My Bornean Soapbox

I won’t bore you with bio-diversity figures, but it’s safe to say Borneo is the stuff of the legendary David Attenborough’s wet dreams. Malaysian Borneo is also an easy place to visit, free from the hassle-factor so ubiquitous in other South East Asian places. People used to high class accommodation might balk, but for me staying in places with no air-conditioning and no hot water didn’t present too much of a challenge.

My handy tips for surviving the jungles of Borneo:

• remove all rings so that when your hands swell from the heat, they don’t cut off your circulation;
• take the best insect repellant money can buy. I recommend Bushman’s, an Australian brand. Get the stuff with the sun protection: it melts plastic, but you won’t burn and you won’t get bitten;
• leeches are everywhere and they won’t hesitate to drop on you from the trees, so make sure you’re at least third in any line of people trekking through the jungle. There’s an old local saying: the first person’s body-heat awakens the leech, the second person gets the leech, and the third person walks free;
• drink far more water than you think you need, because it’s hotter than Johnny Depp's tattooed upper body in here, and the sweat will be pouring off you in rivers.

After I’d climbed down from Mount Kinabalu, the rest of the tour was primarily devoted to observing wildlife, predominantly from the discomfort of an uncovered narrow-boat while floating down the Kinabatangan River, but also while slip-sliding through the undergrowth. Of course, much of this observation was accompanied by infuriated muttering about how the brand-new camera didn’t have enough zoom. Auntie’s* high-definition documentaries have certainly spoiled wild-life photography for us mere mortals, though I report through clenched teeth that approximately 92.7% of tourists to Borneo have packed enough bolt-on “I think this makes me look like a professional” zoom lenses to constitute the majority of their luggage allowance.

So, wildlife. We saw orangutans both in the wild and in a sanctuary:

We saw the famed and rare Proboscis monkey, with their Gonzo noses and permanently erect bright red penises.

There were Long-Tailed Macaques in vast numbers.

There were crocodiles in the river.

And lizards in the trees.

There were bugs in the leaf litter,

and in people’s hands (“Quick, take the photo before the bugger unrolls!”).

There were turtles in the sea and on the beach:

Cowboy even accidentally swam with a turtle: an unexpected honour.

After a long and arduous search up and down the river, we finally located the elusive critically endangered Bornean Pygmy Elephant. They might be critically endangered, but they really aren’t all that pygmy.

Which brings me to the point where I must mount my soapbox. The astute reader has undoubtedly noted that for one small stretch of river-bank, this is an extraordinary quantity of wildlife. I haven’t even mentioned the snakes, the Pied Hornbills, or the dragonflies. Why, you may wonder, might all these creatures be drawn to the point where it is easiest for tourists to observe them? Are they fame-whores, yearning like celebrities for the limelight of the tourist’s camera? That would be anthropomorphizing. In fact, if the boats linger too long under the overhanging trees, the monkeys will piss and shit on humanity from above. No, they don’t care about tourists.

Look again at the photo of the elephants above. Behind the elephant, you can see palm trees. That’s a palm oil plantation, representing extreme habitat destruction. Given that I am taking the photo using a crap camera from the edge of the riverbank while standing up in a boat, you can see that there isn’t much space left. The elephants, along with the other animals, are forced into a narrow corridor between the river and the plantation. Where they used to live simply doesn’t exist anymore, so the place is overcrowded. It’s the wildlife equivalent of Manhattan.

Yes, Borneo is the third largest island on the planet. That’s a lot of jungle, I know. But here’s something alarming:

This was the view out of the vehicle’s window on our drive to the river wildlife reserve. This was all we looked at, for over four hours. That’s a lot of palm oil where there used to be jungle.

And in case you’re not persuaded by the plight of the animal kingdom, how about the plight of human beings? There are indigenous peoples living within that self-same habitat, minding their own merry business and merely taking from their surroundings what they need to survive. They are being displaced: moved from their homelands and forced to integrate into ‘developed’ society.

Some argue that palm oil production is a major industry bringing economic growth and better living conditions for everyone, as the income trickles down into more jobs and better pay, ergo better living conditions. To which I say that if this

is better, then I’m not sure I want to see worse. Colour me unconvinced that the money is being shared around to ensure an acceptable quality of life for all. I think I know where the money made by the palm oil industry isn’t going.

What’s the solution? I don’t know. Palm oil is in just about everything (including soap) these days, because it’s ‘cheap’. But look at the price the world pays, and you might re-quantify the true cost. Palm oil sourced from sustainable plantations is available, and we all know money talks. I want to ensure that mine speaks the right language.

A New Dawn

*Auntie is Great Britain’s affectionate name for the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC).

Ludicrous Job Title Awards: IV

This job-hunting thing is totally all-consuming.  I obsessively check the internet 14 times a day, or at least I did before I figured out that a bunch of job-search sites will email you supposedly compatible jobs.  JR's fabulous French boyfriend* gave me this handy hint: spend no more than 3 half-days a week seeking out jobs to apply for.  Otherwise, you'll be pounding nails through your eyeballs within three weeks.  He said it more eloquently than that, of course, but he's absolutely right.  

During one of my trawls, I came across this gem of a job title: 

"Two Year Old Family Support Outreach Worker", currently being advertised by the London Borough of Hounslow.  

One speculates that they don't mean what they say.  After all, the competency-based person specification cannot possibly ask for "the ability to communicate in incomplete sentences", or "demonstrable proficiency in bed-wetting".  The office surely doesn't suffer decor by Disney.  Are there regular nappy-changing breaks?  

Alternatively, perhaps the outreach is only towards those families who have achieved two years' duration.  Did you produce off-spring exactly 730 days ago?  Hurrah, then you qualify for some support!  Otherwise, you can take your child to the supermarket to smack them in public like everybody else. 

I feel like Ellen Ripley.  I haven't been gone 57 years, but I do think the line "Excuse me, but have IQs dropped sharply while I've been away?" is becoming increasingly relevant. 

Today's Job Centre PLUS news was thrilling though.  We arrived early, for we have witnessed the cerebellum-exploding pain of being told that you're 8 minutes late, ergo your appointment time has passed and you'll have make a new appointment to come again the next day.  No matter that the unfortunate individual concerned was at the mercy of the London Bus system, to whom an 8-minute delay considered a positive step in the right punctuality direction. 

Today I was allocated a benefits assistant with a sense of humour, and during our conversation he responded to my raised eyebrows with a smirk and an "I know" shrug of his shoulders.  For he had the misfortune to be required to inform me that my regular appointment time would henceforth be brought forward by one minute.  Previously, my presence had been required at 12.35pm.  Now, I should be ready and waiting for my appointment at 12.34pm.  

The benefits staff are busy, you see, and the time they are permitted to spend on each jobseeker has been reduced from 5 minutes to 4 minutes.  Considering that they need to spend that time examining my 'job-seeking' record and asking me to fill in a form to declare that I have been awarded a level 1 qualification in literacy and numeracy**, this is utterly insane.  How is anyone supposed to assess whether I'm fulfilling my side of my 'job-seeking agreement' if they barely have time to communicate in anything other than shrugs and raised eyebrows? 

Oh, and new post up over at The Women's Colony.  My tales of climbing a 4095m mountain in Borneo! 

*what is it with my friends, and French partners?  This is the third one!  Perhaps French men all have gargantuan penises. 

**as far as I know, I haven't.  I raised my eyebrow at the assistant, and he said "can you speak english, and can you do maths?".  

Read all about it!

I know life's pretty boring around here lately.  There aren't any travel stories, or photographs of hobbits.  All you get is some petulant whining instead.    

Well, get thee over to the Women's Colony, where from now on you can read my travel-related tales.  There's a new post there regarding our (three-day) hiking swansong before leaving New Zealand. There are mountains, and scenery, and we suffer physical discomfort.  What more could you ask?  

When a new post goes up at the Colony, I'll let you know.  If you genuinely want to read about my bad hair days in various countries across Indochina, you can click through.  I'll still update here with other, non-travel-related, minutiae.  

Also, if you've been traveling and you've got a tale to tell, feel free to submit it to the Colony.  It's a growing community! 

Ludicrous Job Title Awards: III

...and the winner is:  "Female Exiting Prostitution Worker".  

I don't even know where to begin, folks.  I do know I wouldn't want that job title on my business card.  

In other job-hunt related news, my father-in-law saw fit today to lecture me about my job-hunting skills.  Have I thought about looking at working for government departments?  No, that major career-path escaped me, despite the fact that I worked in one myself during the 18 months prior to leaving New Zealand.  No, I didn't know they advertise jobs on their websites.  

Perhaps, he continued, I could consider accepting a job which doesn't exactly match my specialisation, but would possibly pay me more money.  I don't care about the money, I said, and besides, I can't find a job within my specialisation at the moment.  What are my chances of finding one outside it, do you think?  

Yes, I need some kind of salary, but I would rather temp that accept a crap permanent job for the sake of having a permanent job.  It's just a crying shame that even to register at a temp agency these days, you have to send them a CV and then if they deem you worthy, they'll call you within 7-10 working days.  Hello, limbo.  It ain't like it was in the old days.  

At least I won't suffer from clandestine ageism, he said.  That's true, I replied, merely sexism (being a woman of child-bearing age, with no kids, and if fortunate enough to get a job, likely to be paid far less than a man doing the same work).  Also, as a younger adult, I can kiss any prospect of a state pension goodbye, while watching my only capital asset decline dramatically in value, safe in the knowledge that 

a) all the jobs I'd like are taken by people with more experience (read: older) than me; 

and

b)at some point the world will become unlivable thanks to the climate change brought about by his generation's unparalleled growth in earning potential and consequent consuming.

Yeah, we young onions don't know we were born.  

This man is now retired, having held the same job for the entirety of his 45-year working life, and it shows.  After today's conversation, I don't think we'll talk again for a while.  

Dino, in the UK

Yes, I did. I imported a vintage car into the UK. Here he is outside Cowboy's brother's house.

You see, we have no off-street parking at The Bolt-hole, and parking him at the kerbside in London would be foolhardy in the extreme. Thieves would be able to make off with him in their arms. Additionally, he's delicate and he really should be in a garage lest droplets of rain cause unsightly rust.

Cowboy's brother has some undefinable job in the city, so he can afford three garages heaped to the brim with children's plastic crap. They kindly cleared a space for Dino, and there he resides. The long-term plan is for us to move out of The Bolt-hole and into a house, and then we will have space for Dino ourselves.

Since our container arrived, with him in it, Dino has been at the depot awaiting instruction. You see, he was supposed to come in a separate container a few weeks after the primary shipment. This would have given us time to sort the tow-truck necessary for a car that's not road-legal. But the shipping company found that they could fit all our possessions, and a car, into one 40ft container. I think they were as surprised as we were. So he arrived early.

I've often written that everywhere Dino goes, people smile, and it's true in the UK too. We paid him a visit at the depot to check he started up (he did, fifth try! not bad for a 42-year old that's spent 3 months in a shipping container). It only needed one person to come down and hand us the keys, but a troop of three came to witness the engine in action. Be-earringed shaven-headed craggy old blokes, they grinned from ear to ear when he fired up, and we talked at length about his history.

The tow-truck driver was likewise fascinated. He described it to my sister-in-law, who took delivery, as "a memorable day". I love that he makes other people happy.

Enquiries had been made by visitors to the depot as to how much we would accept for a sale. We're accustomed to this - once we were accosted at a set of traffic lights in NZ with the exact same question from someone who said "I'm serious! How much?". He is not for sale. And not only because Her Majesty's Beancounters will charge us tax on the import value if we sell him within 12 months.

Which fact gives an indication of how much my head swirls with paperwork. Dino must pass his MOT (test of road-worthiness in the UK), and though he is 42 and thus exempt from many modern requirements, I am concerned. I have good reason to believe the MOT is harder to pass than the Kiwi equivalent. We shall see.

Once he's passed his MOT, he needs to get registered. The form requests many pieces of information, much of which I do not understand, such as "Particulates (pm) g/km or g/kWh", and "HC g/km or g/kWh". It's OK, I thought. I speak Government. I'll get the helpful leaflet giving guidance on how to fill this in.

The helpful leaflet refers to something called the CoC form, without anywhere explaining what this is. No matter: I shall persevere. Happily, eventually he will be allocated an un-used license-plate number from 1967 and is entitled to the white-on-black plates from that era too. This is a bonus, because I know the lurid flourescent yellow modern UK plates would clash horrifically with his pale green hue. Being Italian, he might never fire up again, in protest.

There's also another issue, unrelated to paperwork. Where Dino lives, so do two very small and destructive children. He is the biggest excitement in their lives at the moment. The kids don't understand that he's worth quite a lot of money and that if that indicator-stalk snaps off it's going to be extremely difficult to replace.

I had to breathe very deeply and calmly, because they have not been brought up to understand that adults are not joking when they say "please don't touch that". They are not my kids, so I can't unload at them when they actively disobey, though I did come very close a couple of times, as the handbrake was wrenched and the windows wound down too vigorously. He is under a dust-cover, but the kids know exactly how to take it off. If you're not very careful, you can scratch the paintwork doing so.

I would like to impose a rule that they can look but not touch, but that's never going to happen. Cowboy has quite gently said to his brother that the car is a bit fragile, and not a plaything, but that's as far as he feels he can go. It's nice of them to let us store him there, for free, for what is likely to be quite a long time. In the case of major breakage, he is fully insured.

In the meantime, all I can do is wish him luck! Good luck with the MOT, Dino! Good luck getting a decent license-plate number! Good luck evading little hands!

The Ludicrous Job Title Awards: II

I've been trying to make a trophy-style cup for these, but I am old, and my talents with arty software are not what they once were.

I'll continue to attempt it, in between attending the Job Centre PLUS to be asked what 'advocacy' is and how to spell it, and asserting that it's just possible that the government's job-finding resources are less effective for those of us who can't fit their expertise into a four-digit SOC job-code. Every two weeks I must attend the Job Centre so we can together trawl joylessly through my 'job-seeking' log while neither of us is listening to the other.

I wouldn't mind, if there was a pot of actual cash money social security benefit at the end of this rainbow of drudge, but there isn't. I've been working abroad for the last two and a half years and I've been disentitled to state benefits as a result of not having paid my 'National Insurance Contributions' in the previous two tax years. I've also got too many savings to qualify for income-based job-seekers allowance, but that doesn't stop The Man requiring me to visit him regularly so he pays my National Insurance Contributions during my period of unemployment.

In the meantime, I urge you to enjoy wondering what a Resistant Materials Teacher is.

Is it, for example, a man wearing a musty-smelling cardigan, who is supposed to be teaching teenagers about fabric but who can only utter "I'm not doing that, and you can't make me" while looking up at the headteacher from under a furrowed brow? Is he the man who starts a petition to halt the proposal that morning break-time be changed from 10.15 to 10.30?

Is it, rather, a fabric teacher who is capable of repelling projectiles aimed at her head, using only the power of her laser-beam eyes? Like an educational super-hero, she cowes the most violent animal urges of the inner-city youth, and privately regales her friends with tales of how much she adores teaching in central London! She is Resistant-Femme!

Photo of the Week

Two days after I landed back in Blighty, I was guilted into going to Eastbourne* to visit The Provincials, who were holidaying there, having timed their visit to exactly coincide with our arrival back in the UK.

Those of you who have travelled non-stop for seven weeks, and know the pain of a 10-hour flight, will understand that this news was not greeted with quite the joyous raptures I believe were expected. So much so, that my sister-in-law (praise be!) assertively told them that their presence the VERY SECOND we stepped off the plane might be a little too much; that we would be extremely tired, and that we would have a lot to do. So they took themselves off to nearby Eastbourne for a few days, where they shot rays of guilt at us from within a SAGA-approved Benecol-serving B&B.

"Come on", whined Cowboy the next day, "They haven't seen you for two years!".

I repressed the urge to let him know that it had occurred to me that he could go on his own but won't, because he can hardly stand the company of his own father (which situation, I realise, is awfully sad) when I'm there, let alone having to handle it himself. I further choked back the words which were on the point of noting that I haven't seen my own parents in a year and a half and yet I appear to be being asked to prioritise seeing people I actively dislike. I also refrained from screaming BUT WE DIDN'T ASK THEM TO COME HERE AND IT'S 36 HOURS SINCE WE GOT BACK AND I"M STILL JETLAGGED AND ARE YOU REALLY SERIOUS?!

So we went. And the only saving grace of the entire day was the opportunity to take this photograph of a fat man lighting up on the pier:





*For those of you who don't know, Eastbourne is where old people who have spent their evenings watching ITV** are sent to drive their mobility scooters until they die. Which is just fine if you're an old person who likes to talk endlessly about the weather, but it ain't so much if you've just been travelling around Asia and you need to go to London ASAP.

**ITV is the televisual equivalent of a withered intellect. The resident comedians are unfunny, and the programming includes many second-rate 'talk shows' reminiscent of a less clever Jerry Springer.