Life and Death on The Russian Sub-Arctic Tundra
The Czech built twelve-seater turboprop aircraft descended through the clouds to 300 metres above the sub-arctic Kamchatka tundra. Spitting rain hit the windows as we flew over the Belogolovava river estuary to land on a rough wet dirt airstrip beside the small salmon fishing settlement of Khaiusovo. For the next seven weeks six of us would live in tents on a small dry patch of land by the boggy tundra edge some six kilometres southwest across the estuary - two Russians, two Brits and two Australians. Our mission: to investigate the significance of this region for migrating waders on the Asian Australasian flyway during the northern summer months.
From mid October until early May the estuary is frozen over and the ground covered in snow. For the Russian fishing families and Indigenous reindeer herders that live here year round, winter is their preferred travelling time. The frozen tundra makes it is easy to move about by track vehicle. But in the summer, with the ground soft and with no roads to anywhere, the only way in and out is by the monthly coastal supply ship, plane when the weather permits or horseback following the Reindeer herds.
For the birds it’s different. In May, the tundra comes to life with wild flowers, insects and Brown Bears with newborn cubs. The Eastern Curlew, Long-Toed Stint, Dunlin, Red-Necked Pharalope, Lesser Sandplover, and Common and Wood Sandpiper nest here. A few hundred kilometres to the north there are breeding Spoonbill Sandpiper, Grey-Tailed Tattler, Terrick Sandpiper, Godwit, and Red and Great Knots. And, even further north within the high Arctic Circle, Grey Plover, Ruddy Turnstone and Red-Necked Stint establish their nests after the snows have melted. By mid to late June, once their chicks have hatched, adult females leave the nesting grounds to feed on mudflats along estuaries around the Sea of Okhotsk. No one has systematically studied waders in the Belogolovava river estuary in May and June so we don’t know how, or even if, migratory waders use this area on their northern journey to these breeding grounds. But, the leg flags of two Great Knots attached at 80 Mile Beach in Western Australia last February and handed to us by Russian hunters who had shot them near the estuary in May, suggest they pass this way.
By early July there are more than 35,000 adults in breeding plumage feeding daily on the mudflats. We think these are females from the nesting grounds but genetic testing from bloods collected from captured birds is yet to confirm this. Later in the month males arrive and by the last week in July a dramatic change in wader flocks takes place. Within just a few days juveniles arrive from the nesting grounds to feed up for the journey south. In the weeks before this we observed adult waders lifting off the mudflats to rise high into the sky during the long evening twilight hours. They form rough V shapes while heading south-west on migration over the Sea of Okhotsk.
The largest flocks using this estuary are Great Knot and Black Tail Godwit with individual flocks of 15,000 on some days. We now know from re-sightings of flagged birds that these waders will spend more than two weeks at this site. Our observation of body weight gain shows how significant this region may be for success in the southward migratory journey. What we don’t know yet is how these specific flocks travel from here and the extent of reliance they may have on the Yellow Sea to the south– a region with rapidly decreasing mudflats for wader feeding. The banding program will inform us about this over the coming year as re-sights are reported across the flyway. More than 600 waders were banded and flags attached. Individual identification engraved letters and numbers are on the ‘black over yellow’ flags attached to Black-Tail Godwit and Great Knot.
Our daily routine involved undertaking re-sightings of flagged waders by day and using nets to catch, band and undertake biometric measurement by night. Flag re-sightings were of birds that had passed through Taiwan, Thailand, Japan, China, Australia and New Zealand among other south Asian countries. Queensland birds were there too. There were Great Knot and Grey Tail Tattler from Toorbul, Brisbane Port and Manly roosts.
On the tundra and the mudflats there were some special finds. A few critically endangered Spoonbill Sandpipers start their southern migration from here. Juvenile Western Sandpipers that use the American Flyway also feed up here before heading east to migrate to Alaska and down the Canadian and US coast.
Wader mortality is low in Australia. Only the fit and robust birds make the journey successfully. In Kamchatka it’s different. Along the edges of the Tundra old and sick waders end their lives. Arctic Skua, Peregrine Falcon, Hobby and large Gulls predate vulnerable young birds before they learn to join larger flocks for protection. This is a place where life is renewed but death is common.
The expedition was organised through the All Russian Institute for Nature Protection and took place in July and August 2016. The expedition members were Dmitri Dorofeev (RU) Alexander Matsyna (RU) Ric Elles (UK) Hazel Watson (UK) Peter Crighton (AU) and Robert Bush (AU)
Dinner in Yangkou
It is a little after 7.00 pm and already dark along Yangkou’s main street. A dank odor rises from the muddy shallow river that borders one side. On the other, shops, eating places and assorted small businesses prosper from China’s rapid development. Through dim street lighting I can see fishing vessels tied up along the river wharf. Their cargo of fish from the Yellow Sea was off loaded earlier in the day and the women that sit along the wharf mending nets have gone home for the night. On the opposite riverbank is the bright florescent light of welding touches burning through the pitch-black night air. The smell of metallic oxides drifts over the river surface and across the main street. Well into the night boat builders construct ever more fishing vessels on makeshift rigs set upon rough wasteland along the opposite riverbank.
Winter has pasted but summer is still to arrive. There is a chill in the night air that drifts through the open window of the restaurant we are in the habit of visiting each evening. They don’t speak English here and we have very little Chinese, but this place has a window into the kitchen and on a shelf behind it are plates of food. We point at dishes, order beers, sit down and wait. This works well. Scrambled egg with cooked tomato, chicken pieces chopped anyhow-old-how in thick brown gravy, green stir-fried vegetables, and shell fish of almost every conceivable kind collected daily from the nearby mudflats and placed on the lazy suzan in the centre of our round table.
I like the way we eat here. Gathered around we English speakers and our Chinese driver help ourselves to food off the turning lazy suzan, drink a beer and chat about the day’s events. Plates of food arrive periodically from the kitchen and are placed higgledy-piggledy before us. There is a sweet smell of shellfish. We select our own portions and listen to each other’s stories, waving and pointing our chopsticks with ever increasing confidence. We drink low alcohol beer because we have not yet found a way to ask for the stronger stuff. How different this is to the ridged formula of the three course European meal served in some strict conventional order on a white tablecloth.
Chilly air passes through the open window. The flashing neon lights from the massage parlor next door reflect off the cream walls around us. There is a sharp crackle from the karaoke sound box on the path outside. A local man holds up the microphone and puts is atonal voice to tinny Chinese pop. Our driver explains though signs and drawings on his napkin that the footpath karaoke is designed to attract customers to the parlor. There is a happy ending on offer for any willing male customer. The more the man on the footpath sings, the more enthusiastic he becomes and the fewer the number of passersby’s stop to listen. The street marketing is failing. We close the window, the sound is muffled and we can here ourselves speak again.
The conversation turns to Temple wood. When the first of the artificial sea walls were built along the coast here about twenty years ago, a Buddhist Temple was constructed in the traditional style on the reclaimed land by the wall near the river mouth. By some miracle a small woodland of perhaps 1.5 acres survived this development. It’s rare to find woodland in this rapidly industrializing landscape now. It is stuffed full of birds on passage migration northward to their nesting grounds. We rise at 4.30 each day and arrive at Temple wood as the sun lifts from the east over the murky Yellow Sea. Far out over the water and across the industrial inland are huge wind turbines that cast long shadows over the tidal mud and the temple grounds at this hour. You can hear the constant dull grinding of generators in the background everywhere. Overnight, the birds have been flying from the south. A woodland by the coast is a welcome resting place. Below the leafy tops we stand waiting with our telephoto lenses and binoculars at the ready.
At dinner this evening the preoccupation is with the arrival of Leaf Warblers. These are small and green but with ever so subtle differences in wing bars and head eyebrow lines. They are a source of endless dispute around the table. Even a photograph snapped through the leafy branches will only capture a certain perspective and often not enough to definitively distinguish one species from another. And then of course they are all in moult getting ready to breed. Wing feathers take on small differences and similar Warblers might have quite different colours – some bright and some still worn and dull. Take the Arctic Warbler; green like the rest it has barely noticeable wing bars after a full season away from the nesting grounds, but if moulting has begun it might just be displaying one short white bar on the primary covert wing feathers. Such banter stirs within every birder at the table the motivation to rise again at 4.30 and head for Temple woods.
Compared to many other parts of urban Asia the street traffic outside is oddly quiet. Yankou is part of Rudong, a region becoming a carbon neutral city. Street lamps run off their own small wind turbines and solar panels attached to each lamp stand. Two-wheeler traffic passes silently under the eco-friendly lamps running off battery power rather than two-stroke fuel engines of the past. Agricultural machinery heading home from the fields along the main street at this hour also moves with a strange silence.
This is a place of winners and losers. At the edge of Temple wood a poor elderly women has planted beans in a makeshift garden. Some have been trampled underfoot by clumsy bird photographers keen for the perfect shot. Earlier that day she had chastised us and pleaded to have her crops respected. We feel guilty and wonder about giving her money compensation even through we are sure our own feet were not to blame. On the mud beside Temple subsistence shell farmers walk out in the cold early morning air to dig for shellfish to sell on to ruthless middlemen. A new highway now links the Temple area to the regional center. The roadside has been beautified with rows of small shrubs and garden flowerbeds. A goat famer, now without land, has tethered his flock within the urban highway flowers, mixing his old agrarian ways with the new aesthetic of acceptable neat urban landscape. Nearby, a spontaneous market springs up beside the new highway to sell farm produce. On the same road expensive European cars fly past driven by the new industrial elites reaping the benefits of modernization. In the small supermarket next to our restaurant are rows of packaged processed foods high in emulsified fats, starch, sugars and salt. The pace of change seems unstoppable.
In May 2014 I joined a migrating bird monitoring team in Rudong, China. We stayed in the rapidly developing town of Yankou by the Yellow Sea. Each night we eat at the same local restaurant on main street.
Winter has pasted but summer is still to arrive. There is a chill in the night air that drifts through the open window of the restaurant we are in the habit of visiting each evening. They don’t speak English here and we have very little Chinese, but this place has a window into the kitchen and on a shelf behind it are plates of food. We point at dishes, order beers, sit down and wait. This works well. Scrambled egg with cooked tomato, chicken pieces chopped anyhow-old-how in thick brown gravy, green stir-fried vegetables, and shell fish of almost every conceivable kind collected daily from the nearby mudflats and placed on the lazy suzan in the centre of our round table.
I like the way we eat here. Gathered around we English speakers and our Chinese driver help ourselves to food off the turning lazy suzan, drink a beer and chat about the day’s events. Plates of food arrive periodically from the kitchen and are placed higgledy-piggledy before us. There is a sweet smell of shellfish. We select our own portions and listen to each other’s stories, waving and pointing our chopsticks with ever increasing confidence. We drink low alcohol beer because we have not yet found a way to ask for the stronger stuff. How different this is to the ridged formula of the three course European meal served in some strict conventional order on a white tablecloth.
Chilly air passes through the open window. The flashing neon lights from the massage parlor next door reflect off the cream walls around us. There is a sharp crackle from the karaoke sound box on the path outside. A local man holds up the microphone and puts is atonal voice to tinny Chinese pop. Our driver explains though signs and drawings on his napkin that the footpath karaoke is designed to attract customers to the parlor. There is a happy ending on offer for any willing male customer. The more the man on the footpath sings, the more enthusiastic he becomes and the fewer the number of passersby’s stop to listen. The street marketing is failing. We close the window, the sound is muffled and we can here ourselves speak again.
The conversation turns to Temple wood. When the first of the artificial sea walls were built along the coast here about twenty years ago, a Buddhist Temple was constructed in the traditional style on the reclaimed land by the wall near the river mouth. By some miracle a small woodland of perhaps 1.5 acres survived this development. It’s rare to find woodland in this rapidly industrializing landscape now. It is stuffed full of birds on passage migration northward to their nesting grounds. We rise at 4.30 each day and arrive at Temple wood as the sun lifts from the east over the murky Yellow Sea. Far out over the water and across the industrial inland are huge wind turbines that cast long shadows over the tidal mud and the temple grounds at this hour. You can hear the constant dull grinding of generators in the background everywhere. Overnight, the birds have been flying from the south. A woodland by the coast is a welcome resting place. Below the leafy tops we stand waiting with our telephoto lenses and binoculars at the ready.
At dinner this evening the preoccupation is with the arrival of Leaf Warblers. These are small and green but with ever so subtle differences in wing bars and head eyebrow lines. They are a source of endless dispute around the table. Even a photograph snapped through the leafy branches will only capture a certain perspective and often not enough to definitively distinguish one species from another. And then of course they are all in moult getting ready to breed. Wing feathers take on small differences and similar Warblers might have quite different colours – some bright and some still worn and dull. Take the Arctic Warbler; green like the rest it has barely noticeable wing bars after a full season away from the nesting grounds, but if moulting has begun it might just be displaying one short white bar on the primary covert wing feathers. Such banter stirs within every birder at the table the motivation to rise again at 4.30 and head for Temple woods.
Compared to many other parts of urban Asia the street traffic outside is oddly quiet. Yankou is part of Rudong, a region becoming a carbon neutral city. Street lamps run off their own small wind turbines and solar panels attached to each lamp stand. Two-wheeler traffic passes silently under the eco-friendly lamps running off battery power rather than two-stroke fuel engines of the past. Agricultural machinery heading home from the fields along the main street at this hour also moves with a strange silence.
This is a place of winners and losers. At the edge of Temple wood a poor elderly women has planted beans in a makeshift garden. Some have been trampled underfoot by clumsy bird photographers keen for the perfect shot. Earlier that day she had chastised us and pleaded to have her crops respected. We feel guilty and wonder about giving her money compensation even through we are sure our own feet were not to blame. On the mud beside Temple subsistence shell farmers walk out in the cold early morning air to dig for shellfish to sell on to ruthless middlemen. A new highway now links the Temple area to the regional center. The roadside has been beautified with rows of small shrubs and garden flowerbeds. A goat famer, now without land, has tethered his flock within the urban highway flowers, mixing his old agrarian ways with the new aesthetic of acceptable neat urban landscape. Nearby, a spontaneous market springs up beside the new highway to sell farm produce. On the same road expensive European cars fly past driven by the new industrial elites reaping the benefits of modernization. In the small supermarket next to our restaurant are rows of packaged processed foods high in emulsified fats, starch, sugars and salt. The pace of change seems unstoppable.
In May 2014 I joined a migrating bird monitoring team in Rudong, China. We stayed in the rapidly developing town of Yankou by the Yellow Sea. Each night we eat at the same local restaurant on main street.
Two Small Rooms in Yau Ma Tei - Hong Kong
A middle aged women dressed in a well worn grey coat has made her home out of cardboard and tin sheets across the laneway from the Bridal Teahouse Hotel. Her makeshift home is about the size of a child’s single bed. A brown short-haired dog sleeps all day on the mattress of her little street shack guarding her few possessions. In the evening she takes it to a local park for exercise. Her street home is at the epicentre of the Yau Ma Tei Kowloon district in Hong Kong. This is the most densely populated urban space on earth. Its an urban warren that works well with established communities and street markets, businesses, eateries of all kinds, street cleaners and a sort of order in the chaos of crammed daily existence.
Fifty meters below her shack, trains pull into Yau Ma Tei underground station every two minutes off loading more than half a million passengers daily. Beethoven’s Bagatelle in A major plays softly and continuously on speakers at the platforms and in the passageways. What would Ludwig Von Beethoven have thought of the venue I wondered as each day I mount the two escalators and a flight of stairs to exit by Nathan road. From here its 70 metres passed the take away stalls and the ‘Eat Together’ 24 hour noodle bar next to the grey coated woman’s tin and cardboard shack to the Bridal Teahouse Hotel.
The Bridal Teahouse has 23 stories, which is about average for buildings in Yau Ma Tei. The block it stands on is a very small plot. It is so small that half of each floor is taken up accommodating the fire stair and a single lift shaft. There is just enough space for three individual small rooms on each of the 23 levels. The space for the door opening to the hotel room covers half the room width, the other half accommodating the bathroom. One step on and the edge of the double bed is reached, its length is exactly the room’s width. In this twelfth floor corner room the two windows are barred on the inside. To stop people jumping out in desperation perhaps, I reflect, as only a Spiderman burglar could come in at this height. To use the washbasin there are two options. Stand in the space by the external door or sit on the toilet. The shower, at less that half a meter square, is not for the overweight customer.
Waking up in the morning and looking up at the ceiling you know you are in a miniature room when the fire sprinkler nozzle features larger than life above you. Over the decades more and more safety features have been added. The over-engineered sprinkler has the hallmarks of a tube and piping factory in Barnsley when Hong Kong was in British hands. The fire alarm is Japanese and the most recent emergency lighting fixture is stamped ‘Made in China’.
Waking up in the morning and looking up at the ceiling you know you are in a miniature room when the fire sprinkler nozzle features larger than life above you. Over the decades more and more safety features have been added. The over-engineered sprinkler has the hallmarks of a tube and piping factory in Barnsley when Hong Kong was in British hands. The fire alarm is Japanese and the most recent emergency lighting fixture is stamped ‘Made in China’.
The bed mattress is designed to build character by its firmness and after a day or two to help you appreciate the softness of the woman in the grey coat’s bedding twelve stories below. Still, I like the place and recommend it to any adventurous spirit, providing their waist measurement is less than 38 inches.
(Uploaded in December 2013 following a short visit to Hong Kong)
(Uploaded in December 2013 following a short visit to Hong Kong)
The Start of a Journey
The Ambassador Hotel at Nana off Sukunvette road in downtown Bangkok has seen better days. Its once sky high seven stories are now dwarfed by the business towers that are the city centre. Up on the seventh floor passage the off-white vinyl wall covering has me feel I am in the bowls of an ocean liner well below the waterline. In my hotel bathroom the once chrome taps have worn to their brass foundlings and the bottom of the door has rotted away. Still, the air conditioner works and the place is central, cheap and safe.
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One hour later I walk with purposeless mindfulness or is it purposeful mindlessness past temple buildings and through a side gate to a long narrow deserted laneway. From an archway door opposite comes a voice.
“You can come this way, its part of the same place.” I follow a ‘young man who finds monks’ through a labyrinth of flagstone walkways with high whitewashed stone walls. We stop at a small dark red door. “The monk here will bless your journey.” Says the ‘man who finds monks’. He knocks and we wait a while. Eventually an elderly man in orange robes opens the door and beckons us in. We remove our shoes and I settle before the old man while the ‘man who finds monks’ settles on my left. The monk says prayers and takes a wood twig brush which he dips in a bowl of water. He taps me on the head with it and sprinkles water about by shaking the bush up and down. Then he opens a gold leaf covered box and takes out a piece of orange cord which he ties around my right wrist. The monk then stretches to his right and picks up a box which he places before me and opens the lid. It contains images of the Buddha in glass and silver pendant cases. “These seem expensive.” I say. ‘The man who finds monks’ speaks with the old monk, the box is removed and a wooden bowl is placed in front of me with images of the Buddha made of amethyst. I place some Thai Baht on a brass plate and the ‘man who finds monks’ tells me it is time to leave. We walk back in silence to the laneway and I take his picture. It is now midday and hot. I bend down to put my camera back in my bag, look up and find myself alone. Then I walk to the end of the laneway across a street and though a dry day market to a river pontoon where I take a local ferry down stream. I look down at my hands and notice an orange cord around my right wrist. The journey has begun I say to myself. The man who finds monks
(Uploaded September 2013 and base on a Journey to Thailand in 2008)
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Crossing the Mekong into Laos
The central bus station in down town Chiang Rai is a bustling confusing place for a foreigner. Tourists are more likely to use the newer intercity bus terminal on the outskirts of this north-eastern Thailand town.
I am thinking on my feet keeping my wits about me in the confusion.
‘Which is the bus to Chaing Khong, the Mekong border town?’
‘But which is the one that leaves next?’
‘Does it leave when full of passengers or at a specified time?’
‘Where do I pay: on the bus or elsewhere?’
‘What about my backpack, do I put it in a luggage locker or carry it on board and in any case will it get stolen from the bus locker?’
‘What should I do about food and water?’
I don’t even know if the bus stops or how long it takes to reach Chaing Kong.
I climb on board a bus signed for Chaing Khong at midday and share the space with several monks, some local villagers and a backpacker form Japan who is tightly clasping the latest copy of the Lonely Planet Guide to South East Asia.
I pay the conductor on board. She is wearing a corduroy hat that reminds me of the 60’s folk singer Donovan. Food sellers hold their offerings up to the bar-grilled bus windows. There is no glass. I barter for some unripe mango pieces, a can of coke, and some sticky rice wrapped in banana leaf.
The driver arrives, starts the engine and we set off at 12.50. Soon the flow of air off the wet rice fields streams through the open windows to cool my skin and send me into a lethargic dream. We bump and stumble along, dropping off and picking up until we reach the outskirts of Chaing Kong in a little under three hours.
The Mekong River is on the other side of this small sleepy border town. Ever since Lonely Planet mentioned the crossing was open to westerners a few have crossed here on a ‘road less travelled’ or is it now a road rather more traveled, into The Peoples Democratic Republic of Laos. The local tuktuk drivers are ready for the Japanese backpacker and me. We ride in separate Chinese made agricultural-people-mover-adapted-motor-bikes to the immigration post three kilometers away.
‘God Save the King’ reads the official sign above the Immigration Post a short way down the lane to the riverbank. This, it dawns on me is a defining moment. I began the story of the three great river journeys four years ago in the village of Lechlade near the source of the Thames River in England. A year later I traveled the Rajang in Borneo. But it has taken me a further two years to get here to the northern reaches of the mighty Mekong. I have viewed this unique river on the Mekong River Commission’s website many times, noting the rise and fall of floods and attempts to secure its bio-diverse basin. I have read the travel Blogs of those who have passed this way. I have even sourced river photos on Google image. But I have never stood next to South-East Asia’s greatest river. A river that borders six countries, is the source of survival for tens of millions of people, and a place were the politics of water is set to fragment international relations.
To get my passport stamped by Thailand’s Immigration Department I call out to wake up a slumbering uniformed officer. He barely looks up to check my photo, before pressing his departure stamp on a passport page and returning to his hammock in the shady corner of the building’s patio.
Full of anticipation I walk down the lane and onto the vast muddy bank of the river, then onwards in the exposed heat to a group of small narrow river boats, their bows pulled up onto the muddy bank. One is filled with locals and the man from Japan. His head is deep in the pages of his trusted guidebook. I climb onboard and take the last remaining wooden bench seat under the shade cloth. The boatman pushes the bow off the mud, climbs through his passengers to the back and steers the boat into the flowing current.
At first we move upstream close to the Thai shoreline to avoid the worst of the current. Then the boatman swings us out into the faster waters. The boat slides and drifts across down stream to reach the opposite bank some distance below a slipway. We motor up stream again in the gentler water and push the nose into Laosian river mud.
The locals do not bother with border controls in the Laos village of Huay Xai. They clamber off the narrow boat and walk slowly up the steep narrow sealed street to the village spread out over the hillside. At the first house on the north side of the river there is a covered patio where a dozen or so men sit drinking their Beerlao out of two litre bottles. The white concrete building on the south side houses the Immigration Post, official money-changer and tourist cafe with gift shop. I notice the lack of gifts. A nice idea I guess but without the supply line to keep stocks up. Several mangy sleeping dogs occupy it.
The man from Japan is shouting at the Immigration Official. Then, with a resigned look he takes a pile of visa forms and sits among the dogs to complete his entry requirements. I present my passport to the officer with my visa page open.
“Twenty Baht” he says
“But I have a visa, look here” I point to the page.
“Twenty Baht” he repeats
“Sorry but I have already bought visa, look here” I say trying to present as cool, calm and collected.
The Official bends down under his desk and then rises holding a makeshift cardboard notice written in Biro, which he places in front of me.
“20 BAHT – WEECKENDS OVERTIM RAT”
I pay up without a word of complaint
To get my passport stamped by Thailand’s Immigration Department I call out to wake up a slumbering uniformed officer. He barely looks up to check my photo, before pressing his departure stamp on a passport page and returning to his hammock in the shady corner of the building’s patio.
Full of anticipation I walk down the lane and onto the vast muddy bank of the river, then onwards in the exposed heat to a group of small narrow river boats, their bows pulled up onto the muddy bank. One is filled with locals and the man from Japan. His head is deep in the pages of his trusted guidebook. I climb onboard and take the last remaining wooden bench seat under the shade cloth. The boatman pushes the bow off the mud, climbs through his passengers to the back and steers the boat into the flowing current.
At first we move upstream close to the Thai shoreline to avoid the worst of the current. Then the boatman swings us out into the faster waters. The boat slides and drifts across down stream to reach the opposite bank some distance below a slipway. We motor up stream again in the gentler water and push the nose into Laosian river mud.
The locals do not bother with border controls in the Laos village of Huay Xai. They clamber off the narrow boat and walk slowly up the steep narrow sealed street to the village spread out over the hillside. At the first house on the north side of the river there is a covered patio where a dozen or so men sit drinking their Beerlao out of two litre bottles. The white concrete building on the south side houses the Immigration Post, official money-changer and tourist cafe with gift shop. I notice the lack of gifts. A nice idea I guess but without the supply line to keep stocks up. Several mangy sleeping dogs occupy it.
The man from Japan is shouting at the Immigration Official. Then, with a resigned look he takes a pile of visa forms and sits among the dogs to complete his entry requirements. I present my passport to the officer with my visa page open.
“Twenty Baht” he says
“But I have a visa, look here” I point to the page.
“Twenty Baht” he repeats
“Sorry but I have already bought visa, look here” I say trying to present as cool, calm and collected.
The Official bends down under his desk and then rises holding a makeshift cardboard notice written in Biro, which he places in front of me.
“20 BAHT – WEECKENDS OVERTIM RAT”
I pay up without a word of complaint
Mademoiselle Chanpeng Bous-aphon
Mademoiselle Chanpeng Bous-aphon relies on travelers turning left at the top of the steep narrow street up from the river and dropping into her roadside café hot and bothered from the climb. She is doing very well. In the house behind the café she has a choice of fan and no fan rooms. At $US 4 for the luxury of a fan she is running a place that has good deals. These days Mademoiselle Champeng takes an afternoon nap on account of her reaching her mid-sixties. She is replaced by her seven-year-old great nephew. He books me in and shows me to my fan equipped room. Later the young boy acts as waiter serving Beerlao to my table by the roadside.
In the late afternoon the sun sinks behind the houses and sits above the hills across the river back in Northern Thailand. Long shadows cross the quite street. The darkened wooden window frames turn mellow gold. When a Honda 50 cc passes it flutters peacefully enhancing the sound of near silence. Children begin to move out of their homes to play catch-me in the street and parents walk toddlers up and down. Charcoal burners are fired up and smoke rises from makeshift pondoks where chicken wings begin to sizzle. Through the warm air the smell of cooking spices drifts about. Soon the light fades to darkness, a distant generator coughs into action and a street light flickers on. Moths gather around.
In the late afternoon the sun sinks behind the houses and sits above the hills across the river back in Northern Thailand. Long shadows cross the quite street. The darkened wooden window frames turn mellow gold. When a Honda 50 cc passes it flutters peacefully enhancing the sound of near silence. Children begin to move out of their homes to play catch-me in the street and parents walk toddlers up and down. Charcoal burners are fired up and smoke rises from makeshift pondoks where chicken wings begin to sizzle. Through the warm air the smell of cooking spices drifts about. Soon the light fades to darkness, a distant generator coughs into action and a street light flickers on. Moths gather around.
Mademoiselle Chanpeng has risen and returned to her desk at the side of the café. She surveys the days catch form the ferry crossing. Three or four European backpackers have arrived and a couple more have come for dinner. Mademoiselle Chanpeng’s two elder sisters cook food in a side room on a camp stove. The food is different to the sharp chilli paste of Thailand. More aromatic and thicker milder curry flavors come from the kitchen pots.
From her perch Mademoiselle Chanpeng commands the room.
“You drink here but you do not stay, why is this?” she confronts me
“But I am staying. I’m in room 2 by the balcony,” I protest.
“And you are here to see Gibbons?”
“No, I am looking for a boat down the river to Luang Prabang.”
“Buy a ticket from me and I will get you a ticket to Pak Beng and on to Luang Prabang. I will arrange for you to get to the boat tomorrow morning. This is better than what others can do.”
I part with half an inch of my much-devalued local currency, the Kip, which she places in a draw below her desk. I am to wait until the morning for a ticket she tells me.
“You have a nice place here,” I mention.
“I own it and run it with my sisters. You see, I never married,” Mademoiselle Chanpeng speaks in a tone that is neither resentful nor resigned. It is a fact of life.
Her great nephew brings me another Beerlao.
The following morning Mademoiselle Chanpeng is at her desk early. She brews percolated coffee in the French style on a small stove behind her chair. I accept her offer of the sweet thick black pick-me-up. She hands me an envelope with the instructions that I am to use the contents to purchase boat tickets. My half-inch wad has been broken down into two smaller piles each separately stapled together to a note. The first reads, ‘money for ticket to Pak Beng’ and the second reads ‘give this to boatman at Pek Beng for boat to Luang Prabang’.
A little later a young man arrives and leads me to a Toyota truck. I climb in the back with my pack and head off down the road to the riverbank where the slow boat south is waiting.
From her perch Mademoiselle Chanpeng commands the room.
“You drink here but you do not stay, why is this?” she confronts me
“But I am staying. I’m in room 2 by the balcony,” I protest.
“And you are here to see Gibbons?”
“No, I am looking for a boat down the river to Luang Prabang.”
“Buy a ticket from me and I will get you a ticket to Pak Beng and on to Luang Prabang. I will arrange for you to get to the boat tomorrow morning. This is better than what others can do.”
I part with half an inch of my much-devalued local currency, the Kip, which she places in a draw below her desk. I am to wait until the morning for a ticket she tells me.
“You have a nice place here,” I mention.
“I own it and run it with my sisters. You see, I never married,” Mademoiselle Chanpeng speaks in a tone that is neither resentful nor resigned. It is a fact of life.
Her great nephew brings me another Beerlao.
The following morning Mademoiselle Chanpeng is at her desk early. She brews percolated coffee in the French style on a small stove behind her chair. I accept her offer of the sweet thick black pick-me-up. She hands me an envelope with the instructions that I am to use the contents to purchase boat tickets. My half-inch wad has been broken down into two smaller piles each separately stapled together to a note. The first reads, ‘money for ticket to Pak Beng’ and the second reads ‘give this to boatman at Pek Beng for boat to Luang Prabang’.
A little later a young man arrives and leads me to a Toyota truck. I climb in the back with my pack and head off down the road to the riverbank where the slow boat south is waiting.
Three Amigos Cross the Border
We had applied to leave our adopted Islamic State earlier that week. It’s a fairly simple procedure of filling in a form that takes no longer than five minutes to complete. In a couple of days an officially stamped document is returned. With this, an up-to-date multiple entry visa and at least six blank pages in your passport, there should be no difficulty at the Kula Lurah Border Post between Brunei Darussalam and Malaysia. We Three Amigos were to cross the border after dark the following Friday night.
I say border but that isn’t strictly true. Brunei Darussalam claims from Malaysia (and formerly the British) the Limbang district where the Kula Lurah shantytown sits close to the immigration post. The Three Amigos, Daniel, Adrian and I planned to cross at this point to purchase our alcohol allowance for non-Muslims of 12 beer cans and two bottles of wine and have a beer or two while we were over there.
Thrown together by circumstance, we might never have undertaken such a nighttime venture were we in some other part of the world. Adrian is Malaysian Chinese and comes from Kuching in Sarawak; Daniel is from Liverpool UK but has worked for 28 years in Singapore and I’m from Australia. Adrian is a worried man. His contract has not been renewed and he will soon have to return home. He is Chinese Malay but doesn’t speak any Chinese language, his family loosing that ability a generation or two back. Daniel is everyone’s best friend. Chatty, he wears his heart on this sleeve and drinks beer to stay cool in the equatorial heat.
The Royal Brunei Constabulary had instigated a not-to-subtle system to discourage cross border drinking these last few weeks. ‘No Parking’ signs have been temporarily placed by the roadside a kilometer from the crossing point. It had begun to rain as we set out from the car to walk the distance. We were already rather late. It was 8.45 by the time we reached the immigration post. We needed to get over, purchase and get back in a little over an hour before the post closed for the night. To be Out-of-State without permission is a sackable offence under the 1963 Emergency Powers Act.
The Kula Lurah crossing is always a scene of chaos and frustration; under manned, overstretched and lacking modern facilities. The immigration computers are constantly down. But, we were over in less than 15 minutes this time and headed 50 metres down the road, then left down a dark laneway to a large well lit shed made of cast off timber and corrugated iron on the edge of the forest. There, my contact, Janin who is an Iban tribesman, runs his illegal makeshift bar and bottle shop. Well, not much of a bottleshop really. He keeps the grog somewhere distant from the drinking shed because of regular police raids. That way he doesn’t loose too much stock. This week he’s got in Australian Hortons Burgundy and a Lindamens Red plus the usual selection of Tiger and Carlsberg beers. We ordered a dozen beers each and six wine bottles and for this we got to drink free beers till 9.30. Janin knows how to look after his regulars.
I say border but that isn’t strictly true. Brunei Darussalam claims from Malaysia (and formerly the British) the Limbang district where the Kula Lurah shantytown sits close to the immigration post. The Three Amigos, Daniel, Adrian and I planned to cross at this point to purchase our alcohol allowance for non-Muslims of 12 beer cans and two bottles of wine and have a beer or two while we were over there.
Thrown together by circumstance, we might never have undertaken such a nighttime venture were we in some other part of the world. Adrian is Malaysian Chinese and comes from Kuching in Sarawak; Daniel is from Liverpool UK but has worked for 28 years in Singapore and I’m from Australia. Adrian is a worried man. His contract has not been renewed and he will soon have to return home. He is Chinese Malay but doesn’t speak any Chinese language, his family loosing that ability a generation or two back. Daniel is everyone’s best friend. Chatty, he wears his heart on this sleeve and drinks beer to stay cool in the equatorial heat.
The Royal Brunei Constabulary had instigated a not-to-subtle system to discourage cross border drinking these last few weeks. ‘No Parking’ signs have been temporarily placed by the roadside a kilometer from the crossing point. It had begun to rain as we set out from the car to walk the distance. We were already rather late. It was 8.45 by the time we reached the immigration post. We needed to get over, purchase and get back in a little over an hour before the post closed for the night. To be Out-of-State without permission is a sackable offence under the 1963 Emergency Powers Act.
The Kula Lurah crossing is always a scene of chaos and frustration; under manned, overstretched and lacking modern facilities. The immigration computers are constantly down. But, we were over in less than 15 minutes this time and headed 50 metres down the road, then left down a dark laneway to a large well lit shed made of cast off timber and corrugated iron on the edge of the forest. There, my contact, Janin who is an Iban tribesman, runs his illegal makeshift bar and bottle shop. Well, not much of a bottleshop really. He keeps the grog somewhere distant from the drinking shed because of regular police raids. That way he doesn’t loose too much stock. This week he’s got in Australian Hortons Burgundy and a Lindamens Red plus the usual selection of Tiger and Carlsberg beers. We ordered a dozen beers each and six wine bottles and for this we got to drink free beers till 9.30. Janin knows how to look after his regulars.
Shantytown
The rain was now a heavy equatorial storm. The sound was deafening and conversation dwindled to the odd shout. Water poured off the tin roof in long lines onto the muddy laneway. The crowd around, drunk, laughing and shouting carried on without regard. Ibans, Dusons, Dyaks, Malays, Expats all mixed in across the shed. The Asian squatting toilet key, attached by a wire to a plastic plate, was handed around the shed as customers went to relieve themselves with regularity.
Anxious to get back across the border and worried that my car might be washed away in the storm, I left my Amigos to finish their drinks and headed out alone through the storm to the crossing. Three seconds of standing in the torrent and I was wet to the skin. The ink ran off my immigration card. The officer didn’t seem to care, eager to get home himself. “Got your alcohol allowance,” he said in a bored manner. “Yes,” I shouted back, but the noise of the storm drowned out any hope of conversation. He waved me on impatiently. At the Brunei counter I handed in my yellow ‘Alcohol Allowance for Non-Muslims’ document and got it stamped as required. Then I ventured down the road towards the car through the knee high flood waters. It was still there on a small hill above the water line beyond the ‘No Parking’ signs.
Once the rain had eased I drove slowly to the border, picked up my fellow Amigos and we headed back through the night to the capital Bandar with our stash of liquor - purchased illegally in a country that permits drinking and carried legally into a country than bans alcohol sales.
Originally written during by five years of employment in the Sultanate of Brunei Darussalam. I have changed my Amigos' names. The Shantytown has now been pulled down and a legal establishment built a little way down the road on the Malaysian side of the border.
Loaded May 2013
Anxious to get back across the border and worried that my car might be washed away in the storm, I left my Amigos to finish their drinks and headed out alone through the storm to the crossing. Three seconds of standing in the torrent and I was wet to the skin. The ink ran off my immigration card. The officer didn’t seem to care, eager to get home himself. “Got your alcohol allowance,” he said in a bored manner. “Yes,” I shouted back, but the noise of the storm drowned out any hope of conversation. He waved me on impatiently. At the Brunei counter I handed in my yellow ‘Alcohol Allowance for Non-Muslims’ document and got it stamped as required. Then I ventured down the road towards the car through the knee high flood waters. It was still there on a small hill above the water line beyond the ‘No Parking’ signs.
Once the rain had eased I drove slowly to the border, picked up my fellow Amigos and we headed back through the night to the capital Bandar with our stash of liquor - purchased illegally in a country that permits drinking and carried legally into a country than bans alcohol sales.
Originally written during by five years of employment in the Sultanate of Brunei Darussalam. I have changed my Amigos' names. The Shantytown has now been pulled down and a legal establishment built a little way down the road on the Malaysian side of the border.
Loaded May 2013
My Week as an Expat.
For some years I lived and worked in Brunei Darussalam. In April 2004 I wrote down one daily event for a week. Recently I edited this long forgotten text to add to these travel stories.
Sunday – The Munias have Chicks!
At last the Dusky Munias have produced three chicks!
Six months ago I moved into this apartment on the 10th floor of Pangsa Mars’zmala in the small capital of Brunei Darussalam. Ever since my arrival a pair of small dark brown finches with pale blue bills have been building nests in the bougainvillea bushes that grow in the window boxes beside the north-facing balcony. Until now they have abandoned each and every nest they had built.
Today is different. I woke at dawn to the call of chicks signaling hunger to their parents. The pair had succeeded at last. They fly back and forth with food gathered from the rainforest hillside 100 metres away.
Maybe it was the new collection of music that encouraged them to succeed this time. The Dusky Munias have produced three offspring to sounds of Jeff Buckley, Norah Jones and the Corrs to name but three.
At last the Dusky Munias have produced three chicks!
Six months ago I moved into this apartment on the 10th floor of Pangsa Mars’zmala in the small capital of Brunei Darussalam. Ever since my arrival a pair of small dark brown finches with pale blue bills have been building nests in the bougainvillea bushes that grow in the window boxes beside the north-facing balcony. Until now they have abandoned each and every nest they had built.
Today is different. I woke at dawn to the call of chicks signaling hunger to their parents. The pair had succeeded at last. They fly back and forth with food gathered from the rainforest hillside 100 metres away.
Maybe it was the new collection of music that encouraged them to succeed this time. The Dusky Munias have produced three offspring to sounds of Jeff Buckley, Norah Jones and the Corrs to name but three.
Monday – Two of my Mentors Die
Most mornings I like to catch the BBC World News on Astro TV before heading off to work.
The newsreader reports the deaths of two of last century’s great raconteurs. Both had been my heroes and I had never known life without then. Alistair Cook was an Englishman who lived his life in New York and delivered over the radio his ‘Letter from America’ each week for more than fifty years. He produced his last commentary on American life just two weeks ago at the age of 95. Peter Ustinov, a quintessential European, actor, commentator, teller of stories, director of plays and columnist, died in Switzerland aged 82. I last saw him in his one-man-show at the Brisbane Performing Arts Complex two years ago. He stood alone on a vast empty stage and held the audience spellbound through the telling of funny tales for almost two hours.
Most mornings I like to catch the BBC World News on Astro TV before heading off to work.
The newsreader reports the deaths of two of last century’s great raconteurs. Both had been my heroes and I had never known life without then. Alistair Cook was an Englishman who lived his life in New York and delivered over the radio his ‘Letter from America’ each week for more than fifty years. He produced his last commentary on American life just two weeks ago at the age of 95. Peter Ustinov, a quintessential European, actor, commentator, teller of stories, director of plays and columnist, died in Switzerland aged 82. I last saw him in his one-man-show at the Brisbane Performing Arts Complex two years ago. He stood alone on a vast empty stage and held the audience spellbound through the telling of funny tales for almost two hours.
Tuesday – Anthony the Gym Instructor has New Glasses
Anthony, as he likes to call himself, is a handsome, serious and slightly anxious Bruneian gym instructor who manages the fitness complex in the Jerudong Medical Centre.
He is sporting a new pair of pale green glasses held to his head by straight side arms. He greets me like a long lost friend for I have returned after several weeks’ absence.
Anthony has devised a circuit training routine that takes me one and a half hours to compete and includes rowing the Oxford and Cambridge boat race twice a week on a high tech rowing machine. The machine has a screen with rolling pictures of the Thames to give me the feeling I am really there. I can beat Cambridge every time by not switching on their simulated boat so that it wallows at the start line while I speed towards central London.
Anthony, as he likes to call himself, is a handsome, serious and slightly anxious Bruneian gym instructor who manages the fitness complex in the Jerudong Medical Centre.
He is sporting a new pair of pale green glasses held to his head by straight side arms. He greets me like a long lost friend for I have returned after several weeks’ absence.
Anthony has devised a circuit training routine that takes me one and a half hours to compete and includes rowing the Oxford and Cambridge boat race twice a week on a high tech rowing machine. The machine has a screen with rolling pictures of the Thames to give me the feeling I am really there. I can beat Cambridge every time by not switching on their simulated boat so that it wallows at the start line while I speed towards central London.
Wednesday – New York Jazz Pianist Visits Bandar Seri Begawan
Japan established diplomatic relations with Brunei twenty years ago and to celebrate the Embassy have brought to Bandar Seri Begawan, Kuni Mikami, a Japanese jazz pianist who lives in New York, and mime artist Haruka Moriyama, for a concert this evening at the International Convention Centre. It’s free.
Kuni began by playing his own jazz version of the Japanese National Anthem. I noted the Ambassador and his wife sat motionless through the whole set. He followed with A-Train and a piece of jazz Bach. Great versatility I thought and great music played on a Kawai Keyboard. The stoic Japanese Ambassador continued his motionless posture throughout but the Brunei Minister for Sport, Youth and Culture allowed himself the pleasure of a little foot taping, the Almighty Allah bless him.
Then Haruka tackled the big issues in life with three mime pieces: ‘Dreams’, ‘Fear’ and ‘A Woman’s Life’- Apparently all choreographed by herself and based on her personal experiences. She is 23.
Japan established diplomatic relations with Brunei twenty years ago and to celebrate the Embassy have brought to Bandar Seri Begawan, Kuni Mikami, a Japanese jazz pianist who lives in New York, and mime artist Haruka Moriyama, for a concert this evening at the International Convention Centre. It’s free.
Kuni began by playing his own jazz version of the Japanese National Anthem. I noted the Ambassador and his wife sat motionless through the whole set. He followed with A-Train and a piece of jazz Bach. Great versatility I thought and great music played on a Kawai Keyboard. The stoic Japanese Ambassador continued his motionless posture throughout but the Brunei Minister for Sport, Youth and Culture allowed himself the pleasure of a little foot taping, the Almighty Allah bless him.
Then Haruka tackled the big issues in life with three mime pieces: ‘Dreams’, ‘Fear’ and ‘A Woman’s Life’- Apparently all choreographed by herself and based on her personal experiences. She is 23.
Thursday – Leftenan Kolonel Mohd Tawih Abdullah becomes a Pehin
On the advice of the Privy Council, the Sultan has consented to bestow the title Pehin on Leftenan Kolonel Abdullah who attends my Executive Development class on Tuesday mornings. He is one of five senior ranking Royal Brunei Military Officers in the class of 22. This afternoon at the Lapau and before the Royals and senior Pehins, with the Diplomatic Corp in attendance, the Leftenan Kolonel, wearing magnificent turquoise blue national dress with embroidered gold insignia, was invested along with four others.
He is now to be known as Yang Dimuliakan Pehin Datu Pekerma Jaya Leftenan Kolonel Awg Mohd Tawid bin Abdullah.
Following the investiture the new Pehin was driven in a military escort to the Mukim (small town) of Tutong, his ancestral home, and to his newly built house near the mouth of the river Tutong for a thanks giving ceremony; and it was to this that I received my invitation.
Senior Pehins in red tunics arrived first followed by a bearer with the scroll of office upon a yellow cloth and then followed the good Leftenan Kolonel with two Landrovers of honor guard dressed in black and carrying ceremonial spears, shields and his new personal flag. There are prayers in the house and then food is served in the hired marques in the garden, the local street and adjacent wasteland - women in one marquee and men in the others. Abdullah, as I know him, greets me with great enthusiasm and a formal hug. We pose for photographs and I am reminded again of the generosity and gentle kindness of Bruneians towards many others.
Later I meet my colleague Dr. Chee who tells me that a Pehin is supposed to have a small kingdom to rule but due to a shortage of land in the Sultanate a virtual kingdom on a website will do these days. Old Dr Chee smiles knowingly for he is aware as I am that a few weeks ago three senior public servants, one a serving military officer, were arrested and are being held without trial under the Emergency Internal Security Act for using a website to allege corruption among some senior officials.
On the advice of the Privy Council, the Sultan has consented to bestow the title Pehin on Leftenan Kolonel Abdullah who attends my Executive Development class on Tuesday mornings. He is one of five senior ranking Royal Brunei Military Officers in the class of 22. This afternoon at the Lapau and before the Royals and senior Pehins, with the Diplomatic Corp in attendance, the Leftenan Kolonel, wearing magnificent turquoise blue national dress with embroidered gold insignia, was invested along with four others.
He is now to be known as Yang Dimuliakan Pehin Datu Pekerma Jaya Leftenan Kolonel Awg Mohd Tawid bin Abdullah.
Following the investiture the new Pehin was driven in a military escort to the Mukim (small town) of Tutong, his ancestral home, and to his newly built house near the mouth of the river Tutong for a thanks giving ceremony; and it was to this that I received my invitation.
Senior Pehins in red tunics arrived first followed by a bearer with the scroll of office upon a yellow cloth and then followed the good Leftenan Kolonel with two Landrovers of honor guard dressed in black and carrying ceremonial spears, shields and his new personal flag. There are prayers in the house and then food is served in the hired marques in the garden, the local street and adjacent wasteland - women in one marquee and men in the others. Abdullah, as I know him, greets me with great enthusiasm and a formal hug. We pose for photographs and I am reminded again of the generosity and gentle kindness of Bruneians towards many others.
Later I meet my colleague Dr. Chee who tells me that a Pehin is supposed to have a small kingdom to rule but due to a shortage of land in the Sultanate a virtual kingdom on a website will do these days. Old Dr Chee smiles knowingly for he is aware as I am that a few weeks ago three senior public servants, one a serving military officer, were arrested and are being held without trial under the Emergency Internal Security Act for using a website to allege corruption among some senior officials.
Friday – The University Holds its Annual Indoor football Competition
The teams are: ‘the Legend of Xtraordinary Gentlemen’ ‘Unknown Pedestrian’ ‘Orang Minyak’ ‘Return of the King’ ‘Kasuki’ ‘Seven’ ‘Pala Otak Berjambul’ ‘Kembalinya Seorang’ and ‘ PSTU!’ (staff team).
We have our first game at 8.30 am and our last at 9.00 pm with a gap of several hours mid-day for prayers – its Friday. Tomorrow is the grand final before the Vice Chancellor and an exhibition match of Staff v Students. We reach the semi- final before being thrashed 5 – 1 by ‘Xtraordinary Gentlemen’.
The teams are: ‘the Legend of Xtraordinary Gentlemen’ ‘Unknown Pedestrian’ ‘Orang Minyak’ ‘Return of the King’ ‘Kasuki’ ‘Seven’ ‘Pala Otak Berjambul’ ‘Kembalinya Seorang’ and ‘ PSTU!’ (staff team).
We have our first game at 8.30 am and our last at 9.00 pm with a gap of several hours mid-day for prayers – its Friday. Tomorrow is the grand final before the Vice Chancellor and an exhibition match of Staff v Students. We reach the semi- final before being thrashed 5 – 1 by ‘Xtraordinary Gentlemen’.
Saturday – The St Andrews Society Annual General Meeting
The Royal Serasa Yacht Club has seen better days.
In a small back room with a failing air-conditioner and the sight of termite riddled wood paneling around, the St Andrews Society of Bandar Seri Begawan held its Annual General Meeting followed by magnificent food, much drink and dancing.
The Chieftain, Alex Irvin, began sharply at 7.00pm with his brief report describing another successful year of Scottish events in the Sultanate and concluded by congratulating the “ladies” for “holding their own” at the highland games tug-of –war. He announced his intention to stand for another year to the cheers of all who were keen not to prolong the meeting. Derek Tursby, a veteran of 22 years math teaching here and about to head home for the final time described the method for bringing drink into the country and getting it into the Empire Hotel during Friday prayer time for the Grand St Andrews Ball held each November. The batten will be passed to others to organize this military style undercover operation. To a resounding chorus of boos the treasurer apologized to all assembled for forgetting to renew the PO Box fee on time costing the society an extra $5 this year in late fees. Despite this hiccup a motion of confidence in the treasurer was passed with a short standing ovation.
Several members of the assembled Society praised the Chieftain for getting the meeting over in record time so they could return to the bar. As we headed for the door the events secretary announced there would be a whisky tasting night in May and asked for donations. Few were left in the room by the time he had finish his sentence. The meeting took just 23 minutes.
Sunday – The Fledgling Munias Have Left the Nest.
I awake this morning with a bit of a hangover and thankfully to silence. The Dusky Munia fledglings have left the nest.
Postscript
As it happens a play off between the two semi-final loosing football teams replaced the exhibition game on Saturday afternoon. So we got to play once more and beat ‘Unknown Pedestrian’ 2 – 0 in the presence of the Vice Chancellor no less. We were presented with bronze medals at the end of the day and our picture appeared in the following Monday’s Borneo Bulletin sports pages.
I awake this morning with a bit of a hangover and thankfully to silence. The Dusky Munia fledglings have left the nest.
Postscript
As it happens a play off between the two semi-final loosing football teams replaced the exhibition game on Saturday afternoon. So we got to play once more and beat ‘Unknown Pedestrian’ 2 – 0 in the presence of the Vice Chancellor no less. We were presented with bronze medals at the end of the day and our picture appeared in the following Monday’s Borneo Bulletin sports pages.