Bill Hicks would be proud!
Saturday, July 23, 2011
And one more thing from Prague...
Captured from the poshist street in the Czezh capital - the most unashamedly effective advertising I have seen in ages.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
The Route II: Deutschland
What started last year as a saunter from Brussels to Paris evolved into Part I of a wider ambition. Gibraltar to Stockholm on 2 wheels with nothing but pedal-power. Part II was to be across northern Germany some 400 plus kilometres from Dortmund to Hamburg. These things seem like a good idea at the time...
Sleep deprived and hungover (you think we would learn), Dave and I found ourselves in the relatively unattractive city of Dortmund with our bikes in as many parts as we could break off to squeeze them in the extra small flight boxes. Eventually, we managed to put them back together almost correctly. Being an amateur is so much fun.
Jan then turned up with much enthusiasm and his mountain bike. It is great how things like this work out. To think I met him on the first corner of the inaugural cycle last year (http://walter82.blogspot.com/2010/10/tour-de-wallonia.html) and here we are again on a new route. Uwe, another random connection from travels in Fiji and NZ (http://walter82.blogspot.com/2009/11/rock-and-ice.html), followed shortly after with his tight, tight flurescant lycra and via a night out we were rearing to go.
Off through Dortmund, we left the city centre behind with its one very impressive building (the central church) and wheeled our way through some plush neighbourhoods and then out into the countryside. Very flat and green, we followed the small cycle paths which criss-cross every other mile of this country, out to a large canal. Heading North-West through Nord-Rhein Wesphalia (the federal province), what struck me is the scale of industry. Unlike the UK, where what industry there is centres around the urban centres, here views across the countryside are broken up by factory towers, power stations and wind turbines.
Our mileage was significantly curtailed by serial punctures on Uwe's tyres, a result of some off road on a road bike. Uwe's despair when it happened for the third time was comic. Well worth it in fact and it meant we settled in for the night somewhat short of our intended destination. A good thing too as Oelde contained one of the best breweries in the region - Pott's. In the interests of cultural understanding we tried all the specialities to hand.
Having only touched 90km the day before we set off early putting some fast kms under our belt. Racing in peloton down the straight semi-major roads rev'ed up the endorphins (especially when Uwe leads the way, cutting the air with his perhaps overly aerodynamic outfit). Through small towns broken up by familiar countryside we left behind the flatlands and raced down a large hill into Bielefeld. A place famous for Dr Oetke, but we only stopped in for the long overdue first wurst (sausage) of the tour.
Conscious of time we pushed on to the small pretty town of Herford, where the temptation of another crisp, light, yet flavourful local beer detained us for a while in the sunshine. Ordering our beverages I remembered that this was the day of the Royal Wedding back home and, catching a glimpse on the tele in the bar, I remembered why I had run away for the weekend. Spoil sport perhaps, but given the chance I prefer not to be induced to wretch by the sight of peasants orgasming over the nuptials of inbred hangovers from history. Enough of that.
Herford was complete with copper spired church, brau-haus and cobbled central square. It is these small towns which make Germany so endearing. Unlike the cities which were largely bombed to buggery, these quaint places retain much of the charm of old Germany and we had the privilege of pedalling through many of them on this trip.
From here we met the river Weser and raced through the steep hills of the Porta Westfalica. From the crown of one of those hills a giant statue of Kaiser Wilhelm looks down on what was the most spectacular scenery of our journey. The river snaked swiftly through a lush green valley basked in the spring sunshine and then on through impressive architecture and riverside bars of Minden. After a short pit-stop in which I was surprised to discover and just about converse with members of the local Greek community (families who fled after the Greek civil war) over some gyros, we decided to push on for a final 15 km to the pocket sized picturesque town of Petershagen. In spite of an acutely painful tendon in my left knee (quite possible triggered by the embarrassment of being overtaken by a German roller-blading machine while pushing 32 kmph), this final push was well worth it.
Following one of the countless signs that litter German byways with varying degrees of helpful information (an affectionately OCD people), we spent the night in the local jail. Yup for only 20 odd euro you can spend a night behind bars in an old Nazi jail. To be more accurate, a jail bolted onto the back of the hundreds of year old grand court house and used throughout most of the 20th century to incarcerate deviating locals. And, as the landlady informed me with an odd grin, for only a couple of euros extra you can wear uniform!!
The transformation was complete. A night of beers and roaming around the town in stripy attire ensued before knocking out on a prison bunk blocking out thoughts of the previous occupants. All a bit odd. But fun.
TAG DREI
After the 130 km the day before, the saddle was a little sore, but we set off early to follow the winding Weser for most of the day. Face into the wind, we pressed on through a flat fertile land cut through by the river and skirted by wind turbines. Occasionally cutting inland through twee villages and past large triangular farm houses, we found the river again, climbed up and crossed at a damn allowing gorgeous elevated vistas.
We stopped in the bustling market town of Nienburg for the usual refuelling of copious amounts of carbs. Wurst, pastries, chocolate and more wurst. It was hot, so we guzzled more fluid and put on a sprint north along the river. Just as the legs were tiring, at least in my case, we sighted the town of Verden.
Banking the Weser with its church steeples, medieval town houses and breweries, it was a must stop. A few requisite local brews in a biergarten seemed to rejuvenate the limbs, or at least make us tipsy enough not to notice the aches, and we cycled on for another 30 km to the town of Rotenberg, arriving just before sundown.
After a couple of days passing from one idyllic town to the next we had no reason to expect anything else from Rotenberg. The clue was in the name. We wasted an evening trying to have fun in this soulless, dull, nothing of a town. Being the last day of April, it was a night famous for party in Germany, but the best we could find was an over 40's do and the worst bar I have visited in memory. Awkward unhappy looking locals, pop music and, God forbid in Germany, bad beer. Never go to Rotenberg.
Our final push the night before had left us only 80 km to Hamburg. Excellent. All we needed to do was relaxedly ride along well sign posted country roads and end up in Germany's second largest city nice and early for a celebratory knees up. That simple...
Rolling out of the town, we were flanked by dozens of already drunk youths sinking bottles of beer. An impressive feat by 10 in the morning. A local May Day tradition apparently. Germans take their drinking seriously.
We found ourselves on a very efficient, fast, straight road heading directly to Hamburg. All we had to do was keep on going. In fact, it seemed so straight forward that we decided to cut north along some slightly smaller roads to add some sights to our journey. An eventful few hours commenced...
The road we took shrank to a small country highway, then a single lane road, a gravel track, a couple of tyre tracks through a dense wood, before finally and undeniably ending. Clearly we had made a wrong turn. So what to do? Retrace our steps and find the right road like sensible people, or, what the fuck, push on trying out the theory that if we head in one direction we have to hit some other type of track eventually. Being the idiots that we are, of course we took the latter course of action.
After a brief salute to the Phantom (search the blog if for some peculiar reason you want to understand more...), we pushed our bikes through bumpy fields of marsh grass, into another patch of woodland and then with a sludge into the soggy brown goo found ourselves in a swamp. A veritable, sodden, bug infested swamp. Not the optimum terrain for racing bikes! Swatting at swarms of mozzies, we picked up our bikes and soldiered on, as the idea that we were being a bit stupid filtered past the testosterone. 
Wet, bitten and lost we decided to make a 90 degree turn, hoping to find our originally intended path rather than conquering the rest of the swamp. Back through a forest, over fallen trees and through brush, we eventually found an abandoned shelter and followed the overgrown adjoining path to..... yup, where we started. Not a high score on the navigational skills and a lesson learned. Just not sure if the lesson was “turn back when you are going head first into a stupid situation” or “push the situation further because you are bound to find some fun”.
The inevitable Uwe flat tyre only slightly slowed us as we now did our best to make up time. In fact, we only stopped once for the undoubted draw of more sausage and a couple of local beers at a quaint village May Day celebration complete with poles, flags, uniforms and odd dancing. Much like home then.
Up, up, up a hill we pedalled for 10 kms or so until, eventually and thankfully, we reached the peak and, crouched down, used every inch of kinetic energy to surge at over 50 kpmh down the slope. Exhilarating. Awesome. A bit further and then, with a certain amount of glee, we sighted the scores of harbour cranes which introduce Hamburg.
Ugly, but impressive in scale, we cycled through the giant docklands, over spanning bridges and past piping industry. We were nearly there. An extra sprightliness invigorated the legs, grins broke across the face, my wheel caught in a tram track, I hurdled head over the handle bars, Dave swerved and ate tarmac. Nice.
440 km complete, a couple to go and we crash. Luckily for me a tuck-and-roll out of the fall left me with only a few scrapes, but Dave took a bit of a beating. A big bugger of a bruise, only a modicum of whining and some interesting shaped handle bars.
What to do? What else, jump back on the bike and find the beers. Through a tunnel under the mighty Elbe and we had arrived. St Pauli, Hamburg.
Smiles, high funfs, beer, jaegar and a rather interesting night in the Reeperbahn. Been a pleasure to adorn the lycra with the boys. Can't wait for next year... just have to choose the route...
Sleep deprived and hungover (you think we would learn), Dave and I found ourselves in the relatively unattractive city of Dortmund with our bikes in as many parts as we could break off to squeeze them in the extra small flight boxes. Eventually, we managed to put them back together almost correctly. Being an amateur is so much fun.Jan then turned up with much enthusiasm and his mountain bike. It is great how things like this work out. To think I met him on the first corner of the inaugural cycle last year (http://walter82.blogspot.com/2010/10/tour-de-wallonia.html) and here we are again on a new route. Uwe, another random connection from travels in Fiji and NZ (http://walter82.blogspot.com/2009/11/rock-and-ice.html), followed shortly after with his tight, tight flurescant lycra and via a night out we were rearing to go.Off through Dortmund, we left the city centre behind with its one very impressive building (the central church) and wheeled our way through some plush neighbourhoods and then out into the countryside. Very flat and green, we followed the small cycle paths which criss-cross every other mile of this country, out to a large canal. Heading North-West through Nord-Rhein Wesphalia (the federal province), what struck me is the scale of industry. Unlike the UK, where what industry there is centres around the urban centres, here views across the countryside are broken up by factory towers, power stations and wind turbines.
Our mileage was significantly curtailed by serial punctures on Uwe's tyres, a result of some off road on a road bike. Uwe's despair when it happened for the third time was comic. Well worth it in fact and it meant we settled in for the night somewhat short of our intended destination. A good thing too as Oelde contained one of the best breweries in the region - Pott's. In the interests of cultural understanding we tried all the specialities to hand.Having only touched 90km the day before we set off early putting some fast kms under our belt. Racing in peloton down the straight semi-major roads rev'ed up the endorphins (especially when Uwe leads the way, cutting the air with his perhaps overly aerodynamic outfit). Through small towns broken up by familiar countryside we left behind the flatlands and raced down a large hill into Bielefeld. A place famous for Dr Oetke, but we only stopped in for the long overdue first wurst (sausage) of the tour.
Conscious of time we pushed on to the small pretty town of Herford, where the temptation of another crisp, light, yet flavourful local beer detained us for a while in the sunshine. Ordering our beverages I remembered that this was the day of the Royal Wedding back home and, catching a glimpse on the tele in the bar, I remembered why I had run away for the weekend. Spoil sport perhaps, but given the chance I prefer not to be induced to wretch by the sight of peasants orgasming over the nuptials of inbred hangovers from history. Enough of that.Herford was complete with copper spired church, brau-haus and cobbled central square. It is these small towns which make Germany so endearing. Unlike the cities which were largely bombed to buggery, these quaint places retain much of the charm of old Germany and we had the privilege of pedalling through many of them on this trip.From here we met the river Weser and raced through the steep hills of the Porta Westfalica. From the crown of one of those hills a giant statue of Kaiser Wilhelm looks down on what was the most spectacular scenery of our journey. The river snaked swiftly through a lush green valley basked in the spring sunshine and then on through impressive architecture and riverside bars of Minden. After a short pit-stop in which I was surprised to discover and just about converse with members of the local Greek community (families who fled after the Greek civil war) over some gyros, we decided to push on for a final 15 km to the pocket sized picturesque town of Petershagen. In spite of an acutely painful tendon in my left knee (quite possible triggered by the embarrassment of being overtaken by a German roller-blading machine while pushing 32 kmph), this final push was well worth it.
Following one of the countless signs that litter German byways with varying degrees of helpful information (an affectionately OCD people), we spent the night in the local jail. Yup for only 20 odd euro you can spend a night behind bars in an old Nazi jail. To be more accurate, a jail bolted onto the back of the hundreds of year old grand court house and used throughout most of the 20th century to incarcerate deviating locals. And, as the landlady informed me with an odd grin, for only a couple of euros extra you can wear uniform!!
The transformation was complete. A night of beers and roaming around the town in stripy attire ensued before knocking out on a prison bunk blocking out thoughts of the previous occupants. All a bit odd. But fun.
TAG DREI
After the 130 km the day before, the saddle was a little sore, but we set off early to follow the winding Weser for most of the day. Face into the wind, we pressed on through a flat fertile land cut through by the river and skirted by wind turbines. Occasionally cutting inland through twee villages and past large triangular farm houses, we found the river again, climbed up and crossed at a damn allowing gorgeous elevated vistas.
We stopped in the bustling market town of Nienburg for the usual refuelling of copious amounts of carbs. Wurst, pastries, chocolate and more wurst. It was hot, so we guzzled more fluid and put on a sprint north along the river. Just as the legs were tiring, at least in my case, we sighted the town of Verden.
Banking the Weser with its church steeples, medieval town houses and breweries, it was a must stop. A few requisite local brews in a biergarten seemed to rejuvenate the limbs, or at least make us tipsy enough not to notice the aches, and we cycled on for another 30 km to the town of Rotenberg, arriving just before sundown.After a couple of days passing from one idyllic town to the next we had no reason to expect anything else from Rotenberg. The clue was in the name. We wasted an evening trying to have fun in this soulless, dull, nothing of a town. Being the last day of April, it was a night famous for party in Germany, but the best we could find was an over 40's do and the worst bar I have visited in memory. Awkward unhappy looking locals, pop music and, God forbid in Germany, bad beer. Never go to Rotenberg.
Our final push the night before had left us only 80 km to Hamburg. Excellent. All we needed to do was relaxedly ride along well sign posted country roads and end up in Germany's second largest city nice and early for a celebratory knees up. That simple...
Rolling out of the town, we were flanked by dozens of already drunk youths sinking bottles of beer. An impressive feat by 10 in the morning. A local May Day tradition apparently. Germans take their drinking seriously.
We found ourselves on a very efficient, fast, straight road heading directly to Hamburg. All we had to do was keep on going. In fact, it seemed so straight forward that we decided to cut north along some slightly smaller roads to add some sights to our journey. An eventful few hours commenced...
The road we took shrank to a small country highway, then a single lane road, a gravel track, a couple of tyre tracks through a dense wood, before finally and undeniably ending. Clearly we had made a wrong turn. So what to do? Retrace our steps and find the right road like sensible people, or, what the fuck, push on trying out the theory that if we head in one direction we have to hit some other type of track eventually. Being the idiots that we are, of course we took the latter course of action.
After a brief salute to the Phantom (search the blog if for some peculiar reason you want to understand more...), we pushed our bikes through bumpy fields of marsh grass, into another patch of woodland and then with a sludge into the soggy brown goo found ourselves in a swamp. A veritable, sodden, bug infested swamp. Not the optimum terrain for racing bikes! Swatting at swarms of mozzies, we picked up our bikes and soldiered on, as the idea that we were being a bit stupid filtered past the testosterone. 
Wet, bitten and lost we decided to make a 90 degree turn, hoping to find our originally intended path rather than conquering the rest of the swamp. Back through a forest, over fallen trees and through brush, we eventually found an abandoned shelter and followed the overgrown adjoining path to..... yup, where we started. Not a high score on the navigational skills and a lesson learned. Just not sure if the lesson was “turn back when you are going head first into a stupid situation” or “push the situation further because you are bound to find some fun”.The inevitable Uwe flat tyre only slightly slowed us as we now did our best to make up time. In fact, we only stopped once for the undoubted draw of more sausage and a couple of local beers at a quaint village May Day celebration complete with poles, flags, uniforms and odd dancing. Much like home then.
Up, up, up a hill we pedalled for 10 kms or so until, eventually and thankfully, we reached the peak and, crouched down, used every inch of kinetic energy to surge at over 50 kpmh down the slope. Exhilarating. Awesome. A bit further and then, with a certain amount of glee, we sighted the scores of harbour cranes which introduce Hamburg.
Ugly, but impressive in scale, we cycled through the giant docklands, over spanning bridges and past piping industry. We were nearly there. An extra sprightliness invigorated the legs, grins broke across the face, my wheel caught in a tram track, I hurdled head over the handle bars, Dave swerved and ate tarmac. Nice.440 km complete, a couple to go and we crash. Luckily for me a tuck-and-roll out of the fall left me with only a few scrapes, but Dave took a bit of a beating. A big bugger of a bruise, only a modicum of whining and some interesting shaped handle bars.
What to do? What else, jump back on the bike and find the beers. Through a tunnel under the mighty Elbe and we had arrived. St Pauli, Hamburg.Smiles, high funfs, beer, jaegar and a rather interesting night in the Reeperbahn. Been a pleasure to adorn the lycra with the boys. Can't wait for next year... just have to choose the route...
Sunday, January 09, 2011
Sipidan
A palm covered gem in the Sulu Sea. Just a small speck stranded off the coast of North-East Borneo and we are speeding over the waves towards it. I have travelled for 2 days and crossed a fair chunk of the globe to get here. Expectation is intense. I can't wipe the anticipatory grin from my face. One of those that originates at the back of your jaw and gleams out the eyes.
Beautiful as it is, with its miniture rainforest hemmed in by pristine white sand beaches, the surface is merely a place to decompress. All those who come, except perhaps the two soldiers “protecting” this bit of Malaysian soil, are itching to shove on the dive gear and plunge into the clear turquise water that holds world renowned treasures.
“Bruce Willis Ruins All Films” later (Buoyancy control device – check – Weights – check – Restraints – check – Air – check – Fins and other shit – check), we back-roll in. I am almost instantly distracted from the pleasant sensation of tepidly warm water by a gray shadow below. A gray reef shark, not 7 meters away (the picture is a white tip!). My eyes track down the sharp slope and into the deep dark blue below. This is South Point, the only place round the island that, instead of a near verticle sea wall, initiates with a sliding shelf before it plunges to some 1,500 meters straight down. Fantastic stuff.
Combined with the thin, but essential vaneer of a 500 meter no-catch zone, it is the solitary nature of this sea mount, rising sheer from the depths, that attracts so much aquatic nature. An arc of life before the comparable desert of the big blue stretches out to the East.
I have eight dives here over two days and am, quite simply, spoiled. Famed for its turtles, I encountered not one, a couple, ten, twenty, forty.... but over twice that number in my two days. Thirty on one dive alone! Giant green turtles paddling their way through the blue, above below, nestled in small clefts in the sea wall. One so stoned – a variant of their vegetarian diet has a narcotic effect – that it hurtled straight into a dive buddy without a flinch. It is wonderful to see these prehistoric creatures paddle their way through the ocean with surprising grace.
Shark followed shark, followed turtle until I was almost blase with such aquatic spoils. The strong currents around the island invite numerous reef sharks to lie on the rare patches of sand while they oxygenate from the water flowing over their gills. In some places there were five alongside each other, quite relaxed. Approaching very slowly we were able to float face to face to a matter of inches away, their eyes sidling round to the angle of our approach. A marvel to look into these creatures' eyes and share a moment.
On each other dive we descended in parallel to the steep, rugged and seemingly bottomless underwater cliffs. I spent, quite literally, hours gently floating aside these galleries of small beasties. Countless varieties of fish and invertabrates, including, of course, some sizeable nudibranchs. That is what is so amazing about this place. The show stopping big stuff comes from all angles, but the macrolife (i.e. small stuff) still abounds.
Between each dive, we headed back to the island for some short lived R&R in the small enclave of inhabitation which cuts into the otherwise untouched rainforest. Nothing more than a covered terrace, WC, a couple of hungry monitor lizards and the rather unintimidating army quarters – an enlargened shack, a couple of hammocks and fake machine gun out front. Admittedly the soldiers hold what look like real ones, but I doubt they could do much if local Philippine pirates came kidnapping as they did under ten years ago, coincidently while I was last in Borneo.
Soon we jump back in the boat with anticipation. One of the best dives is from right out the front of the jetty. Down along the imposing, knobbly wall on which cling expansive fan corals sifting for dinner. Further down to twenty meters and there it is, Turtle Tomb. A cavern which gnaws into the island and, reportedly, out the other side, through hundreds of meters of twisting, squeezing, pitch-black passages. Not for me on this trip! Its name derives from the turtle remains which litter the interior, remnants of their lost previous owners.
From the entrance the cavern opens up into a chamber several meters in diameter. As your eyes adjust to the inky darkness small shoals of fish can be made out. Fifteen meters in we turn around and behold the startling light cave entrance. Shoals of fish cut across this vibrant blue which overpowers your remaining field of vision. As we kick out a solitary barracuda grimaces. There were to be plenty more of them....
The signature dive at Sipidan is called Barracuda Point. Two guesses at what we found there. Forget the hundred strong shoal of jacks we plummeted into at the start of the dive. Pay some attention to the dozen sharks and numerous turtles we pass by. OK, I took a moment to peer into the unflinching, eery eyes of a great barracuda and then float astern to a small shoal of large yellow striped barracuda. But what really wins, what really gets the juices flowing is an oft seen massive shoal of chevron barracuda. Smaller than their pre-mentioned cousins, well over a thousand of these beauties shoal into a giant, twisting tornado. They are usually seen just off a prominent stretch of rock jutting out into the ocean and, to my delight, they were playing ball on my first dive to the site. Approaching from underneath, I glided up into this fast circling, barrel of scales, fins and teeth. Blotting out everything else. My regulator almost fell out I was smirking so much.
On each dive you are surrounded by more fabulous natural encounters than you can take in. A real highlight of life. Gliding along the exuberant corals on my final dive I was already jealous of my recent experiences. As if to jolt me back to the moment, a small hawksbill turtle glided by and I spent the final minutes of my time there gently shepherding this serene sea dweller.
Back on the boat and speeding back to reality under a strong sun. Awesome. 
Beautiful as it is, with its miniture rainforest hemmed in by pristine white sand beaches, the surface is merely a place to decompress. All those who come, except perhaps the two soldiers “protecting” this bit of Malaysian soil, are itching to shove on the dive gear and plunge into the clear turquise water that holds world renowned treasures. “Bruce Willis Ruins All Films” later (Buoyancy control device – check – Weights – check – Restraints – check – Air – check – Fins and other shit – check), we back-roll in. I am almost instantly distracted from the pleasant sensation of tepidly warm water by a gray shadow below. A gray reef shark, not 7 meters away (the picture is a white tip!). My eyes track down the sharp slope and into the deep dark blue below. This is South Point, the only place round the island that, instead of a near verticle sea wall, initiates with a sliding shelf before it plunges to some 1,500 meters straight down. Fantastic stuff.
Combined with the thin, but essential vaneer of a 500 meter no-catch zone, it is the solitary nature of this sea mount, rising sheer from the depths, that attracts so much aquatic nature. An arc of life before the comparable desert of the big blue stretches out to the East.I have eight dives here over two days and am, quite simply, spoiled. Famed for its turtles, I encountered not one, a couple, ten, twenty, forty.... but over twice that number in my two days. Thirty on one dive alone! Giant green turtles paddling their way through the blue, above below, nestled in small clefts in the sea wall. One so stoned – a variant of their vegetarian diet has a narcotic effect – that it hurtled straight into a dive buddy without a flinch. It is wonderful to see these prehistoric creatures paddle their way through the ocean with surprising grace.
Shark followed shark, followed turtle until I was almost blase with such aquatic spoils. The strong currents around the island invite numerous reef sharks to lie on the rare patches of sand while they oxygenate from the water flowing over their gills. In some places there were five alongside each other, quite relaxed. Approaching very slowly we were able to float face to face to a matter of inches away, their eyes sidling round to the angle of our approach. A marvel to look into these creatures' eyes and share a moment.
On each other dive we descended in parallel to the steep, rugged and seemingly bottomless underwater cliffs. I spent, quite literally, hours gently floating aside these galleries of small beasties. Countless varieties of fish and invertabrates, including, of course, some sizeable nudibranchs. That is what is so amazing about this place. The show stopping big stuff comes from all angles, but the macrolife (i.e. small stuff) still abounds.
It was ascending from walls on one dive that I was treated with a Sipidan speciality. A large shole of perhaps forty bumphead wrasse gliding right before my eyes. These are monstrous looking purple gold fish with, as the name suggests, large bumps on their forehead above sharp, bone coloured beaks which they use to chip away at the coral on which they live. It was quite an experience to hover around them as they manouvered onto the reef and munched with ravenous intent. This was in less than two meters of water in which you really feel their size, each a meter long and the rest.
Between each dive, we headed back to the island for some short lived R&R in the small enclave of inhabitation which cuts into the otherwise untouched rainforest. Nothing more than a covered terrace, WC, a couple of hungry monitor lizards and the rather unintimidating army quarters – an enlargened shack, a couple of hammocks and fake machine gun out front. Admittedly the soldiers hold what look like real ones, but I doubt they could do much if local Philippine pirates came kidnapping as they did under ten years ago, coincidently while I was last in Borneo. 
Soon we jump back in the boat with anticipation. One of the best dives is from right out the front of the jetty. Down along the imposing, knobbly wall on which cling expansive fan corals sifting for dinner. Further down to twenty meters and there it is, Turtle Tomb. A cavern which gnaws into the island and, reportedly, out the other side, through hundreds of meters of twisting, squeezing, pitch-black passages. Not for me on this trip! Its name derives from the turtle remains which litter the interior, remnants of their lost previous owners. From the entrance the cavern opens up into a chamber several meters in diameter. As your eyes adjust to the inky darkness small shoals of fish can be made out. Fifteen meters in we turn around and behold the startling light cave entrance. Shoals of fish cut across this vibrant blue which overpowers your remaining field of vision. As we kick out a solitary barracuda grimaces. There were to be plenty more of them....
The signature dive at Sipidan is called Barracuda Point. Two guesses at what we found there. Forget the hundred strong shoal of jacks we plummeted into at the start of the dive. Pay some attention to the dozen sharks and numerous turtles we pass by. OK, I took a moment to peer into the unflinching, eery eyes of a great barracuda and then float astern to a small shoal of large yellow striped barracuda. But what really wins, what really gets the juices flowing is an oft seen massive shoal of chevron barracuda. Smaller than their pre-mentioned cousins, well over a thousand of these beauties shoal into a giant, twisting tornado. They are usually seen just off a prominent stretch of rock jutting out into the ocean and, to my delight, they were playing ball on my first dive to the site. Approaching from underneath, I glided up into this fast circling, barrel of scales, fins and teeth. Blotting out everything else. My regulator almost fell out I was smirking so much.
On each dive you are surrounded by more fabulous natural encounters than you can take in. A real highlight of life. Gliding along the exuberant corals on my final dive I was already jealous of my recent experiences. As if to jolt me back to the moment, a small hawksbill turtle glided by and I spent the final minutes of my time there gently shepherding this serene sea dweller.
Back on the boat and speeding back to reality under a strong sun. Awesome. 
Monday, January 03, 2011
Paris
4 am, lighly frazzled. In the dark depths of an old theatre in La Marais. Slow, drained music. Chandeliers, dark velvet curtains and over-decorated wrought iron railings. Plush sofas draped with the happy dregs of a Paris night.
Cafe hopping along the Seine on a sunny August day. Blue sky and cream facades. The Jardin de Luxembourg adorned with chess player, pigeon and refined exuberence. Unending grandeur until my feet ache.
To my pleasant surprise, the city captured me. Many thanks to Shatyn, the inciteful eye-opening host.
Cafe hopping along the Seine on a sunny August day. Blue sky and cream facades. The Jardin de Luxembourg adorned with chess player, pigeon and refined exuberence. Unending grandeur until my feet ache.
To my pleasant surprise, the city captured me. Many thanks to Shatyn, the inciteful eye-opening host.
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