Bhutan: Trek to Tiger's Nest

Tiger's Nest, Paro

I put Paro on the itinerary only because of Taktsang Valley. Ok, and because it is one of the more historical towns in Bhutan and looked pretty in pictures. If we hadn’t entered Bhutan in a bus (or truck or smuggled ourselves across the border), we would have flown into the country’s only international airport in Paro.

In any case, by the time we hit the town, we’d already been to Thimpu and Punakha. It was a Tuesday, which was Pedestrian Day in Paro. From the gate of the town, we walked several hundred metres to the square. I was certain we were in the wrong place, that there was somewhere else we would have to go, somewhere more, ummm, populated.

A small tower stood in the main square, surrounded by a garden, where little children squeaked in excitement after school. There was an archery tournament in a field nearby. We would have to check it out sometime, and try not to get pierced in the bum accidentally.

The hotel was cheap, decent (ish) and served by a restaurant downstairs. We got a ride to Taktsang the next day. At the base of the hill were the obligatory souvenir stalls selling prayer beads, flags and other knick knacks. Piles of pony dung peppered the rocky ground and the pungent smell of the animals and their faeces hung in the air.

A 40-something European gentleman and his wife were selecting rides. We were young and full of vigour; surely we weren’t going to take the ponies to the half-way mark. Five minutes into the walk and I thought, ‘hell, this is easy’. Then came the uphill climb. While it was nippy getting there, I ought to have been smart enough not to wear my sweater. After all, exercise does make you work up a sweat. I bore it out.

The path was probably hewn into the rock over the ages. Taktsang or ‘Tiger’s Nest’ Monastery was built in the 1694, but held sacred for centuries earlier. Legend has it that the revered Guru Rinpoche flew to this location on the back of a tigress to meditate sometime in the 8^th century. Seated precariously, on the edge of the cliff-face, the monastery with its four main buildings, chortens and caves, was rebuilt after a fire in 1958.

Taktsang through the trees

We plodded on. Up ahead, the European gentleman was not on his pony anymore, but instead behind it, urging it forward. On and off he would climb onto its back, helped by the guide, but the pony seemed to want the day off.

Between the trees on certain turns of the path, glimpses of Taktsang peek at you. It’s a good way to motivate you on, particularly if you start having second thoughts about the walk. Soon, we were at the little restaurant where you can tank up with water and a bite. The next point at which you can get the strange tasting butter tea the Bhutanese love is at a little kiosk run by a toothy, smiling old lady along the steps to Taktsang (It’s free and served out of a mug).

The road gets nastier here. I realised how much more fit I needed to be (or turn miraculously into Heidi of the hills) as elderly Germans passed us with their hiking sticks, a senior Japanese lady bent forward to tie her shoelaces and continued on, and Bhutanese pilgrims raced by with barely a heavy breath.

We strung up our prayer flags, took a few mandatory pictures and began climbing down the stairs. Already I was dreading the walk back. Stairs have never been my best friend.

But the view from Taktsang is worth every uphill climb, every second thought, every penny spent getting to Bhutan. Chilly wind from the valley whips at your face, threatening to tear off your nose. The wood panelled rooms are comparatively warmer, and because you were on too tight a budget to afford a guide, you sidle up to the ones speaking English and catch snippets of their stories.

As usual, I got lost, roaming room to room for at least half an hour before I was heated up enough to grunt ‘where the hell were you?’ when I finally found my travel buddy at the ‘Personal Belongings’ desk. We chatted with the sentries, who like most Bhutanese were dressed in traditional ‘gho’s.

We trudged back up the stairs, stopping to take pictures by the waterfall as a web of colourful prayer flags fluttered maddeningly in the wind. I couldn’t help but wonder how they tied them across cliff faces like that.

The Dzhong we saw the previous day had nothing on Taktsang. Sure it was beautiful in its own right, majestic and royal with its pretty wooden bridge across the pebbled river and gilded tops. Truth be told, visiting Bhutan had always been a wish, but it was Taktsang that actually yanked me there.

A dzhong

How I got to Bhutan:

Flight from Goa to Calcutta, train to New Jalpaiguri, rickshaw to Siliguri, bus to Phuentsholing

Where I stayed:

Thimpu: R Penjor Lodge (spacious, clean, nice views, neat café attached with free wi-fi), Hotel Tandin

Paro: Hotel Peljorling (the walls don’t quite keep the cold out and the bathroom is a bit dingy)

Punakha: Damchen Resort (lavish for my standards)

Phuentsholing: Hotel Bhutan

What I ate:

Ema datshi (chilli and cheese, Bhutan’s favourite dish)

Pork (with lots of fat)

Chicken rice with cheese and chillies

Points to note:

Indians are one of the very few nationalities allowed into Bhutan without a visa and on a pre-arranged tour. However, one must obtain a permit, easily available in Phuentsholing, for five days, extendable only in Thimpu. Carry photocopies of all your documents and keep your permits with you at all times. They will be stamped at every check post.

Coonoor: That little slice of paradise

I felt like an explorer travelling an unknown land. Unending undulating grass-covered hills, punctuated by tree cover, silence enveloping the scene, wild buffalo grazing contentedly by the pool of clear cold water.

Parsons Valley

Zooming in as far as my camera phone would allow, I pressed down to capture the scene. The click shattered the silence, in unison the wild buffalo snapped their heads towards me, eyes full of confusion.

Of course I wasn’t the dreaded majestic tiger that roamed the Nilgiris, or the cunning panther that stalked them in the underbrush. I was a stupid weak human who would shit bricks if they took three steps towards me. The big male at the head of the herd looked at me threateningly. I wanted to somehow melt into the wet grass under my feet.

Dorai was unflustered. He stood with his hands behind his back, his lungi loosely knotted to allow the chilly air to whip around his sinewy calves and looked at the scene before him. If the short elderly guide was laughing in his head, his face did not show it. Perhaps this had happened before.

We quietly moved on, me hoping we could get as far away from the herd as possible. The big male watched us until we were out of sight. At that moment, I felt adventurous, even a little brave for facing off a herd of two dozen buffalo like that. In truth, there was nothing brave or adventurous about it. I wasn’t chased by bison, startled by a leopard, harassed by a band of rambunctious monkeys or even attacked by a swallow and lived to tell the tale.

I was simply getting a lesson, just the basics, in being one with the wild.

It was my first time staying in a national park, hopefully not the last. Parsons Valley is part of a cluster of valleys, reservoirs, and wildlife sanctuaries that make up the Nilgiris. Spanning 2,479 square kilometres, the Nilgiri Hills are huddled in the westernmost part of Tamil Nadu, near the borders of Karnataka and Kerala in south India.

They are home to a wide range of flora and fauna, including large pockets of eucalyptus trees that give them the name ‘Nilgiris’ or ‘The Blue Hills’, and the largest concentration of tigers in the wild. Sambar deer are much larger in real life than one would have thought, even at 200 metres away. And they are very nervous. Flinch, and they scamper off to hide.

Rows upon rows of pine trees seemed to have the only man-made affectation. The government could have planted them randomly to give the hill-side a natural effect, but this is just nitpicking.  

Here the grass gave way to a soft carpet of dead pine needles. On my left, a few foxes ran up the hill and then paused to observe us. We ducked under a low branch to enter an archway of sorts made by another species of tree.

The path was obviously used, but there was no one in sight. How in the world did a wild cat pick its way through the twigs without snapping one? Here I was announcing my arrival to all and sundry with an orchestra at every step. I gave up trying and hurried along, keeping my eyes on Dorai.

View from Parsons Valley Retreat

He had a peculiar sense of fashion – white lungi and white shirt, a suit coat (yes, you heard me right) and gumboots. Every so often he would unhitch the second knot of his lungi and retie it to maintain the knee-length that is so common with working south Indian men.

A panther had made a kill only a couple of days ago, he said. Perhaps the carcass was still there. It was close by. Images of Animal Planet flashed by – the stench, buzzing bluebottles and swarming flies, coagulated blood. I sniffed the air, bracing myself for the onslaught. Nothing.

Dorai pointed but I couldn’t see a thing. Suddenly we were almost standing on top of it. I had never felt so stupid before, having watched endless hours of television shows on the subject. I could make out the spine, but that’s something a baby would do. There was a mass I thought could have been the head, and some stringy stuff that was presumably a few entrails left behind.

The panther had done a fair job of cleaning up. You could smell the carcass, now that you were so close, but the rain had probably subdued it. The cat could have still been in the vicinity – the pickings of wild boar, sambar, buffalo and rabbits seemed great.

We climbed up an embankment and suddenly it looked like one of the views I had travelled from Goa to see. It didn’t look like the pictures, simply because the image online was of Avalanche Lake and I was on the banks of the Mukurthi reservoir. But it was breathtaking all the same.

I zipped up my jacket against the chilly wind and we sat there, soaking in silence and the greenery. Not a honk, not a wail, not even the tinkle of a cow’s bell. This was perfect.

How I got there:

From Goa to Coonoor: Via bus (KSRTC) from Goa to Mysore to Ooty and a local to Coonoor

From Coonoor to Parsons Valley: Four-wheel drive (they send you one if required at extra cost)

Where I stayed:

Parsons Valley Retreat (Rs1800 per person per night including breakfast, lunch, tea + snacks, dinner). They made a bonfire and put some logs in the cabin so we wouldn’t freeze to death.

What I ate:

In Parsons Valley: delicious array of south Indian food

In Ooty: Chocolates from Modern Stores

Published in the Navhind Times Panorama: http://www.navhindtimes.in/panorama/breathtaking-parsons-valley

'Cry, the beloved country'

The Woman pushes the baby born
From a suffocating drowning world
Into a one with air
Thick with pollution

And She lies writhing on the floor
Her lungs screaming for air
Her body drawing rasping breaths
While She struggles to live
For Her children
Without race, religion or caste
Bigotry, alliance or prejudice
She is all
She is none


Yet we are delivered
A race apart, a religion apart, a caste apart
From the brother born with us


While She dies, crying
We draw Her blood
As we fight to live to die


Love the people. They are the country, the nation India.

My cold shadow

A cold shadow hangs over my shoulder
Watching everything I do
But more importantly,
Remembering everything I say.
It's a reason to be mute
To think only thoughts
Never out loud
Silently hoping they will go away.


But mostly they never do
They stay there long after they're forgotten
Coming back to say "They hate you
Remember what they did."
Even if most of it was supposition.
Leading me to sometimes hate a sharing world
A loving and caring world
Where I let loose all I carry with me.


It's hard to say things when they hurt
When I want it to be hard to hurt when they say things
When I say things, when anyone says anything.
To be cold and insensitive
But I am drawn to live in a 'civilised world'
With rules and boundaries
Sometimes good, sometimes bad.


I must behave like this or do things like that
Wear clothes like this and sit like that
Eat like this and not drink like that
Be a friend like this and not an enemy like that
My cold shadow sees all I do and hears all I say
And tells me I'm rarely doing right.

How funny, to be myself, I really must be somebody else.

Kuala Lumpur and Melaka

We behaved like complete idiots; even scared away the one traveler with us as we checked out the seats, poked the cushions to see how soft they were, discreetly gauging how low the chassis was and wishing we were rich enough to afford the tickets for the top deck. When the double-deck bus finally moved out of the station, we were forced to sit down, buckle up and fall asleep. The three of us woke up the next morning in Kuala Lumpur and forgot to wish Vikas a very happy birthday.

Took a taxi. It was the last leg so we permitted ourselves to splurge a bit. Equator Hostel was no more than 200m from Imbi station and the owners couldn't have picked a better location - we had a local chomp shop next door for cheap food and great conversation. Like every place else we visited in Malaysia, it was point, pay and eat.

The caretaker at the hostel was ruggedly suave, and very friendly. It was our first hostel where we had a common loo, but that too was spotless. Shoes were left out the front door and the array of slippers and sandals stood bare testimony to the hostel's popularity.

Of course now that we were in Kuala Lumpur, we had to go see the Petronas Tower. It's hard to imagine hundreds of people spend the day in this 88-storey metallic monster pounding away at their keyboards, while visitors outside stand agape at one of the world's tallest buildings. Zipping upwards in that elevator towards the sky-bridge on floors 41 and 42 among a clutch of other tourists made me feel like I was on a day-trip at school. It might do acrophobics good to stay away from the glass-panel edges, but the view is stunning and would probably be even more so when the city lights wink in the dark.

The Menara KL was a far cry from the Petronas buildings. The telecommunications and broadcast tower loomed large on Bukit Nanas, or Pineapple Hill, so we were quite sweaty after having traipsed around in circles trying to find the entrance from Raja Chulan monorail station. The hope of a look-see from the revolving restaurant at the top of the thousand foot or more tower remained a flight of fancy; the charge to take the elevator up was exorbitant.

T, D, G and J made it to KL too after Langkawi so to Zouk it was for Vikas' birthday party. It was the biggest and fanciest club I'd been to and the first where I ran into a "Club Dress Code". I was probably the only girl in there wearing trainers after the realisation dawned on me that Goa's shorts and slippers deal wouldn't make the cut. It was a Thursday but the crowd and DJs still gave us a good time.

Hangovers don't do anyone good the day there's a journey to be made. And crowded bus stops with delayed transportation don't make them any better. Typically, it's safe to say your bum will be in the seat for about two and a half hours, but the confusion of coloured buses, long lines and busy people left us still waiting with our tickets for the corresponding ride long after we ought to have reached Melaka.

Nevertheless, a delayed arrival was the least of our worries. Little Nyonya Youth Hostel had a shared Indian loo, with no toilet paper. I wasn't too happy to have to bother climbing down the creaky wooden stairs, bumping past the breakfast table in the kitchen and up a couple of slippery tiled stairs to relieve a protesting bladder in the middle of the night. It would have to do, and our Japanese dorm-mate was kind enough to set the fan on rotate so the hot, humid air would blow off blood-sucking mosquitoes.

The narrow winding lanes and greenery brought back memories of home along the road to the Dutch quarter housing Stadthuys Town Hall and Red Square. There's a sense of satisfaction and achievement to stand looking at a scene you've seen only in photographs. It brings perspective, respect and a strange understanding and connection to read the plaques detailing historical moments. You re-create times, erasing the present goings-on with dated nobles wearing fancy formal clothes on their way to church, or local vendors looking for a good deal, horse-drawn carriages, a coarse argument between beggars and a barefoot child peering longingly at a girl in a rich dress.

Melacca was colonised by a good many empires, including the Portuguese, the Dutch, the British and the Japanese. It's no wonder then that the 'Historic State' is full of museums - dedicated to general history, Dutch influence, architecture, culture and costume. There's much to miss out if you don't tarry long enough - the peculiar Nyonya cuisine, the antique goods on Jonker Street, Malaysia's oldest mosque with its pagoda influence - the Kampung Kling and the Chen Hoong Teng Temple. Catholic pilgrims might make a trip to the Church of St Francis Xavier, who was briefly laid to rest in this port city in 1553, before his body was brought to Goa.

A Famosa, that Chinese deco restaurant milling with people, beckoned for lunch. The stooped old man at the door appeared to be a member of the owners' family, which made thousands of rice balls daily to serve hungry customers. It went well with the roast duck and had to be one of the best meals I'd eaten in Malaysia. It's a must-visit along with one of the many kopitiams offering deliciously hot white coffee, strangely relaxing in the sweltering heat. Strolling along Jonker Street after the sun goes down brings the strains of live music - we enjoyed the Metallica covers on the corner - haggling over prices of antiques, families stopping for a snack on their way home and Malaysian Tamils sending a slightly warped sound of India to the ears.

We emptied our pockets at the satay stall, trying to taste every kind he had in fried and steamed versions. There couldn't be a better way to end our visit to Malaysia - stuffing our faces with a local snack, chatting about the days just passed, laughing over gaffes in public, simply happy being completely broke.

NRP Sagres

It was an invitation for the boss, filtered down by editorial discretion and busy schedules to the photographer and me. There may have been a slight departure from the norm, wherein the sibling went along on my pass to see the beautiful Portuguese sail ship, but better sense prevailed. We needed to get the picture captions right.

So I went along in my Raggedy-Ann best, looking fatter than ever in a certain polka dot (not large, I might add) number. We got lost to start with. Not surprising - I was present. No matter, when we finally arrived, there was a certain chill in the air snatched away by the lights picking out the outline of the masts. But the light mist was undeterred by a stealthy wind creeping across the Arabian Sea. Clicks and I paced the length of the three-masted barque on the dock, ignoring our bladders and awaiting the signal to step onto the gangway.

The Consul General of Portugal Antonio Sabida Costa shook hands with the other guests waiting outside and nodded at Clicks. I melted into the tarmac. Best to be unseen for fear they might turn me away on account of shabby dressing. When it was time, the first few guests climbed the gangway and down onto the deck, to be greeted by the commanding officer Luis Pedro Pinto Proenca Mendes and several other important looking people. The Portuguese were perfect hosts, staid and reserved in their crisp white uniforms. The trainee sailors, uncomfortable in their new waiters' roles, weaved through the crowd carrying wine and bites. Clicks and I left the wining and dining for later.

Not many were familiar; they all looked high-society and proper in their starched shirts. The band struck up, softly picking out the soulful melodies on the Portuguese guitar strings while Sonia Shirsat's versatile voice broke through the whispered conversation with melancholy Fado renditions. We positioned ourselves in a spot where no champagne flutes would be tipped and no fancy china would be bumped off the tables. Watching the ambassador's wife sing along, seeing the wistful look to a far-off countryside in her eyes, made me belong in a small way. A very small way. Most of me felt like a sore thumb with bright blue nail-polish. After the guitars were packed away and the good-looking sailors began weaving through the crowd with tasty tid-bits from Portugal, we made our way to the important people. Work beckoned.

Predictably, Clicks did his job well. Predictably, I tagged along like a lost puppy, jotting down names and trying not to get pushed away. When our stomachs decided we'd caught enough in frames, we planted ourselves within reach of the buffet table. That's when we met him. Adrian Melo de Melo. South American-born Portuguese who liked "making funny". Actually, we met his voice first. A deep polite timbre from over the shoulder which suggested we try the bacalhau. Needless to say we pigged out on the tender cod fish. I tried, very hard indeed, to listen to the voice explain trivia about Portugal, but I was more interested in the bacalhau for the moment. Then Adrian lost himself in the crowd.

Just when we were deciding whether to leave or take some more pictures, the voice piped up again. Would we like to see the bridge while we wait for dessert? Yes, we would. We found him clicking away at a computer showing us how the navigation worked, giving us perspectives on how much of the sailboat disappears under water in a storm and how high the waves rear before they crash onto the deck. Dessert was being served when we got back on deck. The pasteis de nata were quite unlike anything I'd ever tasted. They appeared savoury but were incredibly delicious, lightly crunchy on the outside and melt-in-the-mouth soft and sweet on the inside.

Then my bladder sent urgent signals to my brain. I needed a pee spot before a puddle (not made of sea water) appeared on deck. So it was back to Adrian and he took us downstairs to the loo before we got a private tour of the spaces below, spaces most other guests did not get to see. First up came a showcase of ancient navigational instruments that are apparently still used by the greenhorn cadets as part of their training. They were taught to steer their course with the help of the stars and the sun, and find out other important data that would take them safely around the world and me over the edge.

The officers mess, with plush seating and fancy paintings, along with an ancient map of Goa caught my attention. We spent a while there before moving on to the Captain Proenca's office, where Adrian handed us a tiny Sagres tie pin. It was a deep red in the office, and although it appeared a little cramped, it was fancy when you thought of what the ship was actually meant for - training sailors. We were shown into the room where presidents met and treaties had been signed, the long oval wooden table standing testimony to names that made decisions affecting millions... And not everybody gets a chance to have a picture with the ship's captain (unless you're on a cruise, which we were most definitely not!).

I had my first trip into the roaring heat and noise of the engine room and marveled at things that didn't make much sense, but made me thankful for anyway. We spent ages chatting with Adrian, asking him questions about the things he loved, about sailing and travelling. He seemed to love what he was doing, but he dearly loved home too. We were introduced to the man who made the luscious pasteis de nata, made broken conversation with him in French and laughed at how he was fleeced by the local taxi driver.

Adrian told us about Portugal and the Somalian pirates who still prowl the waters. How many of the attacks are never reported and how it still is perilous to be on the high seas. And long after we called it a night and left with a "Muito Obrigado", Adrian's words still rang in my head. "There are three kinds of people in the world - those who are alive, those who are dead and those who are at sea."

We salute all sailors.

Langkawi

A word of caution to book tickets for our ferry to Langkawi in advance was flung into the hot breeze as we enjoyed our last day in Penang.

We woke up an hour later than usual and had to contend with taking the unbeaten track to Malaysia's spectacular beach destination.

Over-stuffing ourselves with free breakfast at the BnB in Penang, we waddled our way to the ferry station, only to hear the next ride was late that evening.

So we opted for the bus and found ourselves in a rickety unit, not unlike the ones at home, sitting among locals getting to work or returning from school. But it took us from Butterworth to Alor Setar, the capital of the state of Kedah, where we waited at the shelter for a bus heading towards Kuala Perlis. An hour and a half later, the right bus rattled to a stop, picked us up and wound its way to our ferry point.

Heavy-headed from the groaning travel, we endured a 45-minute ferry ride to Pulau Langkawi, the Jewel of Kedah. We spied knob-like islands in the sea as the ferry bumped along the surface of the glassy Indian Ocean and we were greeted by Langkawi's sentinel eagle which stood guard at the entry to the tourist destination .

Our taxi driver knew where to take us, and threw in a free conversation about the sights and sounds of Langkawi. A fierce Malay, the squat man with a keen foot insisted that the island was the best part of Malaysia.

......

This was by far the best hostel as far as value for money goes. Based on trust, you take what you want from the fridge and browse the internet only to add up your own usage and stick it on the front desk. You can cook your own meals, provided you wash up after yourself. Bang opposite the beach and sitting nestled close to brunch spots that served "No American" food, the hostel was our home for three days.

We took a walk to Pantai Cenang that first evening and couldn't stop marvelling at the wonderful blue of the picture postcard ocean. All along the sidewalk towards the beach were stalls selling anything from curios to bikinis, flower-print slippers and bags. It was tourist exploitation at its exorbitant best.

Prawns the size of my fist lay curled up on display platters beside red snapper and some of the largest kingfish I've ever seen as we walked past the numerous shacks, restaurants and pubs juxtaposed with hawkers' stalls on the sidewalk. Five minutes of haggling and we had three pairs of slippers to carry home, all at a "special price".

Another item we got at a special price was beer. At nearly half the price compared to the rest of Malaysia courtesy Langkawi's duty free status, drinking Tiger Beer was no longer a second thought. Hangovers were washed away with a large brunch of beef rendang, nasi lemak and a salty batch of crunchy chicken feet to go on the side.

Hiring our tiny car with Tielke and Anne ensured the road trip around Langkawi was full of chatter and culture quirk swaps. First stop: underwater world. Giant gouramis floated by with grotesque smiles, silent spectators behind protective glass panels to our gawping mugs. Space-age jellyfish glowing neon in the dim lights propelled themselves around their cubic world while sea-horses darted under ocean vegetation to shield themselves from the prying eyes of curious visitors.

Back into the blazing sun, the air-con was turned all the way up as the car wound its way to the cable car and bridge that would give us a glimpse of Thailand. But it was the curse of the holiday horror when we saw the signboard that read: Cable car - Under maintenance for two days. Inconvenience regretted. Bah... something had to go wrong on this trip, and we'd flown across the seas to see this. This was the sight that brought upon the split-second decision to visit Malaysia.

Cursing, we stomped our way up the stairs to the Seven Wells or Telaga Tujuh Waterfalls, where a gushing stream tumbled over stoic boulders to collect in rocky pools, overflowed into a new waterfall and new pool over and over again. At the handicrafts bazaar on the way back, knick-knacks made of bamboo, wood and coconut shells filled up empty corners in backpacks, small reminders of our visit and little gifts for friends and family.

Hungover from the beer at 8 the next morning, we dragged ourselves to Pantai Tenggah right in time to hop into the speed boat as it lifted its prow clear of the water. With wind in my hair and water everywhere else we meandered through the smattering of rainforest islands reminiscent of those flying mountains in the movie Avatar only these were in the sea, making one stop at Pregnant Lady island (it really does look like a pregnant woman lying down) and then heading on the Geopark.

I have no words to describe how absolutely awesome it is to swim in the middle of a volcanic lake. The warm water slips away into a bottomless depth, a swimming blackness that is both slightly frightening and exciting at the same time. It stretches hundreds of metres to the other shore at the base of the wall of rock that rears straight up into the sky and stops just short of eternity.

We left fellow tourists still swimming and playing in its pristine waters to walk the narrow bamboo path back to the jetty, tip-toeing past the bands of ravenous, mischievous monkeys munching stolen Snickers' bars.

Colourful fish bounced sunlight off the backs when breaking the surface at the island beach we visited on our last stop. The sea was cool and very clear, and the white hot sand made children skip into patches of shade from the trees where their parents sat on gnarled roots with the picnic bags.

We spent our last few hours in Langkawi on the shores of Pantai Tenggah, wading in the shallows under the heat of the afternoon sun before we paid our bill and said our good-byes.

The ferry would take us back to the mainland, from where we caught our "supercool" bus to spend Vikas' birthday in Kuala Lumpur.