New South Wales, removing weed species and planting out natural biodiversity. I felt calm and at peace alone in the Borneo jungle, as the forest has always been my friend.

As the morning sun fell its light down onto paradise, my final trek of the three days found me listening to the Muslim call to prayer, emanating from the mosque perched in the valley beneath the mountain. Marked with thin metal tags, I visited trees that science had decided could produce an antiviral cure for AIDS. These medium-sized trees stood in their natural formation within the forest. On their trunks, tapping marks were evident where their valuable sap had been removed, alerting the trekker to the medicinal prosperity the tropical forest delivers. This equatorial mountain was also the world’s hot spot for the astounding variety of naturally occurring palm species, a floral group of which I am a fan. Thus, I found it ironic that below in the lowlands of Kuching, Australian foxtail palms complemented the roadsides, while Carpentaria palms, which inhabit the shady monsoon jungles of my then home in Darwin, greeted those wishing to feast at Kuching’s rooftop seafood banquet. I guess as humans we are always in search of the natural jewels that other realms enjoy.

On return to Singapore, it felt strange flying over these ranges. Suddenly they seemed small and organised, now designated to pragmatic marks on the map of Mother Earth.

The Bearded Pigs of Bako

I took a bus out to a small village known as Batu Bako Bazaar, just outside of Kuching. Here food stalls sung the sweet smell of satay and other delicious Malaysian cuisines. It’s funny, but being my first visit to SE Asia, I felt a tad vulnerable. I first felt this accidental xenophobia back in Johor Bahru at a bus stop marketplace, while en route to Johor Bahru airport from Singapore. None the less, I was excited by the prospect of a day trek in Bako, famous for its vast array of wildlife, and the sandstone plateau known as the Kerang. Here, pitcher plants thrive on the poorer soils, finding their own nutrients from the departed life capsules of insects and tantalising shrew droppings. Remind me not to choose this species if the ‘reincarnate wonder card’ is sanctioned upon arrival at the pearly gates.

I jumped aboard a small boat. We headed out on a river which sauntered into a salty estuary, passing triangulated stilted platforms, from which fisherman held bamboo poles out to catch fish. Jostling into view above an opaque sea, the sight of Mount Gunung Santubong was dreamily atmospheric. Being cruelly shuddered back into reality, our outboard motor propellers slammed into a sand bar, the shallow coastal water became shrouded in a whirling of sand, beneath an aerial mosh pit of four-stroke fumes. I began to wonder if we would make it to Bako that day. Yet, on we motored within the warm calm of the South China Sea, passing impressive sandstone cliffs as the beach appeared.

Delighted, I departed to the raucous mayhem of a colony of feverishly mad Long-tailed Macaques. Here at Telok Assum, mangrove trees shrouded the coastline, jungle saturated the background, where a small museum, and the weathered guest lodges of the park headquarters perched within their world of warm shade and saturated air appeared. Behind the beach, I followed a ranger who was busily describing to tourists the perils associated with rubbing shoulders with the local fauna. Warily stepping inside the secret undergrowth of big-leafed littoral shrubs, I leaned in to spy upon the scaly serpent he had been conjuring. Perfect in its camouflage, the colourful lime-green and pink coloured viper was less than 10cm from my face, as my camera chirped away in all its vulgar naivety. I immediately realised how silly I had been. A bite to the face could well have proved fatal! And it wasn’t to be the only peril that would visit me on this sauna like day in Sarawak.

Staying one step ahead of the wily macaques, I witnessed my first Proboscis Monkey at the end of the beach, near the start of a coastal trail. The odd but sincere looking primate was hiding away at the top of a large mangrove tree. His long snoz of great notoriety surprised me less so than did the overall size of this animal. He was big. His rusty coat and shy persona providing him with an air of jungle bohemia, like a poet in retirement who would rather be left to the jungle’s seclusion. All he needed really was his reading specks. Such a privilege spoiling an Australian nature lover, this moment by an equatorial beach in Borneo.

Thrilled, there was so much to be seen in such a short distance from the beach where the tourists are dropped off. On a day that was just as intense as the steamy build up to the monsoon in Darwin, I trekked up the sandstone escarpment to view the small pitcher plants. At first, I found it hard to distinguish them from the other stunted shrubs and herbs gathered here within the scant shade of the short, gnarly looking trees. Living out a life in the sweltering heat of the plateau, they must be such hardy organisms. But there they were glossy, sleek and tubular like an alien deposited from a spaceship who had given up on trying to find common ground with the mad bugger monkeys, cartwheeling along the beach below, using their deranged extra-terrestrial organic adaptations to do their best up here on the plateau instead. But I didn’t linger, the enchantment of the jungle beckoned. I headed back down and away from the beach, into the deep green shade of rainforest. Sweating profusely with each metre gained, I trod and slid to gravity’s nonchalance, making my way up into the heavily tangled hills of this famous national park. High above me in the treetops, far enough away from me to identify them, a troupe of monkeys fed noisily. I was suspicious of their movement, as I felt that they were following me. They were noticeably more well behaved than the pesky macaques, I have to say. Leading me to wonder if they had really even noticed me, far below in the shadow of the canopy. On the muddy floor of the damp forest, I was surprised to find the aged husk of a durian, my most favourite of fruits, and allowed myself the luxury of imagining an orangutan to be somewhere in the vicinity. They too are fond of this large spiky fruit with its stinky-sweet custardy insides.

On return to the lodge areas behind the beach at Telok Assum, I feasted upon a sight that I had hoped to encounter. A large old boar and a couple of smaller hogs paraded themselves nearby, unfazed by my existence. The Bearded Pig is a remarkable animal. Like the coarse strands of a witch’s broom stick, this old boar’s beard hung almost to the ground, and he stood at least 75cm at the shoulder. I was surprised at just how close I stood to this large animal. He carried on completely unconcerned by moi, ever so slowly edging towards me, as his massive snout found its entertainment in the invigorating world of soil. Every now and then he did drift a suspicious gaze my way. It felt very unnerving. Wavering forwards from within the shadowy thickets, my eye caught the movement of a 5 to 6 feet long monitor lizard. I had seen goannas in Australia just as long, and even larger in girth, but this species’ tail was blade like in design. He looked intense! Behind the uber lizard, a sow and her nine offspring materialised. I immediately began snapping away at the sight of the two species, side-by-side in this strange scrubby world of mustardy light. The sow was infuriated by such arrogance and loudly snorted her disgust of me being within the vicinity of her precious family.

Greedily, I stood my ground, eager to catch the rarity of the moment on my camera. But it would be a dizzy act of recklessness on my part. Without delay, a final snort allowed me no time to prepare, before she lurched forward with a desperate squeal, lunging fervently towards me! My eyes almost popped out of my head, adrenaline stiffened my neck and the body kindly reacted as it should. My first trip to Borneo may well have been my last, but I grabbed hold of my senses, and like a Trotskyite finding himself at a KKK Christmas party, I sprinted away from such errant danger. Out into the open and past the mud-nuzzling indifference of the old boar, down along the back of the beach I dived, praying the berserker macaques didn’t decide to join in on the melee too. I dared not look back at the angry well-whiskered mother. I just bolted! Eventually I threw my sight behind me and was relieved to find that the grumpy sow had given up, knowing her victory was a given, undoubtedly. Such weak, white, erect hominoid tourists!

The Rainforest World Music Festival

On my second visit to Sarawak, I met an Australian in the jungle near Niah Caves, up in the north of Sarawak just to the south of the city of Miri. Hailing from Sydney, his name was Joel, and he was in his mid-thirties. At first, I found his choice of attire slightly odd for a day out in the steamy jungle. Like ladders for leaches, he had a t-shirt with slits cut throughout, to let in the cooling air. We got on well and met up once again in Kuching, befriending some British ladies, and other tourists, while also socialising with my friends I had made during my first visit to this fun-filled city. Carrying with me a headache from revelling at the Tribal Café the evening before, we all went out to the Sarawak Cultural Village on the coast from Kuching to the Sarawak Rainforest World Music Festival. Visitors from all over the planet arrive to feast upon the cultural deluge, and for the alternative minded whose passions also extend beyond the music, Borneo’s traditional designs in skin art magnetise the inquisitive.

It was a wonderful day. The indigenous music, the world music workshops; passionate musicians arrived from all over the planet to capture hearts and minds. From Middle Eastern and African drumming workshops, gigs of Indian sitar to Hungarian folk, it was a colourful spectacle held inside the longhouses of various Indigenous Bornean groups, and outside to large crowds, sprawling beneath stages at the foot of the 810m mountain Gunung Santubong. Taken by surprise, and tickled giggling, it was quite an experience feeling worms snuggling up to one’s toes in the mud at the edge of the jungle, as Afro-Latin music spewed forth its sunny energy upon the eager crowd. The overly represented corporate sponsorship promotion, which saw attractive folk adorning European beer logos, for example, cheapened the wholesome event, I feel. The attention Joel received from a group of young female Australian teens visiting with a school group, noticeably irritated him. I had no idea that he was known worldwide at the time playing the part as Doctor Flynn Sanders, and Sally’s husband, on the hit Australian soap ‘Home and Away’. In Sydney, he had become tired of the lack of privacy he was afforded while out and about in public.

So, actor Joel Mcllroy was searching the planet to find the essence of ‘self’. He went on to travel throughout other parts of Asia, and to places as far afield as Turkmenistan, having become fond of an intelligent lady we had met at the music festival, who was promoting her homeland from a tourism stall in one of the longhouses. The following day Joel would come to the aid of a group of locals at a street rally, while delivering me some armoury in indigenous preservation propaganda. As you will see, later in this chapter.

River Lands: The River, the Jungle and the

People of Malaysian Borneo Upriver

My second visit to Sarawak would see me leaving my friends behind at the Tribal Café and jumping aboard a boat, which would travel from its departure at high speed. Up the coast, into and along the main aquatic highway for trade in Sarawak, the mighty equatorial river Batang Rajang I now journeyed. As much as I had seen on my first visit to Borneo, I still hadn’t stayed in a tribal longhouse. I had visited the Rumah Chang longhouse at Niah National Park, home to the Iban of the north. But along the Batang Rajang, I would stay in a Kayan longhouse, and visit various one-time head-hunter tribal groups within the Belaga region.

Barges slugged by with their ill-gotten gains of timber to be stacked high like the cemeteries of splintery carcasses in the massive riverside mills to then be collected, ocean bound to other Asian ports. The small noisy boat with its tiny windows, lurched out onto the river world, with a very loud video for its heavy-eyed patrons. Many of the travellers were moving along within this modern convenience to homes along the large muddy river. They seemed at ease and accustomed to the journey, chuckling wilfully to the nuances of local film themes. European tourists also sat or moved the drudgery of sleepy legs along the tight corridor, running up the centre of the seating area. One visiting European gentleman appeared to be doing his best to impersonate Sir David Attenborough. His steel-blue safari suit designed to hold pens, was perhaps thrown on to spawn imagination or envy in others.

My first port-of-call for the evening was at the relatively large riverside city of Sibu, known affectionately as the ‘City of Swans’. A statue of a large white swan was situated near the wharf where river journeymen disembark. This city that sees the forestry trade chug to its shoreline is home to 198, 239 people.⁶ The city had moments of splendour where tropical fruit and vegetable markets, colourful shrubs, and palm-lined modern roadside arcades, spoke of good times. But the cheap plastic shoes and other second-rate goods being sold in rundown courtyards, did imply a town in poverty.

The ‘as per-usual flirty transgenders’ sidestepped, there was also an uneasy feeling wafting on the river’s breeze here that warned of dangers in unguarded moments. I ventured a block down from my hotel to the Borneo Cultural Festival, my timing for the event impeccable. In a large parkland where thousands of party goers converged, an art gallery displayed a Spanish artist’s paintings. Outside, two large stages allowed indigenous Dayak, and traditional Malay dances, to be performed. Men and women of all ages, honing well-orchestrated manoeuvres, danced well in the manner of their culture, harmonised by colourful, showy traditional costumes. Among a mass of humanity, I was the only Westerner present. My tall height exposed me to the vulgar stares of a group of young men. I steered my eyes to an elder sitting nearby in the middle of the crowd. The way he was dressed, the way he sat, somehow suggested he withheld dignity and traditional wisdom. Engaging in conversation with this noble gentleman, would this thus instil diplomatic immunity from such youthful angst?

Sitting beside the man on a log, we spoke at length about his thoughts related to the importance of celebrating indigenous cultural identity, while on the other hand Malaysian sovereignty, as the volatile stares eventually dissipated. However, being the only Anglo-Celtic person at the festival, promoted many smiles and friendly stares, too. This I enjoyed thoroughly.

I was called to a table where the local Iban community decided to make me the festival’s ‘guest of honour’. Ample mugs of Tuak were sent my way, accompanied by small western style finger foods, the main event being a delicious feast of earthy river fish. I purchased some beer and snacks to share with the group who just happened to be the festival organisers. This possie of Iban movers-n-shakers included a policeman, a lawyer, a couple of teachers, and those from the Arts and hospitality industries. At ease on this social occasion, both men and women were as one. Chatting with the middle-aged Iban men about equality in Sarawak, they explained to me that the criticising of subgroups is not practiced openly in Sarawak. Up on stage the Sarawak beauty contest was under way. A young woman glowing in a golden dress was announced winner and thus suitably drowned in vibrant ribbons. As she came off stage, she was ushered my way to where I was invited to kiss her. Ouch, poor thing! I was coy and taken aback by all this. The moment was beyond me, who was I to yield such a privilege, I pondered. Misunderstanding cultural protocol, and not wishing to see my head dangling above the bar of the local Iban watering hole, I congratulated the young Iban beauty with an honourable handshake. Sure, I had known enough New Age Romantic hits during the 80s to embrace the benefits of femininity, but what a prude was I, right? This neglect to male vanity was met with serious faces among the Iban men. I had mistakenly dismissed a very illustrious occasion.

Interrogated by my Iban hosts as to why I hadn’t kissed the Iban Beauty Queen winner, heh, I pleaded my ignorance. To be honest, I would have been more than happy to have placed a wet one on her lips, but she was probably relieved I didn’t. Right? Who am I to win such royal riches? Besides, by this stage of the eve, my heart had been won by the Iban chief’s daughter, to be honest. The head man of the Iban circle, he was the local publican. His wife, an attractive, very well-spoken lady with an air of confidence and politeness, was the festival’s lead promoter. Thankfully, my momentary derangement was forgiven, and I again returned to talkativeness, making my hosts chuckle once again. Like champagne, Tuak creeps up on you like an uninvited goblin to a pixies’ disco-tech. Suddenly, my mouth would work no longer. I am sure this would have been seen as a worthy blessing to those in any of the workplaces I have been a part of, but I was on the verge of being paralytic! I had to leave. My hosts began questioning me worryingly as to why I had ceased social banter. Blimey its tough, this guest of honour gig, right? But before I left, I made sure I gave their gorgeous daughter a hug and kiss goodbye; with my skull intact, and perhaps yet another display of ‘Australian weirdness’.

On my way up a hazy street to my hotel, a large group of young men made their way towards me. Not taking any chances, and acting