Thursday March 24, 2016. Myself and Cormac met in town, squeezed in a few beers, and headed out to the airport. Being a Big Shot, as I was, I had 20kg luggage allowance. Being the cheapskate that he is, Cormac didn’t. But the feller at check-in had the wherewithal to tell us that if we checked both bags under my name, Cormac wouldn’t have to pay. Which is common-sense enough, but fair play to the feller for actually telling us. Nine times out of ten in Hong Kong, they wouldn’t have bothered. I’m not sure how pleased his employers would have been that he denied them the fee that Cormac should have paid, so despite his good service he shall remain nameless – not least because we didn’t pay any attention whatsoever to his name.
We then managed to find a new bar in the airport in which to squeeze in a couple more although it has to be said it was quite spectacularly bad. An Irish-American bar, it served Guinness against a backdrop of baseball and American Football memorabilia, although you had to wonder why. Couldn’t they have just gotten the same bog-standard pre-packaged Irish kit-pub that everyone else does? One thing it certainly didn’t do was serve Cormac his nachos as the wee lassie who took the order quite clearly forgot.
And then it was a three hour flight to Kinabalu, during which AirAsia’s pre-ordered food proved to be remarkably edible, and then we were in a warm and steamy Malaysian Borneo – warm and steamy even at 11pm at night. Taxi to Le Meridien hotel, a couple of beers in the hotel bar, a barrage of Cormac’s opinions on local Hong Kong politics – in which he appeared to be extremely well-versed courtesy of the Hong Kong Free Press – and finally to bed around 1am.
Now one doesn’t mean to be unkind, but the city of Kota Kinabalu is a rather non-descript place. Myself and Sue were here a few years ago, and weren’t particularly impressed. If it weren’t for the mountain and its access to the rest of Borneo, I’m not sure it would hold any interest whatsoever. It’s Wikipedia entry describes it as “a popular gateway for travellers visiting Sabah and Borneo”. That’s more or less all it is – a gateway to other, better, things. Developed primarily by the British in the late eighteenth century as a trading post, it was subsequently razed by the same British during their retreat from the Japanese in the Second World War, and then subject to further Allied bombing. Apparently the Atkinson Clock Tower, built by Mary Edith Atkinson in 1905 in memory of her son, Francis George Atkinson, is one of only three pre-World War II buildings to survive the war. That’s a pretty comprehensive razing. The city – or what was left of it – was then handed over to Malaysia during independence in 1963. So it’s all rather new, all rather functional, and not very historic. There are a few parks, wildlife sanctuaries and golf courses around, but that is more or less it.
Will and Flora had been out exploring but described the Heritage Walk as “Honestly, not worth it.” So in the full spirit of adventure and exploration, culture and appreciation, myself and Cormac spent the morning by the pool.
However Will had finally succumbed to the inevitable and decided that his backpack – which was basically a water hydration bag with a few extra pockets – was not going to be big enough for the demands of Mount Kinabalu, and myself and Cormac had become a little bored, so after a lunch cooked in the hotel kitchen by Will and Flora (albeit under the supervision of the chef), we were off in search of an outdoor shop.
So the Pirie’s, myself and Cormac ventured off in search of the rather oddly named Tech City – why would an outdoor clothing/sports shop call itself Tech City? – which was a rather nondescript looking store packed to the rafters with everything you could possibly think of for use in outdoor sports. It would appeared to have been inspired more by Rambo: First Blood than anything else. Kayaks, telescopes, hunting knives, you name it and they most likely had it. And all at very reasonable prices. So we made a few purchases, then wandered off to a shopping mall in search of more odds and ends, made a few more purchases (sunscreen, earplugs, energy foods), headed back to the hotel, and eventually ended up in a branch of Sports Direct which was cheaper than cheap. And despite what Mike Ashley may or may not have done to our beloved Newcastle United, and despite the questionable practice of zero-hour contracts, all scruples were abandoned in the face of these bargains. Shameless.
Then it was over to the waterfront bars and restaurants opposite the hotel – including the dubiously named Cock and Bull – in search of some dinner, despite the malodorous whiff coming off the sea. One of the bar owners blamed it on a combination of the waste from the boat-dwelling Filipino refugees on the other side of the bay, and the nearby fish market. Whatever it was, when the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, it stank. There was quite a beautiful sunset though. And of course there was a last minute review of what to pack and what not to pack, what to expect and what to worry about.
Assembling the kit and caboodle for Kinabalu was all rather straightforward and somehow took the fun out of the preparation. Kilimanjaro required the reading of innumerable websites, watching YouTube videos, countless discussions on what was and was not required, and visits to all manner of outdoor clothing/equipment stores, which even resulted in ‘membership’ of RC Outfitters – although I suspect that such status was not so hard to achieve. Preparation for Kinabalu simply involved digging out some of the stuff bought for Kili, which had not been used since, and making sure it still fitted. And remarkably, it did, despite my concerns about an ever-increasing waistline. New purchases extended no further than a head-torch and a new water bladder – for me backpack that is; me own bladder was fine and dandy, relatively speaking of course given the amount of tubes that had been shoved into it in the name of cancer treatment.
So the kit for Kinabalu was my Asolo trekking boots; some thick socks; those same godawful trekking pants with removable legs that double up as shorts; waterproof trousers; one set of thermals just in case; two t-shirts; a micro-fleece; a waterproof windbreaker; a beanie and some gloves. It really wasn’t as much fun writing that as it was writing the exhaustive list that described the Kili kit. There was also the usual accessories – camera, GoPro and ipod.
The ipod was a life-saver on Kili – some sweet soul music easing the exhausting night-time trek to the summit (shame then that our friends at Apple have decided they want us stream rather than store music, and have sacrificed the iconic ipod to launch AppleMusic, giving them even greater control of our i-lives). Despite bugging the hell out of everyone by toting the GoPro around and demanding that people say something funny to the camera, Kilimanjaro The Movie never happened. With a little effort I’m sure I could have cobbled something together, but the iMovie software on my iMac was so old that it wouldn’t import half the clips from the GoPro. And the iMac itself was so old that it wasn’t worth updating the iMovie. By the time I finally bought a new computer over a year later I’d lost interest. And let’s be honest, most of the footage was shit. Some of the shots were so wobbly as to induce sea-sickness. Others rendered the viewer temporarily blind as the camera was rather naively pointed directly into the sun. The monologues were a bit dull. Some not suitable for a family show. And although I had some footage of us at the top of the mountain, I had nothing of the arduous slog through the dark to the summit. So the key moment – the cold and the dark, the pain and the misery, the agony and the ecstasy – was missing. Those National Geographic documentary makers had nothing to fear.
Feedback on what to expect on Kinabalu was varied. Terry and Matt thoroughly enjoyed their trip and said it was a great experience. Other reports had mentioned the interminable steps and the strain that took on thighs, knees and calves. Yet another second-hand tale described a slog through ceaseless wind and rain as a “most miserable experience”. So that’s nice.
Go to Chapter 16: Onwards and upwards