Monthly Archives: May 2012

Shark Stories Two

“Shark! Shark! Lorki!” Euart is shouting.

7 Meters below I see 4 fish gleaming in the green water below, they drift after each other in a lazy circle.

“Lorki!” he yells again in Thai. The other boat drivers in the lagoon look up at us, the two precarious figures perched on the cliff. I look up at Euart, my trusty climbing guide, who is perched a couple of meters above me. He is pointing incessantly and with wide eyes. “I dont believe you!” I yell at him, partly because I dont want to believe him, partly because he is a jokester with big smile.

He wasnt smiling. “No. Serious.” He said, continuing his lingering point.

The objects below did not lie, now 5 figures slowly circle in the radiant water. My resting point on the cliff face is a bonzi-esq tree that has managed to grow horizontal from the limestone. It is here, upon my perch, that I start to question the safety of our Deep Water Solo rock climbing trip. As things go, when you forgo the safety of the mass cattle car tours, the ones with the speedboats and all that. On a lagoon sandbar, a few meters away from circling death, the fat white tourists play, next to a speed boat splashed with images of other fat white tourists. Their skin matches the color of the sand.

“Well, we wanted adventure!” I yell at Linzay. She’s standing next to Kinny, our guide, who is donning a snorkel and mask, which Im assuming is only to jump in and see if we are actually dealing with sharks here. I can only smile to myself, and sit back on my little bonze perch. Naturally, this would happen on my very first climb of the day. In my reflection, I realized that I had made it past the massive sea urchins, climbed through the meter or so of razor sharp oyster beds and up to a height that had started to make my hands sweat, all of that only to find a small gang of sharks guarding my only exit off of the jagged limestone wall.

The boat diver pulls on the anchor, moving Kinny in position for his dangerous exploration.  “Not shark!” they yell up, which was good news for the boat load of pale russians. I can see the look on Linzays face from my perch, and I can tell that their conclusion wasn’t enough for Linzay. Linzay only fears sharks as much as she fears jumping from high places. Two factors working against us on this trip.

Kiwiano Fruit Review

“It looks like a puffer fish.” Lucy’s eyes are wide as she looks at the crazy fruit.

I agree with her. The Pufferfruit in question is, in fact, a Kiwiano or Spike Melon. It doesnt really look like a Kiwi, mostly because it is orange and sharp, making it a surprising contrast to the furry little kiwi fruit. I suspect that this fruit is native only to New Zealand. Overall, its appearance looks like something that could only evolve in such a remote place. In the grocery store, it stood out amongst the plainer fruit, like a punk rocker in Pakistan.

We cut the little monster open and find a jelly like center with cucumber looking seeds. The insides are a colidiscope of green and orange symmetry. It smells rather plain. Carefully we try to cut the pods of jelly away from the inners, but only succeed in spilling it everywhere. So,we unofficially decide to rip into the open side. The whole thing looks rather barbaric. Amongst our slurping and slushing, we get poked by the sharp horns, which only succeeds in slowing the whole process down. The horns serve as the fruits last stand against our aggression.

I really dont understand what the fruit is protecting, the taste is most like a cucumber, which humbly ambles it self along the ground. Clothed in its plain green, the cucumber taste slightly less sweet but is probably just as filling.

We finish mopping up the last bits and look at each other. “ It doesn’t taste like much. A little bit like a tart cucumber.” I get out my red pen and mark my list labeled “Acceptable Produce for Me to Grow in the Future.”

Kiwiano gets a red line through its center.

Tombak’s Place

“Did you find eden?” my dad asked over a scratch connection.

“Yeah.We did”

Paradise can be found. Unfortunately, the road to there is wide and lined with expensive high rises.Usually, we stumble on it accidentally, rarely it is planned. It takes me by surprise, making it nearly impossible to write about. These rare places that escape my ability to describe them, pictures dont even do it justice.

Tioman island was our taste of Malaysian paradise, a place seemingly void western trampling, where the locals still smille as you pass. We where routinely flagged us down to chat, time was an easily shared commodity. Once, a local bar ran out of its signature banana-passion fruit bread. “Too bad” I said to the man behind the counter. He smiled at me, ” Stay here.” he told me.With that, he ran to his scooter and sped off down the one road into town.5 minutes later he retuned holding a warm loaf of bred. “Just made by my wife.” Unsurpassed customer service.

The food is from the sea, caught by local longboat fisherman. The beer is cold and the ocean warm. We jump off the pier. Nearby sea turtles surface, as if to ask what we are doing. They are the only local authorities. Hammocks and coconut drinks on white sand.

On top of that, one very cool bar. Handmade from driftwood, it looks more like an elaborate tree fort than a bar. Reggae seeps from the walls. The door reads “Tobaks Beach Club.” Tobak is a skinny and agile man, with long shiny black hair and a few tattoos. He runs the joint with his wife Anne, a friendly pretty woman with a big smile. Between the two of them, they also guide for any activity you would ever want to do. Rock climbing, kayaking, camping, snorkeling, the list goes on forever. Visit there site here.

Im halfway through a drink called a JCC BOOM, when Tobak starts lighting stuff on fire. In front of the club, two orbs of light spin seamlessly in the fading light. With the fire he does impossible things, spinning and looping. He returns unchared, smiling and slightly out of breath. “For you.” He says. We are the only ones in the bar. For the remainder of the night we sit and talk about adventure. My only regret is that we only set aside 4 days. Far too short for paradise.

Sali & King Kong

Sali has the most amazing smile, despite not having very many teeth. As a result, the side teeth end up holding things down, while the middle lacks proper representation. However, whatever hes missing he makes up for with his eyes, which contain a charismatic sparkle reserved for beloved grandparents.

“I am Sali,” he says pointing to his hawaii-ish t-shirt “This is mr. King, who we call King Kong.” He gestures  behind the wheel, to the teenage looking guy with chrome Elvis glasses. Its early but all 7 passengers laugh. He’s a pro. Because Sali is armed with a microphone, I fear that we may end up with an enexpected 3 hour tour from Singapore to Mersing, Malaysia, which would inevitably make me hate this gental and kind man. Sali spares us the minutia, hes too cool for that.

The last thing he said before we collectively drifted off to sleep was “Please hold on as we are not taking the highway, but a side road. It may be bumpy.”