Gunga Din - The Return of Lobster Boy..
Trip Start
Oct 20, 2004
1
82
98
Trip End
Ongoing
What I did
Got burnt
Lundu, Sarawak, Malaysia
Saturday, August 21, 2010
As usual Wayne and Garth were snoring softly on the couches as we toasted toast; mixed instant coffee and slathered jam and honey on warm pancakes. We crept past them and out the front door to eat our hastily prepared breakfasts at the street-side patio table. They were still sleeping when we let ourselves back in 20 minutes later to clean up our dishes. We sneaked by for a third time on our way out to make a bank run and pop into an internet café, where we quickly checked our mail and did some last minute research in preparation for the next few days' activities. Those lads sure could sleep but we figured that even they would be awake by the time we returned at 9:50 a.m to retrieve our packs. They weren’t. We had to shoulder-shake them awake to check out.
The rain was pelting down and we made full use of our newly acquired, camouflage green, rain ponchos to cover ourselves and our packs as, once again, we set off in the direction of the bus station. We had spent so much time there that when the ticket booth dude caught sight of us, dripping and damp, on the other side of his glass partition, he smiled, nodded and raised his eyebrows as if to say, "Really? You’re back again?" Our destination for the day was Lundu, the closest town to Gunung Gading National Park, a place renowned for the strange yet oddly beautiful Rafflesia; the largest flower in the world. The local bus dropped us at the Express Station on the edge of town, where we transferred onto a very dirty and somewhat stinky 'luxury’ bus for the remainder of the journey.
The Rafflesia is a parasitic plant found only in Southeast Asia at elevations between 400 and 1,300 meters. It was discovered in 1818 by two Europeans; Sir Stamford Raffles and Dr. Joseph Arnold whilst on a trip near Bengkulu on the island of Sumatra. The specimen they discovered was approximately 97 cm (almost 40”) in diameter and news of their discovery caused quite a stir and more than a few rumblings of disbelief in the botanical community of the time.
The species was named Rafflesia Arnoldi in their honour; not because they both possessed offensively stinky body odour. You see the Rafflesia is quite an unusual plant with a host of strange characteristics, not least of which is its propensity for stinking like rotting meat whilst in full bloom. The foul odour attracts carrion flies, which are the plants’ sole means of pollination. In addition to that intriguing but malodorous attribute are a number of other botanical head-scratchers; it has no specific flowering season; it has no roots, nor does it have leaves or a stem. It grows by spreading filaments of tissue inside a host vine (the tetrastigma), within which it grows like a cancer; absorbing nutrients and water while denying them to the host until, after about 18 months a small dark brown, cabbage-like bud appears. The bud takes around 9 months to mature before opening to reveal thick, fleshy red petals covered in blotchy coloured markings resembling warts or liver-spots. The plant blooms for 3 – 5 days giving off a stench like week old road-kill before it starts to die and rot; after a week the only evidence of its existence is a black slime slick on the forest floor. Doesn’t it sound lovely?
There are thought to be 17 species of the plant but only one of them is found in Gunung Gading; Rafflesia Tuan-Mudae, reputed to be the world’s largest. Due to the extremely unique and specialized nature of the plant, its preservation depends on the establishment of totally protected conservation zones such as Gunung Gading, which it amused me immensely to refer to as Gunga Din.
Though I've belted you and flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
We arrived in Lundu under grey skies and checked into the Lundu Gading Hotel; a place that had definitely seen better days. Considering all the people who traipsed through this town with the express purpose of visiting the park, and in view of the dearth of competition for accommodations, you’d have thought they’d try to make the place a bit more appealing, but maybe that’s the point. Beggars can’t be choosers and when you’ve got the choice of only one or two hotels in the entire town, you’re probably not going to concern yourself overly with small inconveniences like flaking paint or drippy taps. From managements’ perspective; why bother spending money making it look nice when tourists will be forced to stay there regardless of aesthetics? Still, tarting it up with a couple of coats of paint and some decent fixtures would have improved the perceived quality of the place immeasurably.
The room was adequate, we had stayed in worse but that’s not exactly much in the way of a glowing recommendation is it? It was stiflingly hot and humid and so we were relieved to see that at least the A-C worked, albeit very noisily. We grabbed our daypacks and walked across the street to an open air food stall where we ate a delicious Laksa lunch. Laksa is a traditional Bornean dish which blends Chinese and Malay elements into a spicy noodle soup; the Sarawak version of the dish is unique unto itself and is concocted using a chilli paste (Sambal) base and can contain (amongst other things), omelette strips; chicken; prawns; fresh coriander and lime. Other ingredients such as bean sprouts, fried tofu or other seafood are also sometimes added. Our cook appeared to have gone for the gusto and added everything! After a fiery but lip smacking, noodle slurping session we were off, map in hand, trudging the 2.5 kms to Gunga Din Park.
Gunung Gading National Park covers an area of 4,106 hectares and encompasses mountain streams; waterfalls; dense primary rainforest and four jungle cloaked mountain peaks, the tallest of which is an easily hikeable 906 meters. Initially the park was a closed conservation zone, established to protect the Rafflesia but after extensive environmental impact studies it was opened to the public in 1994. To safeguard plant flowering areas, timber walkways have been constructed around them and they are closely monitored to ensure that, while visitors will be provided the best opportunity to see a flowering plant, they will leave without damaging the buds or causing any harm to the surrounding area.
We arrived in time to be informed that we had just missed the most recent Rafflesia blooming and were a day or two too early for the next. The flower blooms unpredictably and briefly, so there was no way to time our trip accordingly; we had realized at the outset that we’d need a bit of luck to see one but the luck-well was dry. With nothing else on the agenda, we opted for a short hike along the ‘Waterfall Trail’ and set off without further ado, slipping and sliding along a rock strewn track through the muggy, shadowy jungle. After about a kilometre, we branched off the main path to scramble down a muddy embankment which led to a boulder littered clearing at the bottom of a charming little waterfall. Cathy waded and paddled in the cool waters while I climbed up to the top, delivered my best Johnny Weissmuller impression and beat my chest like a deranged pink baboon.
After lazing and exploring for a while, we clambered back up to the main trail and turned towards the mountain peak, but as the sun dipped and the trail darkened it became more and more difficult to see all the sticky-outy roots and camouflaged rocks that were determined to see us face down in the mud. We called it a day and decided to head back towards town. Not really looking forward to the 2.5 km trek back, we were pleasantly surprised when a local school teacher pulled over in his dodgy looking car and graciously offered a lift right to the door of our hotel.
The A-C was cranked up and we cooled off for an hour before venturing outside, our bellies rumbling, to see what we could round up in the way of food. The market was in full swing and, as we both love the colour, vibrancy and confusion of local markets, we stopped by to see what tangy, spicy delectables were on offer. Our choice for the evening’s fare was a fantastic fish barbecued inside a bamboo leaf and drenched in spicy sauce along with a delicious cucumber salad containing pineapple, chillies, vinegar and tomatoes and served in a 5 star plastic bag no less! We sat outside at a rickety table wearing a shabby, blue chequered plastic cover and ate with chopsticks and plastic spoons. Inquisitive, tow-headed local kids ran past squealing ‘Hellooooo!’ or stood at a distance and watched us as if they had never seen people eating before.
“Check it out – They do it just like WE do!!’
We finished off the meal with a couple of beers but very quickly realized we were exhausted and shuffled back to the hotel for an early night. Give us a break, we’re old and it had been a long and energetic day.
Sunday, August 22nd, 2010
Up and at ‘em. The previous afternoon, we had made arrangements with a local hire-car driver to take us to Sematan. Normally, we wouldn’t even consider such an extravagant suggestion but there were no local buses and it appeared to be our only option. The Lonely Planet indicated that Sematan was a pleasant fishing village with a clean and unspoilt beach fringed by waving palms. Supposedly it also possessed an attractive waterfront promenade and colourful stilt houses. What our handy dandy, trusted travel guide failed to point out was that there was a great big gaping hole in the ozone directly above Sematan beach.
The driver dropped us off outside a hotel that he recommended and waited while we confirmed that there were rooms available. We thanked him for his trouble and paid him RM30 ($10 Cdn); he gave us his number in case we wanted him to pick us up and take us anywhere else. What a nice bloke. The Sematan Hotel was a somewhat run-down, two storey, fading mustard yellow building, that was well past its prime – a recurring trend on this trip. The non-English speaking manager first showed us to a room on the ground floor at the back of the building, but the door latch was flimsy and the window screens were torn; the lack of security made us a bit nervous. Paranoid? Maybe. But why risk it? We made various noises that suggested we were unimpressed and pointed to the ceiling; she understood and led us through an iron gate and up a flight of stairs to a large second floor room with a cluttered balcony and A-C. It would do. We paid RM 50 (about $17 Cdn) for the first night and got unpacked.
Aching to feel sand between our toes once more, we walked through town, along the promenade and cut across to a vast and almost completely deserted beach. It was there that I made the irrefutably moronic decision to remove my shirt. It felt so good to have the sun on my skin; the light breeze rustling the palms cooled me as I soaked up UV rays and synthesised Vitamin D. Wonderful. After a few hundred yards our progress was stalled by a wide but shallow creek. Ordinarily we would have just paddled across but it was brown, brackish and a bit pungent. Unsure of the source of its dark, steeped-tea colour but unwilling to potentially paddle in liquid pooh we had to come up with an alternative. While Cathy stood around acting like a maiden in distress, I searched for something to gallantly lay across the waters. Ermine collared cloaks not being particularly common items in Borneo, but determined to prove that chivalry was just slightly wounded and not completely dead, I went to work hauling fallen coconut fronds and trunks out of the scrub bush to make a basic bridge. Mission accomplished, we teetered across and continued our stroll.
The skies brightened, the water beckoned and we decided to go for a dip; there was nobody else on the beach for miles in either direction so we stripped down; changed into our swimming cozzies and swam in the bathtub warm waters. Liberating. After some time, it occurred to me that I’d had my shirt and daft floppy hat off for quite a while but, by then, the damage was already done. Although the afternoon had been mostly overcast and I had managed to foolishly convince myself that it was fairly safe, the return of ‘Lobster – boy’ was imminent. He would fully reveal himself later that evening in bright red, shiny skin tones. Sometimes I really curse my red-head skin pigmentation and am enduringly jealous of those fortunate folks who can wander outside at the height of summer day heat without worrying about burning to a crisp in mere minutes. Befitting my stupidity, I spent the rest of the afternoon buying up the town’s entire stock of Aloe Vera and slathering myself in baby lotion.
It sucks to be fair.
Monday, August 23rd, 2010
The mutts across the street howled, brayed and barked all damn night, waking me up and forcing me to re-position myself, which included un-sticking my heavily Aloe Vera’d and Johnson’s Baby Oiled body from the sheets. Not a pleasant process and one which was accompanied by a barrage of whispered curses, muted grunts and gritted teeth grimaces. I hate being sunburnt. What was I thinking? Walking down a beach in Borneo; less than 5ş north of the equator with no sunscreen on? I must have been mad. Let that be (another) painful lesson to me.
I always fret about skin cancer whenever I’m daft enough to pull this stunt; usually about once every two or three years. The trouble is that SPF 50 works so well that I get zero colour whenever I use it and, let’s face it, who wants to come back from a month in deepest, darkest Borneo without the hint of a deep, dark tan? That being said a spritzing of SPF 30 would have drastically reduced my burn and resultant discomfort. I had certainly overcompensated, of that there could be no question.
What a bonehead I can be. You don’t need to be so quick to agree with me …
I lay awake worrying; would baby lotion moisturize the skin or coat it and keep the heat in? Perhaps the aloe and baby oil salve I had soaked myself in would do nothing more than prolong the agony. I’d used almost an entire 100 ml tube of baby oil and another of Aloe Vera. Did lemon juice help or was it vinegar? I couldn’t remember but was pretty sure my chances of finding either at 3 a.m. in a rural fishing village were essentially zero. I rolled over painfully and tried to go back to sleep.
My shoulders were still very tight and tender in the morning but overall I felt mostly less sore. We both doused ourselves liberally in SPF 50 and braved the early morning rays to find breakfast. While eating, we started talking to the owner of the café (who was also the owner of the hotel) about local places of interest and ways to get to them without the benefit of buses. She was very helpful and offered us the services of her friend and his van to visit a traditional longhouse and local waterfall. We decided it might be a good option for the next day and promised to let her know later.
Finished with breakfast and swaddled in UV beating layers we wandered off in the direction of the Sematan Palm Beach Resort, which we had walked past the day before. Cathy wanted to swim but I wanted nothing more than to relax in the shade of the covered gazebos and steer clear of the sun. As it was a private resort, it cost RM 5 to use their facilities for the day but with not much else to do it seemed a reasonable price to pay. Besides, our shower at the hotel hadn’t worked and we thought we might be able to grab one there instead. My only goals for the day were for Cathy to enjoy herself without having to put up with my sunburnt self-pity, and for me to immerse myself in my book, while avoiding exposing my tender flesh to any more sunlight. We spent a few hours relaxing, reading and (Cathy) swimming before wandering back to town for dinner.
It was a good job that our aging sensibilities meant we no longer required much in the way of entertainment of an evening. There was sweet F.A to do in Sematan. The previous evening, we had made the mistake of trying to find dinner at the shockingly late time of 7:30 p.m and had been fortunate to catch a restaurateur just as he was preparing to shut up shop. Without his obliging nature we would have been forced to scour the local convenience store and choose between limited selections of crisps; candy; ice cream cones and instant noodles. He served us food but we got what he was prepared to cook and as soon as we left he had hauled the metal roll door down with a clang.
This evening at 6:30 p.m we were once again the only people in there, but at least this time we didn’t feel like we were keeping him up; he had at least another hour until bedtime. As we strolled back to the hotel at 7:15 p.m the town was rolling up the sidewalks. It was dusky but not yet dark and as we walked we saw an amazing, huge, orange-sunlit column of cloud hanging over distant, shadowy mountains. We went up to the roof to take some pictures before going back down to the room. Apparently it was time to call it a night – evening – whatever…
