Bako

A short motorboat ride down a river and down the ocean coast takes me to Bako National Park. I hop off the boat, rucksack in hand, and walk through the wild muddy surf to shore. Leaving behind my fellow passengers - matching Birkenstocks, Lonely Planet clutching young Spanish couple; middle aged German woman with "tribal" armband tattoo - standing helplessly aside as the boatman assumes bellhop duties bringing their bags to shore. I scope out the nearby grassy clearing serving as a campground, pitch my tent and head to the cantine for my day's first meal. I ask for a bowl of "air panas" - hot water - and object half heartedly in beyond-broken Malay at being charged half a ringgit.

I sit down for a gourmet affair of MSG instant noodles - lamb flavoured, although I wouldn't know if it wasn't indicated as such on the packaging. The European vacationers in my immediate vicinity whisper to each other in confusion and disgust as I violently hack open a can of sardines and mash the slimy, salty wonders into my noodle soup. Yum.

I slurp up the last of my champion hobo breakfast, sit back and open up a tattered, tape-bound edition of Jack Kerouac's Lonesome Traveler - still attracting stares amongst the polo shirt crowd (to be fair I am sporting a rather unwashed appearance, my hair resembling that of Albert Einstein if he had dabbled in crack cocaine). As I am reading of Jack's time as a railroad brake man (he too prides himself on improvised meals on the cheap) I become the latest victim of the jungles thievingest bastard - the macaque. I chase him down, retrieving my foodsack of noodles, beans, sardines and crackers whilst yelling specist insults I hope the scumbag understands

I sit back down and get through less than three pages of Mexican opium adventures before the skies opt for a recreation of the emotional climax of every Hollywood film - Crack-Boom! (thunder) followed my instantaneous sheets of tropical downpour. I run full-tilt back to the campground leaping tarp strings to get to my vulnerable mesh-bare tent under aqua-assault. Awkwardly, I fling the nylon fly over; desperately searching for what clips where,  which way's up etc. I am quickly rescued from this pickle by two guys who abandon the shelter of the concrete bathhouse and come to my aid.

Now under the concrete, tin roofed shelter, dripping like mad, I thank my two heroes. I learn they are here on a reprieve from Uni study in Kuching, with about thirty of their classmates. This will be their last night and I am invited to their concluding shindig - under the big blue tarp - taking place later that night.

The cats and dogs don't seem to have any intention of stopping anytime soon, the place is flooding. The students however seem unphased and their relaxed attitude towards this torrential assault leaves me mutually unfretting - if the water rises a few more feet, swimming to and fro may be a welcome change of pace.

In typical Malaysian fashion I am told to serve myself first and to take "more, more!" of everything. There are many dishes of chicken, fish, hotdogs, rice and so on. It is all very scrumptious, a welcome break from noodles, sardines and beans. While I finnish the best meal I've had in a while, thanking all of my new friends repeatedly, I am told the evening is not over. These are the aristocrats of the jungle and a multicourse meal can only be followed by one thing: theater.

My friends have broken into groups and written short plays for the evening. I am very humbled when I learn that between meeting them earlier in the day and now they have all translated their plays into English, just for my benefit - this stinky disheveled bum is their quest of honour! All the plays where hilarious start to finnish but there was one play that will always (graphicly) remain ingrained in my mind - the story of the circumcision of a proboscis monkey (why do plays written by young people invariably end up being phallic-centric?). After the skits have concluded I feel responsible to put myself up on the stage (the stage being standing in the ankle deep water, under the communal tarp area) and give a performance of my own. I make an attempt  of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah with my cheap, battered ukulele. I struggle to be heard over the ratatatat of the incessant rain and thoroughly butcher Leo's classic but the enthusiastic applause at the end tells me they atleast appreciate the effort.

This is an expertly engineered string and tarp structure (oh, Canada) but is nevertheless thoroughly inundated, we abandon her for the more reliable shelter of the bathhouse. Here we sit down, guitars materialize, someone comes with a big jug of coffee, chocolate cookies - this party clearly isn't over. Almost everyone here is of a different ethnicity and religion. Folk songs are sung perfectly with much gusto from the different indigenous cultures of the state (Kayan, Kenyah, Iban) alongside more familiar acoustic-guitar-camping songs. The evening draws to a close, I reluctantly tredge through the swamp to my tent.

My friends pack up and depart the next day and I am left with no companions but the critters. I have many more standoffs with the macaques, rather pleasant snort-conversations with the wild boars, staring competitions with the proboscis monkeys (also contemplating their outrageously goofy appearance) and perplexing a monitor lizard with some beatboxing (my first ever win in a rap battle).

I sit down amongst a cloud of a few billion blowflies communally making the sound of a large open grave and reopen my book. Jack is on a boat for Morocco and I am about to pack up my bog of a tent and embark a boat of my own - onward.