Not Quite Paradise

The time had come in our travels for a vacation.  For me this meant sitting on a beach somewhere, reading a book, sipping on a mango shake while  being as lazy as humanly possible.  I didn't want anything remotely cultural or physically demanding.  I wanted salt water to lick my wounds clean.

In a country surrounded on three sides by beaches, we chose the Perhentians.  These are two islands to the northeast side of mainland Malaysia.  Lonely Planet described them as being veritable spots of paradise on earth, complete with white sand beaches and leafy jungle treks.  Sounded good to us.  We loaded our bags onto our backs and made off to the bus station in Kuala Lumpur where we were to catch our overnight bus for the 8-hour journey.

This was the first stretch we had done by ourselves in awhile.  Most places in Asia you can get from point A to point B with the help of a travel agent.  Their method is to have a mini-bus to pick you up from the lobby of the guesthouse, where all you really have to do is produce a ticket and shift your body and bag to a big bus somewhere down the road.  Travel is usually so simple, it doesn't take much brain power at all, which can make a tourist quite lazy.  We had gotten lazy.  To find ourselves in a bus station with locals, all sweating and chocking on diesel fumes, not having any help at all in locating our bus--this was a shock to our systems.  Buses were parked in a line alongside the road.  Their engines gave a collective roar and we had to shout in order to hear each other as we passed from one bus to another, enduring blasts of fumes to the face, as we tried to locate the number we were given.  New buses were arriving every minute, and we'd shuffle through the crowed to see if it was ours.  This went on for some time, and it was getting closer to the supposed departure time.  Chris and I were sweating and getting quite perturbed by the whole scene.  Finally with the help of some higher power (or that of a nearby bus driver) we saw our bus came steering into port.  We tossed our bags into the hold and climbed aboard the beast.  The AC was on full blast, both a good and bad thing (good in contrast to the oppressive heat outside in the station, but bad once the novelty of it had worn off).  With my travel pillow and my scarf, I reclined the seat and tried to ignore the musty smell.  We settled into our accommodation for the night.

Our bus pulled away, just ten minutes behind schedule.  It's always a good moment when your mode of trasportation gets moving.  It gives you license to lean back and relax; the journey now underway.  I felt that way upon leaving Kuala Lumpur.  However just a few blocks down from the station our bus came to a complete standstill beside a highway.  For no apparent reason.  Chris used this opportunity to dart off to a gas station where he made use of the facilities.  He must have known that the bus wouldn't be making a pit stop for another five hours.  Sleep came as soon as the bus got rolling again.  There's something nice about the hushed, dark interior of a bus at night.  As long as the bus keeps up a nice, stable cruise speed, the gentle rocking can be very nice indeed.

The pit stop came in the early hours of the morning.  Facing a squat toilet while balancing my bag on my lap--well to be honest I had become quite used to it by then.  A real pro.  I stumbled back onto the bus and resumed my sleep.  I woke up periodically after that, as the bus began to make stops.  It can be quite ennerving at the end part of a journey, when you know you're in the vicinity of your destination, but you don't know just how far away you are.  None of the stops had any visible signs.  Communication wasn't very forthcoming from the driver.  Some of the passengers would alight and we'd be left sitting there, craning our necks to see if our bags were being dumped by the roadside.  Usually on these kinds of journeys we relied on other Westerners that were aboard, but there was one other foreigner on this trip, and he looked just as confused as us.  Finally the air turned gray with the early dawn's light and the expectancy was thicker in the air as everyone watched the bus turn corners.  We were all fully awake when we pulled around the last corner.  This was the end of the road.  As we grabbed our bags we were pointed in the direction of a kiosk.  The first boat was to leave at 6:00.  We bought return tickets, then also purchased a bus ticket back to KL, six days away.  That gave us five nights in the Perhentians.

As the light became stronger along the horizon, speedboats started humming to life in the water.  We were divided up into two groups--one for the big island, and one for the small.  We had opted for the small, having read that accommodation was cheaper on the smaller island.  There was some time spent getting settled in these boats.  Chris and I were put with two of the ugliest Russian girls I've ever seen (and I love Russian girls).  One of them had a mustache.  Then came the Germans, and the Dutch.  We were made to put on life jackets, and then the boats roared to life.  We sped through the water, kicking up spray as we raced the boat bound for the big island.  Somewhere along the way we had to stop and swap a couple.  The pair that left our boat, they had left their luggage behind.  The exchange had gone so quickly that no one even noticed.  I wonder what ever happened with that situation.

The wind was exhilarating.  The speedboat slapped the water, sometimes coming down so hard it actually hurt.  We were jostled about, but it was enjoyable.  With the salt spray and the wind, we were fully awake, watching as the islands grew bigger.  We rounded what looked like the smaller of the islands, carving a line through a cluster of locals out with their boats.   We approached a bay surrounded by fuzzy green hills.  The strip of white sand in the distance was Long Beach, our destination.  The engine lowered to a dull roar as moved deeper into the bay.  The water was extraordinary.  It was the clearest I've ever seen.  The saline density was lower than we had encountered in Thailand.  Between it's greenish-blue clarity and the smooth white sand underneath, this was looking like the paradise we had expected.

The speedboat stopped dead in the water.  A mere rowboat took us the rest of the way, though we had to pay for this unexpected transport.  Once we arrived on the beach, we could see what our little Perhentian island consisted of.  A row of resorts, restaurants and shops.  That was it.  There were no streets, not even any sidewalks.  It was a beach and then jungle.  This wasn't civilization.  This was Robinson and Crusoe.

We had to walk through the sand to get anywhere.  This was quite difficult with our heavy rucksacks and flipflops.  We approached the closest resort.  We were hoping for something ridiculously cheap.  I thought with the heap of garbage and the chicken-coup appearance of the place, we would be guaranteed a good price for a bungalow.  Nope.  There wasn't even any haggling.  Rather we were pointed in the direction of Happy Hippie Resort, or something close to that, just down the beach.  We trudged through the sand.  Thinking we had come to the Happy Hippie place, we made the aquaintance of Habiba.

Habiba's

It was the arsehole of Asia.  At least it felt that way.  The room was within budget, I'll give it that, but it was shocking.  Chris and I have stayed in some pretty dire places on this trip.  But this was beyond the limit of bad.  It looked as if we'd be staying in a refugee camp.  We told Habiba, 'Er, thanks but we'll keep looking.'  As we made our way down the path, he opened the door to another bungalow, this one just a bed and a mosquito net.  We thought the bathroom was through that door on the other side of the bed.  I opened the door to find a malarial swamp filled with garbage.  However, the bungalow was dirt cheap.  And with its low chalet-style roof, I tried to convince myself it was rustic, thus charming.  We could do this for a couple of nights, then move on.  Right?  While Chris went to check in, Habiba came down the path and took my hand.  Yes, this middle-aged man just grabbed me by the hand and walked me like a child into the trees.  I thought maybe he had seen the cloudy aberration on my eye and deemed me half-blind, I have no idea.  What he was in fact doing was showing me the outdoor bathroom.  Out past the plastic water bottle heap were the toilets.  These were the facilites for the refugee camp.  Hurricane Katrina refugees had better facilities.  Corrugated iron and chicken wire.  I ran back to Chris.  'We'll take the room with the bathroom,' I firmly told him.  Actually I didn't like either of the rooms and I didn't know what I was thinking, but we had told Habiba we were staying.  Now we'd just have to deal with our decision.

Chris was not well.  Ever since the heat and dirt of the bus station in KL he had been feeling feverish.  He was rendered inactive, lying in sweat under the mosquito net.  There was no electricity at Habiba's.  We were told the power only came on at seven at night.  This meant no fan in the tropical heat of our room.  I don't know how Chris could lie there like that.  I ate breakfast on my own and then went to sit on the beach.  There were a few interchanges with Habiba as I came and went.  I smiled at him, as he seemed like a nice guy.  I felt bad that his place was shit.  I felt bad because I think he felt bad, and he was trying to make up for it with smiles and friendliness.  He gave me a mat to sit on the beach.  I was conscious of his eyes upon me as I swam and sunned myself, but he was stationed at the entrance to his resort and didn't think he was particularly watching me.  There were other women out on the beach, and they were younger and cuter than my 35 year old ass.  I was slightly middle-aged and obviously married.  Sure, my husband was laying near-death in one of the shacks out back, but I wasn't giving anyone a show on the beach.  If anything, I took a nap.

Back in the room, Chris was out of it.  Why he preferred to lie under a mosquito net in a squalid tin shack instead of out on the beach, only he could tell you.  I read a bit, but left the door to the room open for fresh air.  I hitched my skirt way up and hoped not to draw an audience while I dozed off.  Well, Habiba must have come along while I was asleep.  The chair outside had moved into the doorway.  Maybe he sat down and watched us.  Or maybe he was just blocking the doorway to keep intruders out.  Who knows.  I remember telling Chris after my nap, 'When I woke up and realized that I was still here, I thought 'Oh crap.'   Oh crap, indeed.  And things were only going to get worse.

It began to get dark.  Chris was starting to feel marginally better.  I just wanted to get the hell out of Hippie Haven or whatever.  We made our way down the beach where passed by several much better looking resorts.  Dinner was eaten out on a terrace.  We were served by a very fine looking Scandinavian hippie.  We asked him how much the rooms were at the resort.  He didn't know, but he guessed a price.  The food was terrific, Western-style.  I figured if the food was this good, the rooms had to be on par.  I told Sven that we might be back later.

The beach was quiet at night.  There weren't any lights to light the way.  We looked for the darkest square in the darkness and found Habiba's.  It was now well after seven, and the power should now be on.  When we flipped the switches in our shack, only the lights came on.  The fan was kaput.  At least I could see with the light the bathroom, which I hadn't gotten a good look at before.  There was no toilet seat.  The back of the toilet had no top.  The ballcock was exposed, amongst the other inner things of the toilet.  There was no sink in the room.  Rather there was a tap.  Chicken wire was over the window.  Why?  The point I was at, I was like 'Why not?'  There was a showerhead, but when I turned the handle, no water came out.  Really?  How many other things were broken in this place?  It was actually quite funny.  Chris couldn't see the joke though.  The fan was not working.  He looked ready to cry so I gathered up my skirt and went to go see Habiba.  He was all smiles.  He came to our room and pounded on the outlet for awhile.  The fan came on and we felt we were saved.

We fell into bed, pulling the mosquito net around.  The mosquito net was not only useless (it had rips and holes that even a bat could fly through) but didn't even fit the bed.  We tried moving the bed over, but the fan was blowing the net right into Chris' face.  Chris was ready to throw a fit.  I tried to console him by saying, 'At least it's better than camping.'

I sought out Habiba again.  I wanted to ask him what time the power went out (it hadn't been made clear to us then).  Using a lot of sign langauge and near-shouting, Habiba still couldn't understand my question.  He thought it had something to do with our shower (I had told him about the shower not working, and in turn he had turned on some water thing).  He laid his hand on my arm, I thought this was because he was trying to reassure me that everything would be fine.  I didn't think much of it, other than Habiba was a friendly guy.  He tried getting someone on the phone to answer my question.  It was just awkward.  Finally I guessed that the electric would come on at seven.  He seemed to imply that it would.  I patted his arm, to reassure him that he wasn't stupid, and retreated back to our little hell on earth shack.  As Chris and I lay there, far from sleep, a loud rushing sound came from our bathroom.  'What now?' I thought.  Even before I checked, Chris was adamant, 'I can't stay here.  I can't stay here.'  I swung open the bathroom door to find a waterfall coming through the chicken wire on the window.  Should I let it go?  I wondered.  Oh for Pete's sake.  For the third time that night I had to seek Habiba out.

He was standing on the path in the dark, as if he were expecting me to return.  I kind of laughed when I saw him.  'You won't believe it, but...'  'Yes,' he said, smiling, putting his arm around my shoulder.  'It's the bathroom,' I began, leading him towards our shack.  And then Habiba did a very inappropriate thing.  The arm around the shoulder, I didn't mind.  Our room was crap, I needed some consoling.  However, in the dark, Habiba moved his hand down to my left boob and gave it a squeeze.  This totally came from left field, and it blinded me for a second.  I then grabbed Habiba's hand and threw it down.  'Don't do that,' I scolded him.  'Don't ever do that.'  We were now at the door of our shack, and it was awkward indeed as I went inside to see Chris.  I gestured towards the bathroom and Habiba went inside.  I grabbed up Chris and hissed, 'We're not staying here.  He just grabbed my boob.'  I don't think Chris had time to process this.  I was out of there.  I heard Habiba call after me as I stalked my way down the path to the beach, 'You not staying then?'  'Looks that way!' I called back to him.

The hour was late and the beach was very dark.  I walked as fast as I could in the sand, hoping I wouldn't fall into any pools of water.  I sought out the resort we had eaten dinner at, however everyone, according to the lone gentlemen at the restaurant, had gone off drinking.  There was nobody at the reception desk.  Just lovely.  I walked back down the beach, frantically trying to find a place to take us in.  I knew this wouldn't be an easy task.  The last boat in was at 5:00.  After that nobody can leave the island.  There are only a handful of places to stay.  The next resort I tried was fully booked.  I thought it would be this way up and down the beach.  It was almost 11:00.  Anyone who had arrived had already checked in.  It didn't look good for us.

As I flung myself through the sand, I saw a lone figure on the beach.  Thankfully that figure called out my name.  'He fixed the water in the bathroom,'  Chris told me.  'I don't care,' I said. 'I'm not staying there.  The guy groped me.'  I'd sleep out on the beach before I stayed at Habiba's.  There was some kerfuffle as we tried to locate Habiba to ask for our money back.  Habiba seemed to have disappeared.  We couldn't find him anywhere.  We decided to try another resort, the one not far down in the other direction.  Miraculously they had a bungalow for us, twice the price of the one at Habiba's, but a million times better.  More than that, dinner was free.  The kitchen was closing, but they could make a pizza for us.  It was like salve for a wound.  Paradise had arrived in the form of Panoramic Resort.

Aren't You Here to Dive?

Our bungalow was set back in the jungle.  We could sit on the porch and watch monitor lizards scurry past.  There was a used book room at the resort and we checked out quite a number of books while there.  It was ideal.  All except for the mosquitoes and the fact that Habiba was never too far away.

It was an awkward situation with Habiba.  We had to seek him out the next morning, as we had paid for two nights.  I was thinking we should get a full refund, but seen as how we had stayed the whole day before, we would settle for one night in return.  Chris was nervous.  After all this was a small island and everybody knew each other.  It was my word against Habiba's.  He might argue that he never touched me and refuse to give our money back.  More than that, he might be so defensive that it would cause of problems getting off the island.  I was in attack mode.  I wasn't going to back down from that creep.  We were getting our money back--period.  It turns out that any worry was in vain.  Habiba knew that he had done wrong.  He was very sheepish when we went to see him.  He invited us to sit down and went to go get us some Cokes.  'We don't want those,' we told him, 'We just want our money back.'  He handed the money back with no arguement.  He was very apologetic, we just couldn't tell what for.  He kept going on about the water in the bathroom.  'You groped my wife,' Chris said, looking to defend my honour.  'I think you owe her an apology.'  Habiba gestured that he couldn't understand and kept saying, 'Sorry, sorry, no English.'  It was enough.  I almost felt bad for the guy.  Perhaps I had led him on?  Then again, come on.  Would I really go for Habiba?  No wonder women had their own carriages on trains in this country.  If the men really are this skeevy.

Chris and I went swimming later on that day.  We laid our towels outside our resort.  We could see Habiba down from us, stationed at his usual place.  However he was helping some girl out with her mat, watching the girl bend over in her bikini.  'Looks like he's moved on,' Chris told me, much to my relief.

Other than Habiba, I didn't mind our time in the Perhentians.  Sure, there wasn't much to do.  But it was relaxing.  All day long we would read, or nap.  The electricity went off for a few hours here (this seemed standard for every resort on the island).  At night we'd go to the restaurant and have our buy one get one free dinner and watch a movie.  One night we even drunk beer at the bar.  Each can of beer was insanely expensive.  Malaysia is not a drinking country.  We realized that there wasn't much of a party going on.  Not here.

We soon discovered that most people come to the Perhentians to dive.  That's all there really is to do.  Young people descend on Long Beach every day and sign up for diving classes.  Our whole resort was geared towards diving.  Chris and I must have looked like fuddy duddies, sitting on our porch all day long like old people.  We're not divers.  I'm afraid of the water, I really am.  I can't have something strapped on to my face, and something heavy attached to my back.  I don't care much for fish, other than those that turn up on my plate with rice or noodles.  I like the ocean from a sitting position on the beach.  I came to the Perhentians to heal.  I know the benefits of salt water, and I figured a little salt would benefit my eye.  In fact, my eye had improved greatly.  I could actually see the improvement.  For that, I'm grateful to the Perhentians.  Still, it wasn't all good healthwise.

Sickness Descends

After five days of extreme laziness, it was time to leave the island.  I didn't mind.  I had slapped more than my fair share of mosquitoes and had dealt enough with the locals to be glad to be rid of the place (the shopowners seemed to have a real distaste for us, yawning or ignoring us whenever we entered their businesses).  We had booked our return to KL that Friday, another overnight trip.  We had one last dinner with one last movie under the stars.  I had a whole margharita pizza to myself.  It was so good I wouldn't share with Chris.  Not this time around.  We turned the fan on at full speed and settled in beneath the mosquito net.  Chris flopped his pillow around, once again complaining how dirty it was.  We had sweated five nights in this bed.  Yeah, it was getting pretty gross.

At some ungodly hour I woke in utter dread.  It's hard to explain.  I just felt this horrible feeling, like something bad was going to happen to me.  I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn't.  Instead I ran to the bathroom.  Several times.

Well, this was it.  I had finally gotten sick.  I was surprised it had taken this long.  I tried to get as much of it out of my system in the early hours.  After all, we had a boat to catch that afternoon.

It soon became apparent that we weren't going anywhere.  I was shooting fluid from both ends, often at the same time.  After soiling two pairs of panties in less than an hour, Chris informed me that the best method was to sit on the toilet and puke on the floor.  Seen as how our bathroom was a wet room, this was a good solution.  I don't want to get too graphic, but I had so much fluid flowing for me projectily, I could have been used as a Roman fountain.  In between bathroom rounds, I laid listlessly on the bed.  I couldn't raise my head most of the time.  Chris stomped off to buy me water and pop (he wasn't happy when I told him we'd have to stay another night).  I couldn't believe how much fluid I was losing.  With every bout of sickness I lost an astonishing amount of liquid.  Two sips of water left me vomiting a lagoon onto the bathroom floor.  I was losing so much water that my watch had become loose on my wrist.  Chris helped me mix a sachet of rehydration formula to a bottle of water.  Nope.  More dehydration as I heaved everywhere.  I've never been so sick that I've had to worry about dehydration.  It felt like I was leaking.  With body chills and aches I worried that I might have something serious.  After all, who gets sick from eating margharita pizza?  We had received a fair bit of mosquito bites.  The Perhentians border malaria territory.  It was possible that something serious was afoot.  There was a bit of concern, as the only medical facility on the island was on another beach, and only so many boats leave each day.  After a certain time, no boats leave for the mainland.  We could very well be trapped.

Chris was feeling trapped in his own way.  I didn't realize he had felt so passionate about leaving.  He was obviously holding it against me that I was delaying his departure to the mainland.  There was no way I could have gotten on a boat that day.  I had to put up with Chris' bad mood along with everything else.  I realized that we were losing money by my sickness.  Chris had asked if we could get our bus tickets refunded.  The answer was a resounding 'No.'  We'd have to buy new tickets once we got to the mainland, and we didn't even know if tickets were available.  In the throes of sickness, though, you just don't care.  I knew I couldn't endure a boat trip or bus trip (with bathroom breaks every five hours).  Wasn't happening.  I told Chris to deal with it.

I was feeling a smidgeon better by evening.  Remarkably I was hungry.  Really hungry.  I was dreaming of mashed potatoes.  It sounded bland enough.  I decided to give it a go.  A few bites in I knew it wasn't happening.  I semi-ran back to the bunglow to unload my dinner onto the bathroom floor.  The mashed potatoes weren't as neutral as I thought they'd be.  I sprayed the vile green liquid down the shower drain (which, to be noted, was just a hole in the floor leading down to the ground under our bungalow).  My stomach allowed me to drink water at this point, so I desperately tried to hydrate myself.  My fever had abatted, and I knew that whatever I had it was on the way out.  It came on strong, but it was receeding.  We planned for an early boat trip in the morning.

Sometime in the middle of the night, a row broke out next door to us.  Posh British girls.  I think Chris and I both found it amusing.  It's been awhile since I've heard a good drunken British fight.  Done in a posh manner was even funnier.  Oh well, the girls had to listen to me being violently sick all day.  It only seemed fair to let them air their business, even though it was-what?-two in the morning.

We rose at six.  I popped Immodium and prayed that my sphincter would hold out for the eight hour journey.  We were taken in the reverse order we had arrived:  first a rowboat, then a speedboat.  The speedboats were scattered across the water, each waiting for specific customers.  Agencies must use particular boats.  It seemed ridiculous, as we sat around forever.  Some boats took off with just one or two passengers.  If they had consolidated and gone with first come first serve, the whole process would be so much smoother.  But what did I know?  After about half an hour of floating about, we got a few more passengers and we were on our way.  I was so happy that I had stuck to my guns and hadn't done this the day before.  I would have been shooting liquid everywhere in that boat.

When we got to the mainland we were in a mad dash to find a bus.  Sure enough our tickets from the night before were rendered useless.  The good news is that the cost was less than we thought.  We made it to the bus in seconds flat.  Finally we were heading back to Kuala Lumpur and to civilization.  I give my body immense respect.  After a serious bout of stomach sickness, it held out for me on that bus trip.  Just like before, the bus only stopped once mid-trip.  This meant four/five hour increments where no bathroom was in sight.  Nobody ever praises their spincter, it usually goes unnoticed and unappreciated.  I salute mine.  It had been put through the ringer and then some.  But it come through for me in the end.  Hallalujah.  And hallalujah to getting off the Perhentians.  Paradise for some.  Not so much for this traveller and her companion.