A Few Days In Malacca

The morning after the wedding's reception, the alarm decided to relieve me from my sleep.  The head was heavy, the half dozen glasses of red wine had seen to that, but I quickly remembered the task at hand for the early morn - find our way to TBS, the relatively new bus station in KL for our trip to Malacca. 

  

Always worried about being on time, my phobia forced us to leave our hotel at 6.30 for an 8 am departure.  The trip there involved changing from the LRT to another line, but with no hassles.  KL's underground rail system works very well apart from the ticket vending machines that more often than not, don't work.  The authorities recently have made an effort to make it easier to transfer from one line to another by improving the walking assess and multi-trip ticketing, far better than the somewhat disjointed arrangement a few years back. 

We arrived with plenty of time to spare and waited for our host and daughter.  This station, I must say, is nothing like your average bus station. It's large, very modern and most importantly for me, clean.  Only a few years old, it mostly replaces a facility in Chinatown for those travelling south in the country. 

The Transnational bus arrived on time.  I sat with Lili and Poh with her daughter Karin across the aisle. Word of warning here.  Never sit between good friends as you spend the time being talked across, it feels a lot like playing piggy in the middle.  I jest, of course, it was not really a problem and made the 2.5 hour trip fly by, even if both ears are still ringing.  

LiLi and Poh

Malacca lies on the West coast of Peninsular Malaysia roughly half way between KL and Singapore.  It has a long, interesting and varied history.  This is not immediately apparent, as you bus in; the outer areas have a lot of modern construction, housing as well as business.  This leaves an impression of an economically growing vibrant city. 

I have previously been here a number of years before, but recognised very little at first.  I was told a lot of people investing here are from Singapore and Kuala Lumpur. Tourists abound, so there is a very significant major hotel presence, very grand for a city of this size. 

We arrived at 1030 and were picked up by Poh's niece, Joyce and taken to a small Chinese restaurant on the side of the road near the coast.  The very congenial owner greeted us with a broad smile and after much chatter in Chinese, a course of food was decided on.  I'll admit now on most occasions I allow my wife to decide what to eat.  If it was left up to me, I'd eat the same old boring stuff every day.  I am not that adventurous when it comes to trying new food, but when forced to, I usually enjoy the experience.  This was no exception.  The food, apart from being inexpensive was  of high quality.  The ambiance of the surroundings and the owner's ancestry's looking forlornly down upon the diners  added to the culinary experience.

Our hosts live about 10 kilometres north of the city centre along a road full of old abandoned mansions and multi-storey high rise.  I fear the old buildings with their large grounds will in time, create a great wall of towering condominiums. They are too much to maintain for the average private owner and are only saved from demolition, if  business is interested in utilising the size for commerce.   Some of the local banks have done just that in the centre of the city, but unfortunately there are more mansions than interested parties.

Poh and her families' houses are just a street back from the sea.  The ambiance of the area is one of peace and quiet; only the occasional dog barking intruded, no cacophony here. 

After meeting the family and a quick shower, we ventured first to a coffee shop to try the local brew and watch 'kaya' being made. ( a coconut, sugar and egg yolk spread ) The golden brown treacly substance is smeared onto a piece of toasted bread or bun and served with local black coffee.  We watched it being made in a back room.  Two ladies sitting over a metal stewing pot, the ingredients heated over a low gas flame and stirred for 3 hours to get the right consistency. It is very sweet, fattening but scrumptious.  After a short walk to view the straits and its shipping, we ventured back into town.

Half way there, the traffic started to grind to a halt and it soon became apparent this was no ordinary jam.  As we crawled along at walking pace a long line of parked and par king cars snaked for a hundred metres or more in front of us.  The reason, you ask?  The world famous ( for this place at least ) Klebang coconut milk shake.  Yes, the world here was grinding to a stand still for a milkshake.  I don't know about you, but for me to line up dozens deep, it would have to be something very special.  I was to learn later that Malacca inhabitants won't give another thought to waiting in a long queue for  an indeterminate amount of time to get into their favourite chicken and rice ball or satay celup restaurant. Nothing like good food to create your routine and habits.  We did some general sightseeing and shopping, then returned for the evening Mother's Day dinner.

Malacca is steeped in history.  Going back 500 years, it was a strategic outpost, one of three ( the others being Singapore and Penang) due to its location on the Straits of Malacca.  It controlled trade that passed through the very narrow waters between Malaya and Sumatra.  This all changed in 1511 when the Portuguese arrived and overthrew the local Sultan.  The European presence in the region was increasing due to the spice trade which led to increased colonisation of the region. 
The Portuguese built A Famosa ( fort,  only the front gate exists today ) and remained for about 130 years with limited success as traders until the Dutch in cahoots with the Sultan of Johore  replaced them, though even today there is still an enclave of Portuguese descendants.

"Red" centre of town

The Dutch for their part built the " Red Stadthuys"  administration  centre of town that can be still be seen today though these days, it consists of museums and various churches.

Wikipedia History of Malacca 

The Portuguese Fort Gate today

Eventually 180 years later, the British replaced the Dutch, who had agreed to accept some land in Java in exchange. There they remained until independence in 1957. 

The eclectic blend of European and Asian buildings makes Malacca the interesting place it is.  The old part of town has very narrow honeycomb streets that were never designed to cater for motor vehicles.  Most are one way and frequent traffic jams are common.  There is a mixture of trendy modern business with traditional Chinese family homes.  The old buildings are generally narrow, deep terraces with roofs made of rows of unique corrugated clay red tiles.  In the oldest buildings, the original plain dutch facades are hard to find being replaced later by Classical, Chinese and Malay additions. 

Narrow winding oneway streets

Unique designed Mosque

The town has many churches, temples and mosques - all interesting in their own way and its diverse inhabitants complement the feeling of something unique.

The old Portuguese Fort encompassing St Paul's church - Wikipedia 

The evenings meal was in part prepared by the adult children of the family to show appreciation for their mothers' efforts. Most of the children live and work in other parts of the country or overseas and made the effort to be there for their mothers as well as for the Vesak day celebrations, the Buddha’s birthday.   

We were asked if we would like to walk in their annual parade the next evening and accepted the invitation without question. 

The proud Mothers

The following morning saw us exploring the old St Paul’s Church on top of a small steep hill in the historical centre. Upon ascent, you are greeted by St Francis Xavier himself in all his marble glory. ( he was interned here for a short period of time after his death).  Built by the Portuguese early on in its occupation for its Catholic population, only the outer walls and Apse of the church are now intact.  The interior walls support many tomb stones of the local Dutch and Portuguese dating from the 16th century, but unfortunately for me, not in English.  The Dutch converted it to Dutch Reformed where it remained as a place of worship until Christ Church was completed in 1753 in the Stadthuys. 

After investigating the tombstones behind the church from the English period, we ventured down to the remains of the Old Portuguese fort.  Not a lot to see but interesting all the same.  My attention was distracted by a group of people using what I could only describe as a golf shaft-cum-telescopic rod with a frame to hold a telephone on, so one could, by stretching the arm and rod away from the body, take the perfect self-indulging selfie.  Really, I could think of better ways of taking photos without looking ridiculous.  Anyway each to their own. 

The old fort that was unceremoniously blown up by the British is continuously being rediscovered, the foundations at least,  each time they excavate old car parks and building lots. Some of these areas are quite a distance from the remaining gate meaning this must have been an impressive structure in its time; at one stage it housed the entire Portuguese population in Malacca. 

That afternoon we prepared for the Vesak precession.  The participants wear all white, so that proved a challenge to find a clothing combination that came close.  My wife and I had a slightly offbeat look, but came close to looking the part.

We drove to Poh's uncle's place to collect a bus with 40 other devotees that took us to the site to assemble.  Due to anticipated traffic issues, we left early and arrived with plenty of time to spare.  In fact, time to try out the famous local celup satays.

The dining tables are round with a circular metal container sunk into the centre.  This pot contains a mixture of what looks like peanut sauce and oil.  Underneath the table is a gas flame to keep the contents simmering.   The idea is to go to a large bank of refrigerators and choose from an assortment of skewers with either chicken, pork products, seafood or various vegetables.  The food is then placed into the boiling sauce and cooked.  Occasionally, the staff add more sauce into the mixture and gives it a stir.  The smell of peanuts permeates through out the premises.  Simple, effective and delicious and when finished, the waiting staff just tallies up the empty skewers left and you pay for what you eat. 

After dinner, we all looked forward to our impending walk. With 42 floats in the parade, we were assigned to number 19. I assumed for some unknown reason this was just going to be a jaunt around the block.  How wrong I was. 

Beginning of the Vesak Parade

The night was hot and sultry.  I was sweating profusely before we even began.  The start was slow due to the sheer number of people involved.  I won't attempt to estimate the numbers, but it would have been in the thousands.  This stop start affair meandered through the older sectors of town with large numbers of people lining both sides of the streets to pay their respects to the Buddha.  Small gifts were handed out to the crowd with children being the main beneficiaries.  Almost all were of Chinese descent apart from a small sprinkling of overseas tourists. 

The walk lasted two and a half hours and all of us were foot weary by the end, the atmosphere - the sounds and sights and the sense of community made it a fulfilling and tranquil experience. 

One of the numerous floats

The last full day in Malacca was spend eating and talking with  our new found friends.  One last surprise awaited me though. An evening meal was arranged in a popular open air restaurant.  Our group who had been doing a little last minute window shopping were the last to arrive.  And there on the table in front of me was, to my utter surprise, a Klebang coconut milkshake. 

Everyone, by this stage, had heard I would not get into a line up for a milkshake, but someone made the effort for me. 

This simple gesture typifies the great hospitality and generosity shown to us for the few days we were in Malacca.  I extent my deep gratitude to Poh and her family members who went out of their way to make our experience an exceptional one. 

The next morning we bused it to the new KLIA2 terminal (another post) and returned to Sandakan. 

Is that milkshake worth lining up for, you ask?  

All I'll say is go to Malacca to find out.

The famous milkshake 

Mid Flight Blues

Travelling again! Flying to Kl for a wedding, an Indian at that. The flights only a tad less than three hours but boredom has set in one hour in. Eaten, the lights have been dimmed the plane 45 minutes late.  I find these days in this sort of aircraft I just want to get there. My wife has the right idea. She is asleep with her head leaning up against the bulk head. I find sleeping in a plane a pain in the neck literally. I can't get comfortable even though this time the seat next to us is empty. The light meal devoured in my usual last meal manner, even gives me indigestion. I am becoming an old crock, set in my way, legs in harding concrete boots. The flame of adventure is barely a flicker these days.  A comfortable hotel with good bed and air conditioning will suffice.  I study my wife's face looking angelic, had a very busy week with a conference and has died in her seat. Metaphorically of course, as if death was so peaceful looking. ( I know, I used to work in the dying business) 

The plane rocks a little to remind us we are still 30,000 feet up. 

I have noticed something a little different this flight - no screaming kids. What a joy to behold, a quiet aircraft. I like when I can organise a seat near the exit or bulkhead for extra leg room. The only disadvantage, you're on to it, crying babies. As they say beggars can't be choosers and they're right. It's swings and roundabouts really, you win some you lose some. ( I'm only writing like this because my wife is always asking me to recite idioms and I can never remember any at the time.) 

Looked out the window, sun about to disappear, lots of fluffy cotton balls as far as the eyes can see. Looks good enough to step out on, but I'm not going to this flight. 

Opps the silence has been broken by a rather large man snoring. Always a problem when you sleep with 140 others.

This little writing exercise is doing its job. Just wasted 20 minutes thinking about rubbish to write about. Talking about rubbish I am told by those close to me I use that term far too often. Everything I see or do is rubbish. I personally only use it if it is, well.... rubbish. I don't like the alternative, garbage because it's just too American. Give me good old English rubbish any day.

That was a load of rubbish, wasn't it. I can be more creative than that but unfortunately I don't have the ability to turn it on like a tap of water. It's more like the rain, it comes and goes. Here today, gone tomorrow. There I go again. 

The plane has decided to decelerate and drop its nose. Must be getting close to where ever I'm going. So there you have it 500 words of pure nonsense. Goodnight. ( 501) 

    

The Twin Otter and Me

Organising a trip at short notice can sometimes create unexpected outcomes. This week I found out I was travelling to Kota Kinabalu again, so as usual I book myself a flight online with MAS wings, the local subsidiary of Malaysian airlines.

Because it was so late, I found that the only available flight departed at 11.40 am from Sandakan and it was rather inexpensive. "Hmmm why so," I thought to myself. I noticed almost immediately the flight took over 2 hours.  Usually it varies between 45 and 50 minutes depending on the aircraft type.  Obviously a stop along the way, though it wasn't indicated on the booking page.  I was not in a hurry, the extra hours flight time didn't concern me,  so proceeded to book. Seat 4C came up upon completion. (I had not bothered to preselect my own seat.) I assumed I was on the aisle. 

Being the curious beast I am, I searched for the aircraft type expecting it to be the usual ATR 72 500, a twin turbo prop French/Italian built plane that carries 68 passengers.  I have flown on this aircraft numerous times and found it comfortable enough though a little noisy.

To my surprise, it wasn't. This flight was going via Kudat on the northern most point of Borneo in a much smaller, Twin Otter DHC-6  400 series.

Really flying I thought to myself.  These aircraft have a fixed undercarriage and are unpressurised.  Meaning to say they can't fly very high, so in theory lots more to see.  The downside, of course, is that they must fly through more weather.  They can fly around, not over the numerous thunderstorms in this region.  Since the plane can only accommodate 3 seats across, my 4C was in actual fact a window seat.  "Great!" I thought.  I used to fly small aircraft myself ( Cessna 172 and Grumman Cheetah ) in what seems another lifetime ago and consequently started to really look forward to this trip.

Twin Otter 400

Further investigation dampened my enthusiasm somewhat.

Mas Wings has had 4 accidents since 2008, all  involving the Twin Otter (previous series) with the last one at Kudat air-field killing 2 including the co- pilot.  It appeared from the reports I read all involved pilot error and occurred during landing.  My wife immediately told me not to go.  "Lightning couldn't possibly strike twice, could it?" flashed through my head.  Anyway, it guaranteed this flight wasn't going to be boring. And it wasn't.

The flight was scheduled to depart during the quiet part of the day.  Sandakan airport is no KLIA, so after the early morning flights, there is virtually no one around. 

I had checked in online but was concerned about whether I could take my backpack on board.  I went to the checking counter and to my surprise, they wanted to weigh me!   I had to stand up onto where they weigh the bags on the conveyor belt,  much to the amusement of a group of Australians and British. They too went through the process and started to chatter to each other, a little nervously after being told the plane was small and that weight was critical. 

Through customs and into departure hall, empty apart from the 19 passengers for flight MH3005. 

Time for departure arrived, on schedule and proceeded to march over the tarmac to the aircraft.  It looked very new which was comforting, the refurbishment programme between the 300 series and the newer 400 was obviously well underway.  Maybe because of the previous years' mishaps, they were running out of aircraft.  Anyway, any doubts about the viability of the aircraft were now dispelled in my mind. 

For those who haven't flown in smaller prop aircraft, there are a number of differences immediately apparent.  The Twin Otter carries its own set of stairs forming part of the fuselage which are lowered by two cables at the rear of the aircraft.  I painfully discovered the door well is not very high.  My head came in contact with the top of the door frame even though I'm not a tall man. The interior is less than 5 feet in height, so you have to bend down appreciably as you walk along the short aisle. 

Though I had a designated seat number I was told by one of the ground crew to sit anywhere I felt.  First come, first serve.  How refreshing!  No such luxury of air hotties on this flight.  As it turned out, I chose the same seat next to the window under the wing.  The seats themselves a very rudimentary, light frame with minimal padding.  Only just ok for a short flight with a bad back and arthritic knees.

The small interior brings you close to all the occupants, therefore the plane was full of banter, nervous  laughter and we quickly introduced each other. Most were holiday travellers with I think one local who was flying home. Almost all the occupants had never flown in such a small plane before and were looking forward to the adventure, some with more than a little 

apprehension on their faces.

 Cockpit door wide open to let in some air 

The first thing you notice when the engines are turned on is the level of interior sound. It's noisy, still possible to talk, but with my hearing, I find it difficult.  

The runway in Sandakan is over 2000 metres, so the 'Otter' had little difficulty in getting airborne in well less than half the length.  The throttle is above the pilots head like sea planes and for some reason required the use of both pilots' hands. There was no door separating the pilots from the passengers and I had an excellent view of the GPS map in the centre of the cockpit showing our route.

The sudden lifting into the air and the rapid rate of ascend surprise most on board. I think it was more perceived than real, being a small plane. 

It's worth noting that most people have never flown in small aircraft, so the sensation of flying is very different than in a larger heavier plane. Weather affects smaller aircraft a lot more.  They move around more in the air currents and tend to give the feeling of floating and drifting along. The best way I can describe it is that feeling you get on a large Ferris wheel just before and after reaching the highest point except you have to add the lateral movement.  It's all a bit dreamy, like floating on cloud, or after having a few vodka and tonics, if you enjoy that sort of thing. 

The flight turned left after a few minutes and travelled north west along the east coast. The weather was clear and because of the lower altitude, you could see a lot more detail.  To the east many small islands dotted the sea, some in Malaysia, those further out the Philippines.  Rivers large and small, fill the land like a meandering network of roads which of course they are to the local Sungai.  The banks are predominately mangrove until they give away to firmer ground inland, then the manmade transformation of the land becomes evident.  Oil Palm dominates all that is not mangrove nor mountain and what jungle left is mainly secondary growth from the logging days. 

Midway through the flight to Kudat, the passengers had relaxed and everyone on the plane was enjoying conversing to each other by yelling above the engine din. 

I found myself constantly looking at the pilots doing their thing.  The captain in particular was a little fidgety, unable to keep his hands of the throttle as if it wasn't set right. 

As we approached Kudat, everyone peered out looking for the runway.  It was spotted early but disregarded for being too short. It wasn't until final approach that it became obvious that we were going to land on what looked every bit a paved footpath.  I'm sure there're shorter runways in the world but from the air, this one looked woefully inadequate.  Images of the previous years' fatal accident did cross my mind, but after all this was a short takeoff and landing aircraft.  Two or three of the other passengers were not quite so reassured.  The descend was steep and because we couldn't see out the front at this stage, one of the women screamed out,  "We're going to land in the swamp," at the top of her voice. 

Needless to say, we didn't.  It wasn't a copybook landing though.  We did bounce and float down the runway a tad. The roar of the engines peaked as the props were put into negative pitch to pull us up. 

Smiles returned to all and 17 of the 19 passengers disembarked. 

Myself and one other were going onto KK. 

Me trying to look intelligent. Notice the stairs.

It wasn't long before we were left to our own devices.  The plane got very hot on the tarmac, so we jumped out and wandered around the aircraft taking photos of each other.  No one seem to care, in fact there was no one there to care except us.  Everyone else had disappeared into the green nondescript terminal building.

The Green House. Notice Air traffic Control Tower

This wouldn't happen in too many airports around the world.

Twenty minutes passed and the flight crew returned to the aircraft.

This runway is only 700 metres long less than a third of Sandakan's.

The aircraft taxied to the end of the runway, lined up and gunned the engines with the brakes on.  After what seemed an eternity they were released and we screamed down the tarmac and was airborne in no time.  The lack of passengers helped whereas a full plane must use every last inche.

The 40 minute flight flew south along Sabah's west coast. I couldn't help but feel a little privileged having the aircraft to myself bar one. 

The flight was enjoyable and I looked out the window for most of it.  This part of the west coast is much more built up with numerous small and medium towns to observe along the way.  We did encounter a few thunderstorm cells but easily flew around them.  The site of Kota Kinabalu's long runway was very reassuring. 

The total travel time was a touch over two hours. 

Would I do it again?  The short answer is yes if time is not an issue. 

I have flown a lot over the past decade and have to a certain extent become jaded with air travel.  The little Twin Otter brought back memories of the first time I flew all those years ago.  Not quite flying by the seat of your pants, but close.  

A Tale of Two Cities in Malaysia

Chance would have it I am spending a few days in Kota Kinabalu this week with my wive who, has some Dept of Education business to do in the Capital.  As I linger around the hotel, this has given me the opportunity to reflect on the stark differences between this place and the second largest city in Sabah and former capital where I live - Sandakan. 

Both cities started their life roughly the same time nearing the end of the 19th century.  Sandakan flourished quickly due to its deep harbour and access to natural resources such as rainforest hard wood. In fact it is said there were more millionaires at that time living in Sandakan than anywhere else in Asia and the wealth of the area meant it had a wire service to London and paved roads even before Hong Kong and Singapore.

Kota Kinabalu or Jesselton as it was known then, developed less spectacularly as a trading post in rubber, rattan, honey and wax. Both places were run by the British North Borneo Company in the colony known as North Borneo. World War 2 and the Japanese occupation saw both towns almost completely destroyed. By the war's end, the North Borneo company handed over the colony to the British who in turn moved the Capital to Jesselton.  Independence in the early 1960’s Jesselton got its new name and maintained its status as the state's capital.

From the lookout,  Kota Kinabalu

So what's changed in the last 60 years? In short, a lot.

Sabah is the poorest state of the 13 states of the Malaysian federation despite supplying 30% of Malaysian's palm oil and large reserves of hydrocarbons.  There are numerous reasons for this, which I won't go into here.

The rebuilding started soon after the war where the centre of both cities developed slowly replacing the mostly wooden structures that had been destroyed during the war into concrete shutter shops. 

A lot of Kota Kinabalu's commercial centre was built on reclaimed land from the sea  and being the capital of the New State of Sabah, it developed with better quality and more extensive infrastructure.  Most of Sabah's commerce is conducted here to the long term detriment of Sandakan.

Moving forward to the present. Kota Kinabalu is a vibrant and cosmopolitan city with a population around the half million mark. It is the only place you can arrive in the state from overseas therefore a bulk of the tourist trade stay in the local area. Mount Kinabalu is only a 2-hour drive and there are many beaches and islands with world class  facilities.

Sandakan, on the other hand, is much more limited.  They do have some islands off the coast but these generally have received mixed reviews due to management issues.  If tourists do venture to this part of the East coast, it's for the orang utan sanctuary in Sepilok, 30 kilometres west of Sandakan or the Kinabatangan River. There is accommodation in both these places, so many visitors never reach Sandakan proper.

Where Kota Kinabalu is vibrant Sandakan is not. The population is a little less than KK but the town lacks sophistication in its makeup and infrastructure.  The centre of KK has street appeal and variety whereas Sandakan is drab and predictable. Basic services, the Internet, electricity and water break down on a frequent basis.  A lot of this of course is to do with wealth. Sandakan is a poor place. A large proportion of the town's population are illegal immigrants.  Unofficial figures estimate the illegals as high as 600,000 within Sabah. The Philippines and Indonesia are very close and due to historical reasons the borders are extremely porous. These people have taken over the old centre of the city and the immediate surrounding area and consequently there is little desire for developers to spend their money, so the area is  in a gradual state of decay. ( in some cases not so gradual) Developers in general have concentrated their efforts in establishing new infrastructure projects in the outlying suburban areas. This gives the overall impression of a disjoined city looking for its lost past. Having said all this there are plans afoot to establish a new centre 3 kilometres along the coast in an area called Sim Sim, though this does not solve the issue with the old town centre.

Traffic is a problem in both cities, but the quality of roads are much higher in KK. The national highway between Sandakan and KK is a potholed mess, consequently a 300 kilometre journey takes up to 6 hours. 

In general, cleanliness is better in KK. Litter and garbage disposal is a problem in both, but Sandakan is a far dirtier place. The rat population is enormous due to inefficient collection of refuse and the dumping of cooking waste down the open drains that flow directly into the sea. This is not to say there are not people here that are concerned about the state of the environment and try hard to make an impact, but in generally they are overwhelmed by the enormity of the problem. KK does a far better job at maintaining the immediate environment though litter in the surrounding sea continues to be an issue.   

Having choices is what most people want. KK wins hands down in that criteria. The restaurants and cafes cater for a more diverse segment of society. If you look hard enough you can find food and beverages that will please most.   Sandakan at best has only a handful of places that would come close to catering for a discerning connoisseur. 

So, there you have it my impressions of the two. The crown for most liveable place is firmly on the head of KK city. Sandakan’s glory days of the early 20th century are well and truly gone, but who knows the Phoenix may in one day rise from the ashes again. 

Historical Sandakan before and after World War 2

The Self Conscious Selfie

Just finished reading an article hypothesising on the current social  phenomenon of the Selfie - 'Selfie Addiction' by Hilary Cadigan.

Apart from the word itself sounding painfully indulgent, the idea that there is more to it  than just people taking photos of themselves is very intriguing.

In a nutshell, the article examines an authoritarian society that sets limits of self-expression to a long-standing set of social norms.  Conformity is paramount to this social order where collectivism overrides all forms of individualism. Selfies are contra to this long established mantra.  It's viewed as self-promotion and deemed as inappropriate. Consequently, the powers to be have become exceedingly uncomfortable with this practise to the extent it has been publicly denounced.

Is it really this deep and meaningful?

To be honest, I hadn’t given it much thought beyond the obvious nauseous narcissist that can be often seen on Facebook and other similar social media. Do these people really desire excessive attention?  Are they afraid of becoming irrelevant if not constantly posting images of themselves in cyberspace to family and friends?

Perhaps it is much more mundane than this.  Maybe just a bit of harmless fun?

These are my thoughts for what it’s worth.

When I was at an age to be inclined to indulge in this sort of thing, the means to do so were not easily available.  You did occasionally try to point a camera at yourself, but getting it just right for a quality photograph was hit and miss.  The camera was generally heavy and at arms length you could not predict what was going to be in the frame with any certainty. There was no digital photography and film was expensive. The idea of “wasting a shot” generally meant you didn’t do it and besides, there was no instant gratification;  you had to wait to get the film developed.

Compare those times to now.  The dedicated camera has been replaced by the ubiquitous mobile phone.  Small and light to use, digital technology means you can take as many photos as you wish, to get that perfect shot.  You also see what you are  shooting due to the front facing camera and receive instant gratification to boot.

I'm part of this digital age and own an up-to-date mobile phone with all the bells and whistles, but I don’t take selfies. 
(Slight qualification - on rare occasions when forced to) 

Why?

I have no desire to admire my ageing face and am not the slightest bit in love with my self-image. This doesn’t mean I hate myself, mind you, but I know what I am and don’t need to be reassured each and every day how good I look for my age - polite lies at best.  Drawing attention to myself in this way is shallow and meaningless.  I would much prefer to be known for my conversational and writing skills - better or for worse.  Give me substance over form any day.

The selfie is predominately the domain of the young with plenty of free time to indulge. 

I’m sure in some instances it is a declaration of independence, but for the most part I feel its more to do with boredom,  herd/group mentality, convenience and of course a little self promotion thrown in.   

This is more like it!

Writer's Routine

The alarm announces the day with an irritating excuse for an uneven melody.  Perfect because it works.  Five a.m. and the long days journey into night begins.  No light yet, just the stirring sounds of workers reluctantly preparing for a repeat of yesterday. 

The dog lets out a barks of frustration as a lone male walks in front of the house.  The thought of breakfast breaks through the befuddled mind as it fights the urge to remain inactive. No bouncing out of bed to meet this new day.  Slow right sided roll to the edge of the bed, then an arm thrush to stagger into an upright position.  Unsteady gait, a balancing act on an imaginary tight rope, undignified thrusting of one then the other leg into the opening of a pair of shorts.  The engine needs time to warm up. 

The early morning pre-dawn air is thick with moisture as he walks up the stairs to the kitchen at the back of the house to prepare the breakfast.  Two bowls of cereal and three cups of coffee begins the ritual.  Pairs of eyes stare into miniature screens to peruse any information that has made a difference. The sounds of eating, ironing and bathroom duties reverberates throughout the house as time watching becomes increasing paramount.

Six a.m. is the deadline for departure, to be met by most members of the household except for me.  The first sliver of tropical light dances over the surface of the weatherboard houses.  Wave goodbye, watch the car disappear around the corner and like a recluse retreats to the sanctuary of electronic aids of information and creativity.  The door is firmly closed and locked to shut out the increasing active outside world. 

Time marches on, an active mind makes it fly along, an inattentive one grinds it to a halt.  Reflection and mulling leads to periods of both.  Hours can turn into minutes or minutes turn into hours; the dice of daily fate decides.  Thus is the meanderings of a reluctant scribe. 

Inspiration flows like a creek bed in a dry country; flood or drought with zilch in between.  The tap is either on or off.

Working feverishly on the keyboard, thoughts to bytes building upon themselves creating layers of stone to support the complexity of ideas that form the structure of a new story. 

Otherwise, lying on the bed watching the mosquitoes circling the room wondering which one will attack next.

Ten thirty and the next pattern begins. Showered and prepared to enter the outside world of predictable chaos.  The ebb and flow of unbridled emotions a constant in the background during the walk from one sanctum to another - the coffee shop.  Twenty minutes of automation, one foot in front of another, no thought involved, a well ingrained path in the memory of routine.

Sanctum Two, the weigh station, the second home of possible creativity.  Coffee and cake, the fuel needed to plough on through a very long day.

Fleeting moments of conversation coupled with reading and writing; the pattern never straying too far from the original. Struggling to avoid the pitfalls of staying relevant to the world of the reader, staring and thinking, examining every nook and cranny for inspiration. 

Twelve thirty, work completed, uncompleted or not started. The dice only knows;

automation takes over again.

Inner sanctum one has changed shape and form by the afternoon light.  Neither comforting nor reassuring, but a place that separates the outside world from the existential self.

Period of satisfaction or despair, the struggle continues on and off until five pm when the routine of others intervene.    The need for sustenance brings with it normality as daily events are discussed around the table.  Writer’s inspirational thoughts and ideas simmer in the background all but forgotten. 

Domestic duties prevail until seven thirty.  Propped up in bed, no television, nor radio for distractions, just the electronic companion which screen dimly lights the four nondescript walls. Ideas surface without warning; being prepared to grab and mould them when they do is the key. The search never stops, the peak is never conquered, good is never good enough. Productive or not, the end comes when the writer no longer needs this day but yearns for the next.

Noise Noise Go Away

As I enter my later years, the idea of spending it in peace and quiet appeals. I  have never been big on noise and at my age even minimal consequential sound rubs me up the wrong way.

Let me explain my predicament.

A chronological time line in a day in the life of a phonophobic. 

I live in a middling suburban area 4 miles from the town centre as the crow flies or in this part of the world, the egret. 

The houses are very close together and are generally made out of plywood or similar material. Being in the tropics and in a poorer part of town, ( no air conditioning ) the windows are always open to let whatever cooling breeze there is do its  job, so hearing the neighbours’ slightest movements or conversations even 2 or 3 houses down is common place.

The house I live in is half way down the street.  Most dwelling here have dogs.  Not the pet type per-say, but the so called guard dog variety.  The idea apparently is that the dog will warn the owner of an intruder and save the day.  Great in theory but… From 3 am onwards, 3 times a week the local garbage collection takes place.  This street is a dead end and the truck is reluctant to drive down it in a normal manner stopping at each house and emptying the refuse in the back.  Oh that would be too easy.  Two men are dropped off at the top of the street and walk down emptying the bins along the way and dragging the contents to a central location for collection.  This process takes about 5 or so minutes, a time when every dog in the street goes mad wanting to tear these men to shreds. 

 These dogs are never walked, never leave their yards, so have a lot of pent up territorial frustration.  Believe me, it’s like the Hounds of the Baskervilles. The funny thing is these dogs at times don’t react to more suspicious activities such as roaming packs of local youths walking by. Go figure.

To the left is a place where maybe a dozen plantation surveying workers reside.  Generally, they are fairly quiet apart from the period between 5.30 and 6 when they are getting ready to go to work and sit outside waiting for the companies vehicles to pick them up. On most days, a rather rotund man with outlandishly oversize shorts and workman’s singlet sits on the outside of the house adjacent to my dwelling, sawing and whittling away pieces of wood to make into surveying pegs.  This process starts at 6 am and finishes maybe midday when the sun has finally reached that side of the house.  Constant chopping and gnawing away on wood is the most irritating noise known to man; well at least this man.  These workers also have a tendency to shout at each other, even when they are standing 2 feet apart.  Either they are deaf or insensitive, or both. 

 Just as this is going on, my mother-in-law for reasons unknown to all but herself wants to sing renditions of P. Ramlee’s classics at the top of her voice.  Oh how I long for the morning chatter of the songbirds and the gentle mooing of the cows as they walk towards the milking shed.  Ahhh Bliss.

Turning to the other adjacent house, lives an old couple whom I would have expected to be longing for a quiet peaceful existence.  No such luck.  I might get myself into trouble saying this, but what the heck. The old man is deaf, so as most deaf people do, shouts at the top of his voice when he wants attention.  As luck has it, a mere dozen times a day.  The lady, I call her in my fits of annoyance a fish monger’s wife. My own wife gives me a dirty look when I state this bleeding obvious fact.  For I can’t imagine a better proponent of the art of shouting out “ Fish for sale tuppence a pound . Cum and get ya fresh snapper ‘ere. Cook the old man somefing fresh for din din’s.”  In the most high pitched irritating squark possible… Well - she would, if she could speak English, but you get the point. 

By early afternoon most days, the gas cylinder exchange truck barrels along the street honking its horn incessantly; nothing subtle about its message.  The double advantage of being on a dead end road - get to hear it twice in 30 seconds!

The area opposite the house is owned by the Girl Guides association even though I never see them there. The hall is rented out for various functions or activities, bamington in the evenings ( only hear the occasional grunt ) and mainly weddings that can occur any day but mostly on the weekend. If I am really lucky it’s twice a day, a constant ear splitting band belting out local favourites at 80 decibels, with a singer who thinks they can sing screaming, sorry - calm down now, blood pressure up -  I mean, hitting high notes, a little off key.

To top it all off as evening approaches the local discotheque, which is 300 metres away, revs up to terrorise the neighbourhood until 3 am. Pure bliss, sandwiched between a wall of noise. 

Not all is lost though. You know how I said I longed for the sounds of the country, the neighbours 2 doors down have procured a rooster. This kindly animal allows a brief respite from the disco music and doesn’t offer a cock a doodle doo until 4am.  I now have company in the mornings when the garbage truck doesn’t come.  

Now dear reading you might be thinking all this has everyone around here tearing their hair out in frustration, but I can assure you, no such thing.  It only bothers me. Yes, only little old me is going grey through the battle ground of the sound waves.

I have only one more thing to say before I sign off. 

Are there any decent ear plugs in Sandakan?