The last mile

The typhoon Yolanda shook the Philippines upside down, and the rest of the world as well. As always with a disaster of this scale, aid organisations tumble over each other to provide help quickly. Money is transferred; clothes, food and medicine are collected. But do these goods actually reach their destination?

In the maelstrom after the tsunami it became clear that not all well-meant help is equally useful. Affectionately collected articles of clothing sometimes were deposited on the roadside, by desperate chauffeurs, simply because there was nowhere to store them. They rotted away in rain and mud. Depots in harbours and on airports overflowed with donations that were direly needed just a few miles down the road. For many people on faraway locations foreign help did not reach this ‘last mile’.

Getting involved

Nine years ago Arnout Mostert, Dutch expat in Singapore, sat behind his desk, feeling itchy. He felt helpless. He wanted to do more than just draw his chequebook. With two friends he boarded a flight to Phuket, to see with their own eyes how they could best be of service. On landing in Phuket they found, to their surprise, supermarkets and ATM machines well stocked, and aid organisations setting up and struggling to get started. They heard about areas on the north coast, forgotten areas, that were difficult to reach, and where no film crew had been. 

On the road

The three Dutchmen rented some pickup trucks and set to work. They filled their trucks with everything that they were told was needed, baby food, drinking water, tinned foods, medicine, and gruesome but true, a type of local tiger balm that people rubbed under their noses to combat the ever-present rotten stench of death. 

From Phuket, Arnout and his friends drove their laden trucks to faraway fishing villages, handing out help where needed, and back to replenish supplies. Back and forth. Through email they raised funds amongst friends and relatives. Costs of hotels and other personal needs, the friends paid for themselves. 

And, again

Now a new disaster has struck on his doorstep, Arnout felt the same pull, especially after last time's success. The first time I heard about his plans was through one of his friends, my husband in fact, who asked my permission for a donation. Not much later Arnout’s story went viral on Facebook. The Dutch community in Singapore, and many others, jumped in with money and their time. The gym teacher of the Hollandse School was given a week off to help. So many people joined, that this week several teams will be able to hit the road. 

Together with local volunteers and the Philippines army and police force, Arnout and his team are working hard to bring much-needed goods to far-off, forgotten locations. Goods are bought locally, and packed and transported under police protection to places where no organisation has been yet. 

Progress

On his Facebook page Arnout tells his about his work. About his problems to rent trucks, because the Canadian Army took most. About his attempt to get 500 plastic bags without having to pay a peso. About locals asking for building materials, as the damage to houses is significant. About how bad the damage is in places, but also how great the locals are in helping with efforts like his. 

At the moment Arnout and his crew are on the island Panay, in the west of the Philippines. The plan for the next days is to fill gaps around the towns Capiz and Estancia, where the Canadian army has not been able to get. 

The work is by no means finished. 

Do you want to help, with cash or with deeds? 

Check Arnout’s facebook page for more details: 

https://www.facebook.com/arnout

Disclaimer: All photo's are taken from Arnout's facebook page, and reprinted here with his permission. Arnout can be seen in the top picture, middle right in white polo shirt, next to Martin, the HSL teacher present on site. The lady on the left is Mylene Herbilla Yanga, a local volunteer. 

I spy, with my spiky eye

When you walk past the stretch of jungle at the beginning of our lane you can smell it. The king of fruits. Loved and hated by many for its distinct flavour. Sweet, pungent, creamy, fragrant. Overpowering. To us, the scent of durian smelt like an expedition. From the street we could not only smell, but also see the fruit, deep in the wood, a tantalising fifty meters high. Looking at our flip-flopped feet, and the snake-infested, bushy undergrowth, we realised our expedition was ill prepared. We searched the ground for fallings of the rambutan tree next to the road instead, but the monkeys had left us only shells. 

Then we spotted them, further down the road, in solid boots and gloves: durian pickers. They were loading their catch in the back of their truck, and we rushed over for a look and a chat. The durian pickers told us that the best trees were deep down in the darker jungle. And, that there was an old man sitting there, guarding his favourite tree, waiting for the fruit to fall.

I pointed at our shoddy footwear, and told them I was afraid to go in. It didn’t seem safe. ‘I wouldn’t want one of those heavy, spiky things falling on my kids heads,’ I shrugged. 
The pickers laughed. ‘No,’ one of them assured me, ‘that won’t happen. You see, durians have eyes. They see. And they aim.’
I smiled too. ‘So do they aim to hit my kids, or to miss?’
He laughed again. ‘No, they aim to miss.’
‘But the snakes won’t,’ his mate added. ‘Don’t go in. Here.’ 
He rummaged through their catch, and handed me a pristine specimen.

We thanked the pickers warmly, and on the way home the durian’s spikes pricked painful red holes in the palms of my hands. 

One needs to get past all its clever defences before the fleshy delights of the durian can be savoured. First, the smell. The smell of a fresh, uncut durian has no equal. Buildings have said to be evacuated, just because someone smuggled in a durian - a gas leak was suspected. 

The durian reeks so persistent that is not allowed to take the fruit in buses, subways or even taxi’s. When our own car stank for days, Roel forbade me to transport the fruit there as well. 

Those who have accepted the smell, and smuggled the forbidden fruit home, have to put up with the next defence: the thorns that cover it’s round surface can make nasty cuts, and only a strong knife can cleave the thick skin. Only after all that has been overcome, the king of fruits will divulge its creamy rewards.

Durian flesh is, to put it mildly, an acquired taste. Me? I love it. There is a film of me, maybe six years old, savouring the fruit eagerly, and ever since I have been hooked. My family is not yet convinced. The next day, when we eat the velvety, fragrant flesh of the fresh forest fruit, Roel admits: it is not too bad. Actually, it is almost pleasant. And yes, I can quote him on that.

Miri market mysteries

It is simple. I love markets. It does not matter much what they sell, antiques, bric a brac, made-in-China plastic tat. I love it all. Best of all: food markets. My husband gets a very heavy foot whenever we pass a market on the road, but for me, markets are the highlight of any holiday. Off course we had to see all the markets when we visited Miri, the city where I lived as a child in Sarawak, Borneo, a few weeks ago. Since we were staying in a hotel, I could not buy any of these lovely foodstuffs, so there rested no other option than to take my camera, and shoot away. Today I share my treasures. 

The colours of markets can make every casual snap a piece of art. 

This vegetable on the left is midin, or lemidin, and it can only be found in Sarawak. They are the tops of wild jungle fern, and served stir fried with sambal or cooked with Chinese wine and garlic. I have rarely eaten a tastier vegetable, and dream of it still. The pink flowers on the right, in the small pink bowl, are ginger flowers, used for laksa, and I imagine the flowers and leaves in the middle are of the ginger family as well. 

So pretty, but I have no clue. Some type of aubergine?

These guys, petai, we find in Singapore as well, but here the thick, juicy beans you buy shelled from their long, winding pods. The petai, or stink bean, grows wild as well, on tall trees. It's flavour is surprising, lovely with prawn and sambal, and will make your urine (and some say breath) stink. 

Displays like this make my mouth water. The beans on the left are winged beans, which have a funny shape when you cut them, that gave them the name 'star beans' in our house, one of my futile attempt to make my kids think of vegetables as fun. 

Bario rice. This rice, from the mountain area of Bario, is famous, and full of flavour. I kick myself now, why did I think bringing some home would be too heavy for my suitcase?

This is a mystery. Ikat, unfortunately, is not the name of this mysterious vegetable (or fruit?), it simple means bundle. My mother suggested it could be batu raga, a wild type of mango, but I am not sure as the shape is different. 

P'ria, or bitter gourd, looks like a wrinkled cucumber, very pretty, but it is a bit of an acquired taste. It is definitely growing on me, though. 

Not a clue what this is..

Just sereh, lemongrass, but I love the presentation. Beats any supermarket cling film hands down. Markets. Gotta love 'em. 

Jimmy’s story

Last week I wrote about my old house in Miri, Sarawak, which was brand new when I moved in as a four year old, and that now will be torn down. Thirty-three years may not sound old for a European house, but the tropics have a different pace. Heat, humidity, mould and sea wind make things deteriorate fast, and though the house seemed fine to me, I can imagine maintenance is expensive. 

Piasau Camp, the estate the house is in, is a stretch of land that the oil company my father worked for leased from the Sarawak government since its establishment in the 1950s. With the sea on one side, and Miri encroaching the green enclave on all others, this land has become prime real estate. What will its future hold? Will it be sold to a developer, to build housing estates, with large, modern Chinese palaces, with concrete plastered walls and no gardens to speak of, like the ones that former inhabitant have, reluctantly, moved to? Or can there be another future for Piasau Camp? 

In comes the hero of Piasau’s story: Jimmy. Jimmy has lived in Piasau camp for over ten years, very happy in its lush green surroundings. He lived there with his partner Faridah and their offspring, having a jolly good time at his dwellings just across the boat club. 

What makes Jimmy so special that he might be the one to save Piasau camp from becoming yet another slab of concrete? Jimmy is an Oriental Pied Hornbill. Hornbills are the national birds of Sarawak, and there are not that many of them left. To have a nesting couple so close to habitation is special, and it might just be that Jimmy will save the day, as Sarawak government has made promises to turn the camp into a Hornbill Reserve. 

Although promises have been made, Piasau Camp and Jimmy’s future are not secure yet, and on our last day in Miri we join a nature walk organised by the committee working hard to make these plans a reality. A leisurely walk around the camp is planned, and if we are lucky, we might spot some hornbills too. But when we arrive, we learn that Jimmy and his family have just left. 

The number of people that has joined the walk amazes me, many of them in green matching T-shirts sold by the organisation. A handful of expats, but especially many local Sarawak families, the kids on scooters and bicycles already whizzing around Piasau’s quiet lanes, the parents equipped with cameras, binoculars and mobile phones. 

While we wait for the walk to start, I learn more about Jimmy’s colourful history. After living and nesting happily for over a decade with his mate Faridah, as monogamous hornbills do, a drama took place. Faridah was found murdered by a poacher, her stiff body dumped in a rubbish bin. The culprit has been caught, but why he did his horrendous deed remains a mystery. The whole community was in shock, and feared for their Jimmy. On their facebook page, Jimmy’s fans cried murder. 

But now, a few months later, Jimmy has found his Juliet. Chatting to some of the other walkers, I suddenly hear a cheer go up. The hornbills have been spotted! Everybody rushes over, camera’s at the ready. Jimmy and Juliet give a great performance, cuddling and kissing on the branch of a large tree, every kiss drawing more cheers. To finish the show, Jimmy swoops off and circles around, showing off his perfect horned profile.

We see two more of Jimmy’s offspring that day, hovering around the casuarina trees. A magnificent sight, and we all keep snapping. Later, we walk past the hornbill nest, just a hole in a tree. 

Hopefully in the not too distant future Juliet will lay her eggs, and Jimmy will feed the babies with his large beak through the small slit, until the young will be big enough to fly out and help in conserving this place of my happy childhood memories, and live a long life in the Piasau Camp Nature Park.

Sarawak revisited

My dad’s confident statement that he can find his way to our hotel proves optimistic. Still, from all of us he seems the least astounded by Miri’s metamorphosis, having been back several times since we left. My mum, on the other hand, looks completely blank. ‘I don’t feel like I have been here before,’ she exclaims. Looking at the map, she is excited to discover a few familiar street names. ‘I remember the first traffic light in Sarawak being build,’ she cries. ‘Right there, on the corner of the Pujut Road.’ 

In the early eighties of the last century Miri, a town in Sarawak, the Malaysian state that takes up most of Northern Borneo, was a sleepy village. The oil boom, both fossil and palm, together with extensive wood logging has been responsible for its explosive growth. Not exactly a metropolis yet, Miri is now a sprawling provincial town of 300 000 inhabitants. Being just across the sea in Singapore, I have been dreaming of revisiting my childhood memories, which I collected in a children’s book a few years back. Since I was only seven when we left, and I am hoping my parents can guide me on this trip down memory lane.

The first morning we head off to find our old house. We lived in a ‘camp’, a housing estate supplied by the oil company that my father worked for. Rumour has it the whole area will be torn down by the end of the year, so this is our last chance. When we cross the river to Piasau Camp my mother sighs with relief. Finally, she recognises something. The river is covered by two bridges; the old wooden narrow one that would only take one vehicle, so people had to take turns, is now restricted to pedestrians. A large, concrete new bridge flanks it. Inside the camp with it’s simple layout it is not long before we find the house. Our house. Easy, it is the last one in the street, just before the road ends and the beach starts. The first thing we notice is how overgrown everything is. We were the first people to inhabit this house, and the garden was empty. My mother, who is a keen gardener, transformed it into a paradise full of flowers. Now, the abandoned house has a neglected jungle for a garden, and the little dike and the sea beyond it are no longer visible.

There are more differences. The roof is no longer green, but off-white. From our row of casuarina trees, of which I still have the scar to prove I fell out of when I spotted a snake, only one is left, two are reduced to stumps. The broad patio looks less inviting than it used to, covered in mosquito netting, but is probably the more comfortable for it. 

Other things are unchanged. The smell of the sea mixed with jungle green. The playhouse, which we can pretend is the same as the one I used to play in with my brother and sister. The white tiles on the floor. The sound of cicadas. 

To get to the beach we have to wade a muddy track, cross a dilapidated bridge, but then, it is as fabulous as ever. The kids run around, and I am jealous of my own five-year-old self, fortunate to live in such a beautiful place. 

After this first morning we explored further, and found many of my childhood’s favourite places and stories. Stories I will write down and share, I hope, shortly. Stories of the hornbills in Piasau Camp, the waterfalls in Lambir Hills, the search for Iban longhouses and Sarawak laksa.

Island hopping

Every weekend in Singapore can be a mini holiday. And as Singapore is more than just the main island, it actually consists of sixty-three islands all together, it is time to explore another one than the one we live on. 

We, our family of five and my visiting parents, take a bumboat out to Pulau Ubin. At the ferry terminal, where we are waiting for some more people to arrive to fill up a boat that seats twelve, Roel nudges me. Shouldn't we have bought our passports? No, I reassure him, Pulau Ubin might be out in the Strait of Johor, it is part of Singapore. Still, just after landing on the island, my mobile bleeps ‘welcome to Malaysia’, and that reflects just how we feel at Pulau Ubin: in a different country. Guidebooks will tell you that Pulau Ubin is where you can go if you want to see what Singapore used to be like years ago, before skyscrapers and shopping malls overtook kampongs and muddy hills.

Straight after alighting from the bumboat it is obvious what people come here to do: cycling. Rows and rows of shops try to let us their two-wheeled wares. The bicycle does seem the nicest and easiest way to navigate the islet, and we Dutch feel right at home. Even though Opa and his grandson watch them with hungry eyes, we decide not too. Apart from the grandparents we have a toddler in tow, and the temperature is soaring well into the thirties. Shall we, anyhow, do it? No. We really shouldn’t.

Oma asks how large this island is, and whether it is the same size as the Dutch wadden-island of Texel. I laugh. The whole of Singapore is not much larger than Texel, and Pulau Ubin measures little over ten kilometres square. After a short walk through a sensory garden we feel hot, flustered, and hungry enough for a Pepper Crab lunch and some cool drinks. In Singapore’s heat energy levels get drained fast, and proper walks, like bicycle tours, are best left for cloudy days. 

We decide to take one of the taxi’s waiting by the jetty to drive us to the Chek Jawa Nature Reserve. It is a mangrove reserve, which worries Oma, as she is not wearing the right shoes for mud tramping, but again, I can comfort her quickly. Pulau Ubin is still Singapore. Singaporeans do not trod mud. The whole reserve is laid out with wooden boardwalks, through both mud flats and sea, perfectly suited for toddlers in buggies, kids on scooters or their flip-flopped grandparents. Distances are short, and there are plenty of nice shelters on the way for rest and much needed hydration. 

There so much to see and admire. Weird mangrove trees with their roots sticking out through the mud, and their seeds, hanging like arrows pointing from branches. Mud skippers. Mud lobsters, or better said their mounds that look like muddy volcanoes. Fiddler crabs with humongous claws. Striped nose halfbeak pointy fish. Snails. Lizards. Birds. Wild boar snuffing up our buggy. A Mock Tudor house on a hill, with a view. And, as this is still Singapore, across the sea oilrigs, an LPG tanker, and plenty of aircraft in the sky. 

So. Singapore Island, Sentosa, and Pulau Ubin done. Only sixty to go.

In my car: U-weeeh!

Driving in Singapore can be a lot of fun. Getting in lane, on time. Zigzagging motorcycles. Zooming taxis. Traffic jams. ERP systems. The U-turn. Finding your way with satnav equipment that does not seem to know its way around any better than you do.

The fun starts when I leave my house. When I exit our little jungle cul-de-sac, I have to turn left onto the main road. Even if, like most of the time, my destination is to my right. Our main road is eight lanes wide, with a unpenetrable barrier down the middle. And no, it is not a motorway. At the first traffic lights that I encounter, I can only go straight, or turn a pointless left into yet another dead end lane.

When I continue down, skirting the large nature reserve that takes up most of central Singapore, if I am lucky and it is after nine thirty in the morning, half way down the road I can make a U-turn. I knew of U-turns before moving to Singapore, off course, but this city has taken the phenomenon to a new level. The U-turn is ubiquitous, even my kids love talking about U-y’s, (pronounced u-wee), where to do it, how to do it, and most importantly, when not to. Because, in Singapore, you can only do it when there is a square blue sign saying you can. Which, in the case of the gap in the barrier halfway down our main road, means you can only do it after nine thirty in the morning.

And there is a reason for this. If I continue on, down the road, and I make my U-turn under the viaduct, I will get stuck in a jam. This jam, which I will have been able to observe with increasing trepidation while I was driving all those miles up the road, I have no means of avoiding. If I am not too unlucky, ten to fifteen minutes later I will find myself again passing my own street, but now in the correct lane. Appointments between eight and nine in the morning? Not a good idea.

The way back home requires no U-turn, but presents its own challenges. Our little drive is a left off the main road, just after you cross the motorway. And when I say just, I mean just. When you arrive, eager to turn left, you need to cut across traffic exiting the motorway. You have about ten meters to do so. And can you really blame motorists for not noticing the give way sign or the dotted lines at the exit? I often find myself stopping, honking, angrily shoving myself through, eyes closed, fingers crossed, hoping for the best. If you don’t make the turn? You will face the aforementioned drive to the U-turn, with a drive all the way back to the next crossing to make yet another U-turn which will allow you to try again in maybe fifteen minutes time. That is, if it is not before nine thirty in the morning…