The last orang utan we saw threw its poo at us whilst we were developing blisters on our legs the size of tree frogs from the poisonous jungle plants we had to wade through for the priviledge. This time was going to be different. Amongst the delights of Kuching was the Semenggoh Orang Utan sanctuary, a veritable oasis of civilised, non poo lobbing great apes. I was looking forward to a stimulating game of chess. After the horrors of Sibu and the Rejang river, Kuching was a breath of fresh air.

Our hotel was run by money pinching nasty rude people who sneered every time I walked past, but at least they werent Christian evangelists and once we'd dragged our rucksacks there from the Sibu bus we'd bumped right into Kyoko and Ryan, a pair with more savvy than most of the budget concsious backpackers we'd met in the whole of the last three years. They spent the night watching us drink a bottle of rice wine telling us how they'd managed to hitch everywhere (including the night markets around the corner) because it was not only fun but also made an excellent way to meet the locals. This was a sore point for us after failing drastically to meet anyone without a cash motive along the Rejang River so we drank up and decided to see some great apes instead.

Richie of Semenggoh.

Kuching was pretty easily explored the next morning simply by walking to one of the many (in an incredibly confusing system) bus stops in the centre of town. Compact and green, collonial architecture spanning the British era with big impressive collumns, the chinese influence (row upon row of shophouses and funny smelling restaurants) and the by now familiar Malay townhouses and facades. The waterfront was a pleasure to wander along but soon became a bit of a chore as Amanda would invariable drag me into every single 'handicraft' shop we came to... and there were very many indeed.

We did manage to get on the right bus and made Semenggoh well before feeding time. Hanging about admiring the unfinished orchidarium and all twelve square feet of the 'bamboo garden'. Then came the rains, from not a drop to complete deluge in no more than twenty seconds. Everyone took shelter hoping it would soon abate, but it didn't. Not many waited anyway, most had their tour leaders drag their drivers away from their well earned fag breaks to reverse the minibuses down the drive and whisk them off to whatever fascinating (preferably indoor) activity was next on the itinerary. Amanda and I managed to borrow an umbrella off one of the rangers and, shoulders set against the tropical downpour splashed through the remaining kilometre or so of jungle to the feeding platform. It was covered in fruit, there were a couple of squirrels, a spider, one or two other English tourists (the rain it seems has next to no effect on the Brits) and absolutely no orang utans whatsoever. Unlike Sepilok (or so I've heard) the rangers here don't let a couple of random apes out of their cages to eat bananas in front of the tourists, here if they don't choose to show you don't get to see them. It's supposed to be for them after all, not us.

Jez of the jungle



We were dissapointed of course and started to walk back to the main road about three kilometres away, knowing that we had just missed the last bus home in an effort to see any late, great ape. We'd managed about two when the guy who's umbrella we'd borrowed came passed on his moped and told us a big male had just showed up... We all but ran all the way back, to be confronted by a huge ball of orange fluff, cute, querky and easily capable of tearing any man alive limb from limb without breaking a sweat. His name was Richie, taken by poachers as a baby and held in a small box for the first 8 years of his life for sale on the Kalimtan border. He was finally bought by a foreigner working in the area and bought to Semenggoh. Now he's 27 years old and immesurably happier, though unable to be released back in to the proper wild as many have been from here. After shovelling down a few dozen bananas Richie shimmied down the wooden pole and calmly ambled back into the jungle while all those present shuffled desperately to get out of his way... worth having to hitch back to town for I think.

Getting cultural at the cultural village



Amandas plan C to learn about the local people of Borneo, intregrate into their culture, learn their ways and finally be able to shoot a straight blowpipe was doomed to failure from the start. Basically we went to see Kuchings 'cultural village'. A custom built tribal theme park near to Sarawaks package holiday hotel filled Damai beach. Not that this was in any way a bad idea, we both actually thoroughly enjoyed it. They'd dug a big lake in the middle of a field and hired representatives from each race in the state to come and build their traditional homes. These they'd furnished traditionally with home made items such that you could expect to find if you went out and visited then for real (minus the DVD players and satelite dishes obviously), woven baskets, traditional musical instruments and weapons, pots, utensils and in most, human skulls.

Stay away!

Armed with our rather kitch 'cultural passport' looking for stamps from each place we stopped we dutifully did the circuit. Suffice to say the Iban longhouse was stocked with disinterested Ibans on their lunch breaks so we didn't get a guide or any explanations of anything. The Bedayu's were the complete opposite however, giving us the grand tour, showing us their skull collection proudly and even letting me play on the musical instruments hanging on the wall. I even managed a duet with a funky old man, him on the stringed thing, me on the bits of wood with mallet... Amanda named that tune in three!

The Melenao took the prize for most interesting medicinal heritage (their shamen took the ilness from a patient, locked it in a doll and sent it up the river) and lived in the best homes (tall houses, built for protection against Iban headhunters on twenty five foot stilts). The Orang Ulu had the best food on offer, deep fried oily tapioca cakes, and the Penang had come, built one of their makeshift bamboo shelters and dissapeared back into the jungle. Obviously we didn't see any of them.

Tropical Tribal



At the 'dancing show' after our circuit Amanda was pulled up on stage to shoot a six foot blow pipe at a brace of ballons and I had a go at traditional dancing (against my will) which turned out to be the ubiquitous side-to-side steppy dance, prominant in every culture since the dawn of time. It actually all proved very amusing, a great way to see the people of Borneo and learn a little of their history, culture and craft all in one day without really getting off your backside. There was even a restaurant that served a passable veggie fried rice. But plan C wasn't nearly enough to satisfy Amandas by now burning desire to get out and experience the proper Borneo. In fact it only served to heighten her sinking suspicion that we'd been dragging our feet in the old 'getting off the beaten track' front for a while. A plan D was obviously called for, the only problem being that we had a flight booked to the mainland in less than a week and still had Bako National Park to get to. This was obviously going to take some effort!

Sarawak Museum



We decided to go to the Sarawak Museum and get lost in its interesting socio-cultural displays for a while, emerse ourselves in Borneo's people, history and vibe. All the socio-cultural displays however were closed for refurbishment and a thorough dusting leaving only the 'Natural History' section (stuffed, dead, smelly, musty animals in unrealistic poses) which we'd got very fed up of very quickly. Unlike any other museum we'd ever visited this one also had a aquarium attached, which turned out to be like any one of the dozen or so seafood restaurants I'd passed to get there that morning. Risking Jihad against this site I have to say that the Islamic wing was also complete junk as well. Mostly miniature models of famous mosques which are interesting for all of twenty seconds. The Sabah museum kicks ass out of this place any day of any week anywhere. Outside was its only saving grace, a tall hollow wooden totem pole, stolen from some tribal village within which was interred the remains of a long forgotten chief. It was intricately carved with strange gods and symbols. The tribesmen erected it, presumably according to his wishes, so their chiefs body would always face the rising sun untill the end of time. The museum had decided they would reposition it 180 degrees so he always faced away from the sunrise because it looked better. Which is just typical really.

The next day we decided enough was enough. We wanted to see some real animals of the non-stuffed variety. Packing a few essentials, tea, sugar, powdered milk, we said goodbye to Kuching for a couple of days and jumped on the bus to the nearby Bako National Park.