Couchfish

So where did that all go? For a brief moment I thought about writing 300 things worth doing in Southeast Asia, but be thankful I came to my senses. After all, the last 300 days’ worth of itinerary posts does that already. Well, except for Sihanoukville.

So far we’ve been through a large chunk of Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia, Malaysia and Singapore. Looking back over the itinerary so far though, what jumps out at me is how much I skipped over. Southeast Asia is a big place, and an easy one to get waylaid in.

Are you dizzy yet? Try writing it!

A while back the question popped up, how do I plan out and do Couchfish? The 300th post seems as good a place as any to do just this. Here we go.

It should come as no surprise I started with a map. In the beginning, Covid-19 was yet to gather momentum—at least in Southeast Asia. Who knew how long it would go for, and what form any restrictions would take?

Still, I had a pretty typical mainland Southeast Asia route in mind. North through Thailand into Laos, then down Vietnam, across Cambodia, then back into Thailand. Then south, more. By the time I was in Laos though, it was clear the pandemic had quite a spell to go, most likely years, so I slowed down the pace.

This is far from all of them. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Not the pace of my writing (though that fluctuated a bit) but rather the pace of travel slowed down. It took me four weeks to get from Bangkok to the Lao frontier in the early days of Couchfish. Four weeks across the top of Laos, and later, another two weeks in the south. Vietnam blew out to around 80 days—with a helping hand from Cindy Fan. The thing is, even slowed down, the itinerary still covers a vast number of destinations in a short time. Please do not try to recreate the itinerary in real life!

For the most part, the itinerary is an amalgam of past trips I’ve done, from 1993 onwards. So do I have the memory of an elephant? Far from it! Anyone who knows me knows my memory is more akin to that of a goldfish. So what is one to do when they can’t tell you what they had for lunch yesterday?

I have diaries. My oldest dates back to 1993—a thief on a French train lifted my earlier ones. Throughout those that remain, are the notes that often kick off an entry. Some of these are personal diaries, others are notebooks from research trips. They’re stuffed with scraps of thoughts, sketch maps of random towns and so on. There are also keepsakes—coasters, business cards, napkins and whatnot. Each has a memory tied to it—all I need now is a pensieve.

Thief: “So I nicked this crazy guy’s diaries.” Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I also have about sixteen bazillion slides, which are helpful in reminding me of what places looked like back when people took slides. More recently I have about 150,000 digital images—no, they are not all of my dog—which is handy for settling more recent memories. Thank god I have a good filing system for them all—yes, that is a joke.

Being somewhat disorganised though is how some of the real fun entries begin. I’m looking for one thing, say the name of a restaurant, only to find a wine bottle note and remember the time I behaved like an idiot in Udomxai. Some things are best left forgotten, take my word for it.

There are also the bookshelves—I have a library of a hundred or so texts on the region. There are plenty of old guidebooks, but also biographies, fiction and other collections. These can be handy for anecdotal historical references and quotes to add a bit of an educative spin to the story. Sometimes I build a whole piece around some piece of history I read, it can be fun weaving experiences with the past.

Tidy desk, tidy bookshelf. Etcetera. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Then there is this travel website you may have heard of, called Travelfish.org. While the material there is for you dear reader, there are many memories cooped up in that there content. Often, reading between the lines, there are notes referring to events that, while of no use to travellers, help pull my memory strings.

But, there’s more still! There are the two guidebooks I wrote in the mid-1990s (to Vietnam and Thailand), which, while embarrassing in places, likewise serve to jog memories. There are also a few travel mags laying around with stories I sold over the same period. You know, from back when Ko Lipe was nice and all that.

There are also plenty of learning experiences raking over these old coals. I’m older and a little more sensible than I was in my 20s, and sometimes writing Couchfish feels like undoing a bit of the damage. There’s something cathartic about revisiting places with a more nuanced approach. “Yeah I was well wrong in my take as a twenty-something—I was doing it wrong,” has been an all too frequent thought.

“Did that happen in Nakhon Phanom or Nakhon Pathom?”

Last but not least there are the people. Thanks to Facebook, Twitter, email and the phone, it has been fun to dig out old contacts to clarify what did or didn’t happen on the road. Near always, I change people’s names and other distinguishing features, but they all exist!

Which brings me to my final point—how true is Couchfish? It is all true, well, sort of. At times I’ve moved a meeting from one place to another or reversed a trip to better fit with the itinerary. The conversations I recount I wouldn’t take as verbatim, but they are as best I can recall them—sometimes I’ll never forget them. Memory is a funny thing, on more than one occasion I’ve contacted someone to double-check something only to have them say it never happened. Yet, I remember it clear as a bell—maybe they forgot it.

Which is to say there are many a Couchfish entry on the cutting room floor. They lay there, waiting for me to better remember, because, if it wasn’t already obvious, I never throw anything out.

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Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

So this is the point where my Java tale draws to a close. I hope you’ve all enjoyed the trip as much as we did! For free Couchfish subscribers, you could consider the last week of emails a look behind the curtain at what paid subscribers receive. The paid itinerary has its 300th day coming up this week, and if you upgrade to the paid list you get access to the full archives—you can see every post marked on a map here.

So, if I’ve got your feet itching and you’d like to upgrade, you can get 30% off with this link. With the discount it works out at around US$5 a month—dare I say, a bargain! If not, no worries, I hope you’ve enjoyed the trip. Cheers!

I’m rolling two days into one here as after the waterfall pretty much all we did was ride. How much riding do you ask? Five hours to Kalibaru and then seven hours to reach home in Bali. As I write this on the couch at home, let me tell you, seven hours on a Scoopy in traffic is too much!

Best laid plans and all that. If you look at the map on day 1, we managed less than half what was planned.

So, while I could write about the red bus that ran us off the road on Bali, the pointless rapid test at Ketapang to return to Bali, or racing the home stretch through the rain, or easily the worst traffic of the whole trip, getting through hell-hole Canggu, I won’t.

Instead, I’d start off by saying Java is well worth a look. One need not ride across a chunk of it—the train is excellent and affordable. People in Bali often talk Java down, saying it’s unfriendly, has no beer, or is simply too difficult or dangerous to travel in, but these are all, in my experience, false.

Call it a DIY school excursion. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I found the people to be uniformly helpful, friendly and fun. While you won’t see alcohol stacking the fridges of minimarts, with the exception of the homestay by the waterfall (who I’m sure would have been able to rustle up some iced beers if I’d asked), everywhere we stayed had it on hand, and while it perhaps lacks a little of the hand holding Bali has, it is far from a difficult place to travel.

At least in the towns we visited the food scene lacked the international flavour of Bali, but that isn’t to say the food is drab or boring—far from it. Food is cheap and varied. For accommodation, we spent between 350,000 and 500,000 rupiah per night, I wouldn’t say it was the best value on the planet, but everywhere we stayed was at least adequate. We could have easily spent less, there are cheap guesthouses around the 100,000 rupiah mark in most spots, but standards can get pretty variable at that price point.

There be waterfalls everywhere. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Overall, I loved our time there, and I wish we hadn’t had to change plans and race back to Bali, losing our second week. Upside it leaves me fodder for another trip!

A few thoughts specific to motorbiking:

* I wouldn’t recommend what I did for novice riders. I’m used to the way traffic works here and I’ve been riding a bike for twenty years—that helped. If you’ve just taught yourself to ride in a temple car park in Bali, a ride like this probably isn’t for you.

* Don’t do as I did and do it in flip flops! Wear boots. I would have but was between boots and rode in flip flops because I’m unorganized and stupid. This was a dumb thing to do, and yes, my son wore shoes!

* Ride as if you’re invisible. I say this meaning ride assuming nobody has seen you—super-defensively. Others drive on the understanding you will get out of the way, and if you’re not familiar with this mindset it can be challenging.

* Always give way to size, and obey the road rules. Pack a raincoat.

* Wear a real, full-face helmet at all times. All times. No, I mean this, all times.

* Don’t ride at night.

One thing I was warned about was that bike theft is a real problem. Obviously, my bike wasn’t stolen, as you would have read about it here, and to be honest, I don’t know anyone who has ever had their bike stolen in Java—unlike in Bali. That said, I always parked in zones with a staffer who I’d pay a few thousand rupiah to keep an eye on the bike.

Exploring the less-travelled road. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Another thing I was warned about was the police, that they, even more so than those in Bali, enjoy paying particular attention to foreigners and fining them whenever possible. This wasn’t my experience. I barely saw a police officer the entire trip, one I do recall seeing and making eye contact with outside of Jember, smiled and gave me the thumbs up as we sped past.

So if you’re in Bali and would like an East Java taster, but are not all that keen on riding a bike for 700 km, what would I recommend? An easy week-long trip would be to first visit Banyuwangi and climb Ijen, then jump on the train. You could break the trip at Kalibaru, then continue by train to Malang. It’s a fab university city with some excellent hotels, sights and feeds. It’s also straightforward to get a bus or car from there to the small town by the waterfall. From Malang, you could push on to Bromo and then Surabaya before getting the train back to Banyuwangi (or flying). Or push on—Semerang, Solo, Yogyakarta—there’s a whole world of Java to explore.

Our bamboo digs in Banyuwangi. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It’s easy to come to Bali and have a great time of course, but it’s only one of over 15,000 islands, so add a week—or three—to that leave request form and have a poke around Java when you’re next in the country.

If you’re just joining us at the end of the trip, below are the previous entries, day by day. Enjoy!

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Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

It feels like Bali is a lot further than 357 km away as we rise for our morning visit to Tempak Sewu waterfall. It’s taken us five days to get here and given my previous record for time taken to get to a waterfall was about four hours, this one better be good.

It’s a five-minute ride from D’Corner Homestay to the deserted waterfall parking lot. Deserted save for the ever-present ticket dude who frees us of 20,000 rupiah per head, plus 5,000 rupiah for the bike. Payment made, we start walking.

The money shot. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The distant traffic noise fades fast as we work our way down, the echoing mosques, however, linger. They ran late last night and started well early today, one right by the homestay went tag team from 3 am, meaning Will had no need for an alarm for school. Eventually, even the mosques fade, and it’s just birdsong and our heavy tread on the slippery moss-covered trail.

We reach a split in the trail, right to the viewpoint, left to the base of the falls, we go right and in no time reach a split-level viewing platform, we climb the stairs, walk to the edge, and are hit with the reveal.

Down, down, down we go. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It is absolutely magnificent. I’ve seen many a waterfall in my time, but never, ever, something like this.

The horseshoe-shaped hole in the earth is ringed by jungle and falls. There’s a central, main torrent, but at least a dozen lesser others ring the lip, falling into the depths forming a curtain of foam plunging into a pit of mist and spray. Behind it, Semeru looms, just gathering its crown of clouds. Magnificent is the word for it—there is no other.

Waterbom this is not. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We go to the lower platform for a better view, it’s a slightly wider angle which better takes in Semeru and the light is amazing. The power of the falls is staggering, a thumping, continual boom emanating from the depths.

We retreat and start our way down into the pit. I’d read the trail was slippery and care should be taken, but it is flat out dangerous. It starts out with steps, but as it gets steeper the steps give way to slippery-as-ice metal platforms. Of all the materials that could have been used, slippery metal has to be the least safe choice. Ill-kept grip-ropes and broken railings that hold no weight add to the challenge.

Slightly soaked. Photo: Will McDonald.

We continue down, slowly, gingerly, and then the trail ends. Well, it doesn’t end, rather it transforms into an actual waterfall. We slip and slide down its surface, using ropes when we can, but also taking care of the two-foot-tall steel metal rods that are hammered into the stone. I assume they’re there for gripping, but they’re prime tools of impalement—like the metal walkways, a terrible choice of material.

Still, we survive unimpaled and finally find ourselves at the canyon base. The trail splits at another ticket booth (10,000 rupiah each please) and we veer right, then shortly after the trail ends at the surging muddy river—we have to cross it. No point is marked and we can see no guiding rope, so we randomly pick a spot and cross, the pulsing water, almost waist high, is as powerful as it is icy cold.

Even a pano can’t capture it… Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Across we continue, ever closer, the air thick with spray, we yell at each other above the thunder of the falls. Another crossing is needed to reach the pit, again unmarked, we cross and climb atop a ridge, and we’re there.

The power is indescribable, and the spray has me pointlessly wiping my glasses every thirty seconds. Will scampers up higher, for an even better view, while we can’t quite see the impact of the main falls, boy can we feel it.

The secondary falls with a swimming pool supplied. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There’s another crossing required to get even closer and we draw the line, I can’t see a safe place to cross and the water at this point is so powerful it could easily sweep one away, so we just stand where we are, literally soaking it up.

Soaked, we backtrack to the ticket office and fork out another 10,000 rupiah to visit a secondary falls ten minutes away. It’s a beautiful set, far more sedate, reminiscent of La Popu Waterfall in Sumba. Near its base, a weir has been added to form a swimming hole filled with crystal clear, icy water. We rest by its edge, alone. Save the ticket guy, we’re the only people here.

“Hi, Mum.” Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Lingering over, we start the long slow climb out. The ropes are more useful going up than down, but it remains a dangerous route, and I’m not surprised a well-dressed Indonesian trio we meet near the top turn back.

Then it’s back to the homestay, to clean up and head back. It’s time to start the long ride home—five hours on two wheels to Kalibaru.

So was Tumpak Sewu worth all that time riding to reach from Bali? You bet.

Couchfish is 100 per cent independent and reader-supported. If you’re not already a subscriber, and you’d like to show your support, become a paying subscriber today for just US$7 per month—you can find out more about Couchfish here—or simply share this story with a friend.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

Google Maps tells us we have three options for reaching our homestay near the waterfall. The northern route on Route 3, a coastal route, and one in between. All are estimated to take around three hours.

I stare at the map for a while. On Route 3, I figure we’ll have s**t traffic, while the coastal route will probably be a s**t road. Like is full of choices right? We decide to make our decision on the fly, as the roads don’t diverge till around 20 minutes west of Jember. It takes me all of five of those twenty minutes to decide on taking the coast road.

Trip-planning with Stuart.

At the other end of our journey, overshadowing the waterfall, stands Mount Semeru, the tallest volcano on Java. It’s also one of the most volatile, with over 15 major eruptions since the 1940s. It’s a spectacular peak, and a dangerous one to climb even in non-erupting times. I’ve only ever seen it in the far distance, but where we’re heading it anchors the entire scene.

We turn left, and the traffic drops off immediately. There are still some, cars, bikes and corn trucks, but it’s nothing compared to the bedlam of Route 3. I accelerate on the smooth surface, and we race south, gathering time.

Engage the warp engines Mr Zulu. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On December 1 and 2 in 2021, after a prolonged period of torrential rain, concerns arise regarding activity at Semeru. A warning is distributed by the Center of Volcanology and Geological Hazard Mitigation to a WhatsApp group and nearby villages. Later it emerges many villagers don’t receive the warning.

We continue south, it’s plain sailing and I ride ever-expecting the road to fall apart. It doesn’t, and we hit the coastal strip and a small fishing village. Half the town is dug up for what looks like water mains, but the road is new. We keep going, eventually reaching the "tourist location" of Pantai Paseban. We park and give the Ibu 5,000 rupiah then climb over the dunes. The charcoal-coloured beach is as long as it is filthy. There’s an oddly placed lighthouse to our left and a headland after it, but that’s it. I take a quick paddle and we leave.

Google says this is a road. Note the bridge. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On December 4, Semeru’s lava dome collapses under pressure from the rain and at 14:50 local time, the peak erupts, sending an ash plume over twelve kilometres into the sky. A pyroclastic flow—or lahar—surges down from the peak towards the villages set in the shadow of the peak.

Heading west from the beach, we follow the coast. The road is near highway standards and we’re the only vehicle on it. Will shouts we follow it for 20km, and I reach, for the first and probably only time in Java, 100km/h as we race along. It can’t last, I keep thinking, yet after every sweeping bend it continues, our very own blue metal strip bringing us towards our target.

Oh Java. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The lahar surges down the volcano’s slopes, as local people panic and flee. The Gladak Perak Bridge, a vital link between the east and west collapses under the pressure of the flow, killing at least three people. Villages below the bridge are submerged, while people as far away as Malang report heavy ash falls. With the bridge cut, access for emergency services is severed. Established evacuation protocols fell apart and a camp for evacuees is submerged by the lahar. Within ten days the official death toll would be over 50, with over 5,000 houses damaged or destroyed, and over 10,000 people displaced.

Good things don’t last, and we reach a sign blocking the road, bridge building equipment behind it, we veer off onto a dirt track that becomes a goat track then a line in a grass atop a rampart to control the river to our left. Farmers cut grass with scissors and tend crops, smiling curiously as we go past.

When the lahar came. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Our bridge, when it appears, is the kind of thing I’d build out of paddle pop sticks. Will walks over as I ride, a pretty mosque in the background. In another twenty minutes, we’re back on our personal highway and we hit the Pamdanwangi Bridge, offering tremendous views. Lined with merchants selling cup noodles and coffee we linger, then leave the coast behind and head towards Djarit.

Not long after, we reach the sepulchral scene left behind by Semeru. At first, I think it is heavy-duty roadworks that required the demolishing of some houses, but then I realize what I’m looking at. Sheer devastation. Behind the buried houses, sad ghostlike palms, burnt to a crisp, stand in the thick black soil the lahar left behind. On the street side, it’s an easy three meters deep.

Bridge broken. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We reach the Gladak Perak Bridge. It must have been spectacular when it stood, but now it lies in the sheer valley’s base, broken sections, road markings at perverse angles. Beyond it, a vast field of black soil, the size of hundreds of football fields, sprawls, devoid of life. We ride across a just-opened suspension bridge and back into the woods.

We wheel through the forest in the late afternoon cool thanks to some rain we mostly missed. The devastation left behind is replaced by a scene as beautiful as it is serene.

Couchfish is 100 per cent independent and reader-supported. If you’re not already a subscriber, and you’d like to show your support, become a paying subscriber today for just US$7 per month—you can find out more about Couchfish here—or simply share this story with a friend.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

School done for the day we pack and tally our losses. Yesterday it was a charging cable, today it is earphones. The perils of cabled travelling I guess. After checking the previous hotel to see if they were there, we grab a replacement pair for 75,000 rupiah at a local minimart. When we stop later, Will notes they work, “sort of.” Get what you pay for.

Today’s target is Jember, around three hours away, and we plan a late lunch break at a place I’ve stayed before, Kalibaru. In no time the beach is gone and we’re back riding through a rotation of fields, villages and mosques. Will is the navigator, perched on the back of the bike yelling “left,” “right,” and “straight” as I ride. He’s far better than our technological tool, Google Maps.

Typical scenery around Kalibaru. Photo: Sally Arnold.

The problem is it plots our routes, with suggested times for each, but there seems little consideration for road quality, and so it is when I hear a “left” screamed from behind and the left is a dirt road, I ask if he sure, “LEFT,” comes the reply.

The road is a farming access road, probably used by flat back trucks to haul out the corn harvest, but the surface is awful. After a kilometre, I yell back “how long on this crap?”

“Nine kilometres,” comes the bouncing reply.

Great, thanks Google.

Fish in the market, Kalibaru. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In the end, it improves and we’re back on a decent surface after half that, then it spits us out onto Route 3, pretty much the primary “highway” through Java’s southeast. The change in conditions is jarring.

It’s a single lane each way most of the time with no shoulder, and the traffic is a mix of trucks of all shapes and sizes, tour buses, cars, and a flood of motorbikes. We’re sitting on 50/60km/h at the best of times, but the aggressiveness, particularly of the buses, is scary. More than once we end up on the shoulder as developing country road rules hold firm—always yield to size.

We pull up about 45 minutes shy of Kalibaru, we’ve only been riding an hour but it feels like triple that. It’s been pretty in places, but the road demands 110% of my attention and it’s really just a blur of green. Will isn’t fussed, I’m carrying his bag, so he’s less uncomfortable and his bad earphones, Spotify and the scenery keep him busy. I ask is he bored, and he answers “nope!”

The scene at Mago Utomo. Photo: Sally Arnold.

At Kalibaru we stop in at the Margo Utomo, a long-running hotel attached to a dairy farm. In the past, it was popular with tour groups, and I’m surprised it is still open. On my last stay here we toured from here to Glenmore, you can read about that on Travelfish.

The staff, friendly as ever, wave us through to their grand restaurant, where we relax over rendang and spaghetti bolognese—note above re tour groups. Afterwards, I walk through the grounds, it is a cottage style set-up, a throwback to Dutch times, the rooms in neat rows surrounded by lovely gardens. Workers are refitting the cheaper offerings, in anticipation of tourists returning perhaps, but they are open for stays, a staffer tells me, 350,000 rupiah a night. We’ll try to time our return trip for a stay here. Their other property, a few kilometres to the southeast, on the other side of the train tracks, is closed, but this one rolls on—perhaps kept afloat by the cows who we go visit before jumping back onto the bike.

“It feels like rain,” I say, and Will nods. When I suggest maybe we’ll beat it, he looks dubious.

Cows were too busy stuffing face to say hello. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Sure enough, ten minutes out, it hits. Wanting to avoid donning raincoats, we shelter in a roadside stall, to see if it will pass, but it only gets stronger, pelting down. The trucks speed past, tyres hissing on the tarmac, steam billowing off the surface. Raincoats on.

As is often the case the rain hit with a bang, and new rivers stream across the road. The trucks don’t slow though, sending huge waves of brown water two feet into the air, any one strong enough to knock a bike off course if not over. We weave our way along, there’s no shoulder to hide on, so you need to keep up with the flow—or get off the road.

Will’s weather app had no good news. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We start climbing a ridge, the road turning on itself in a series of near hairpins, truck brakes scream and whistle while impatient drivers sit on their horns. Above us an impressive forest looms, the rain absolutely chucking it down, yet with broken clouds the sun dapples through, despite the madness on the asphalt it’s stunning. No time to enjoy it though as a white car, horn blaring, goes to overtake a truck on a blind corner, the truck veers out trying to stop the car, but he’s going! Then in the opposite direction another truck, creaking down, lights flashing, horn blaring, the car yields, slipping back and skating in by us, then, truck past, he goes again, this time making it.

All the time the rain is hammering.

We reach the first of a series of passes, and there are all these people by the side of the road. Kids, mums, old guys, they stand there, waving their arms about. Passing cars and bikes throw loose change towards them, and they dart out into the traffic to collect it. I run over an already sodden 2,000 rupiah note, and I know I’m in Indonesia but I feel like I’m in a live version of Frogger.

We pass by lean-tos, more people inside, some cooking, perhaps a scooter parked by the side. Kids everywhere, rivers beneath their feet and above them, the forest.

Hello Jember. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

All I can think of is a story that’s done the rounds over the previous few days in the domestic media. Some idiotic Australian tourist had whined about the merchants and beggars on Bali beaches. Apparently, they interfered with her holiday. She’s rightly being pilloried on social media, but in response, the authorities, wanting to maintain a semblance of tourist fantasy land, rounded up about fifty, despite them committing no crime other than raising the ire of someone sunbathing.

Of course, one doesn’t need to motorbike to Java to see the abject poverty many Indonesians endure. One only needs to know where to look to find a cheap Canggu kos where people live hand to mouth collecting scrap metal and plastic refuse, while around the corner tourists sip 50,000 rupiah lattes oblivious to their true surrounds.

The ridge behind us, we start the long downhill run into Jember. Like many Indonesian cities, it is one of villages and it starts way before we get anywhere near the Alun-Alun with its well-toned joggers, lovers walking hand in hand, and the branches of the trees curling wildly up above.

Couchfish is 100 per cent independent and reader-supported. If you’re not already a subscriber, and you’d like to show your support, become a paying subscriber today for just US$7 per month—you can find out more about Couchfish here—or simply share this story with a friend.

Don’t forget, you can find the free podcasts on Apple, Pocket Casts and Spotify as well as right here on Couchfish.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

I’m on a daybed in the sand, it’s late afternoon and save a couple beside me the beach is near empty. Not a soul. It’s Monday you see, and the weekend hustle and bustle has packed up and blown out back home. Will is back in the room, and I’ve just a fresh coconut for company. The sun is setting. It is well pretty.

Arief* walks up and asks if he can sit down, I say sure, and he plonks down on the daybed beside me. He stares at my swollen, bloody knee and gashed leg, then, pointing at it, asks,

“What happened to your leg?”

Made it! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

At this point he’s a complete stranger, I’m yet to learn his name, or that he’s here for a month on vacation. That all comes later. I tell him I had a bike accident. “I hit a big rock and I crashed the bike.” He nods, then waving his hands, he asks why wasn’t I wearing pants, when I look at him funny, he clarifies himself, adding “jeans.”

I explain my son and I were riding to Muara Mbaduk for a swim, but I mispronounce the name, and he looks baffled. “The next bay,” I say, pointing towards the setting sun, “oh,” he replies, calling it something else that I miss. Then he sits waiting for an answer on my fashion choices, in the end, we agree I should have been better dressed.

The beach be for swimming. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He’s from Jakarta, with some military detachment of some sort or another, he’s vague on the details. He’s here with his family for the entirety of Ramadan, it’s a family tradition, something he’s done since a child, he tells me.

He likes Pantai Pulau Merah, it’s never too busy, he loves the beach, the relaxed vibe, and making a point of not meaning to offend me, he enjoys the fact there are very few foreigners. His English is excellent though, so I’m curious about the why on the last point.

His English is polished because his parents had him study it since childhood, he says, going on to explain dealing with English speakers is a large part of his day to day work back in Jakarta. It isn’t that he doesn't like foreigners, he does—to a point—he just doesn’t want to holiday with them.

A fitting location for a day off. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

So he’s no fan of Bali? I ask, half-joking. He smiles, his father is from the north, he says, not far from Singaraja. They go there regularly for family stuff, but he hates the south, and the more we talk, often agreeing, the more riled up he gets.

The sun is low now, its rays catch the crests of the waves rolling in. The beach and its smooth tan sand are close to immaculate. He waves his arm towards the beach, asking me if it is as beautiful a beach as Balis. I say it’s lovely and note how surprised I was at how clean it is.

“Ah the Balinese, they tell you our beaches are dirty but look at theirs! They should clean theirs before s**t-talking [his words] ours.” I don't disagree with him but I recount how filthy Alas Purwo was, it’s a national disaster I say. He waves me off, he knows I’m right, and doesn’t need some Australian guy to tell him what he already knows.

The next bay. Just Will, me and a coconut. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We shift the conversation to other things. Family, kids, the usual meet and greet kind of stuff. We order more coconuts and keep chatting. It’s pleasant and all, but it’s obvious he wants to get back to what we were talking about earlier. I’m less keen, I know where it’s going. We dance a bit.

He asks me what I think of Bali. I hedge, saying I love some parts but loathe others, then go on to say it’s a big island, so hard to get black and white about it. “Overall I’d rather live elsewhere,” I say, “but I don’t. It’s complicated,” I pause, trying to get my words right, then, knowing it makes me sound like a complete w****r, I say, “I think there is something special about it, it is a different place, some places I’ve been in Bali, there is nowhere else on the planet like them. The island has something that touches you here,” I say, touching my heart, “but many who come either don’t understand or don’t want to.”

Kids fish as the sun sinks. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He nods. Looking at me, he asks will I stay there forever. The answer to that is a simple and very easy no, but then he asks why I stay there now if I don’t want to stay there forever.

I’m willing the sun to accelerate its descent at this point. My leg is killing me, and I’m not really up for a temper-y conversation on the meaning of life. Arief picks up on this and goes to leave, saying he’s stayed too long and must get back to his family. We shake hands and he wanders off.

Earlier in the day, before the accident and at the other beach, whatever it’s called, Will and I stood on the beach. It’s pretty in a deserted way—exactly how I like my beaches. Pandan trees and palms cluster the dunes far into the distance. The surf isn’t huge, but there is plenty of spray from the sea, giving it a wild appearance.

Why not? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There’s not a soul nor a roof to be seen.

At the western edge, there is a rocky outcrop, a peculiar stone formation I’ve seen before, but the name of the type of stone escapes me. We clamour out onto the point, as the surf rolls in, not big enough to smash but big enough to splash. There is a gap between two sections of the stone and the crystal waters surge in then withdraw, exposing scuttling shiny black-backed crabs and clefts in the charcoal stone of a deep emerald blue. With the foam pushing through and over, it’s hypnotic.

Later, back on the sand, I ask Will what he thinks. To be fair, he didn’t want to visit the bay in the first place, but he’s trying hard. Still he’s less than impressed.

“It’s pointless,” he says.

To my mind though, that is exactly the beauty of the place.

* Arief is a pseudonym.

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The day starts with regrets. Regret that the hotel staffer was right. Regret I don’t have earplugs. Regret that the walls of our room are thinner than the lining of my eardrums. So many regrets, and it isn’t even 3 am yet.

I climb down, out of our bamboo extravagance and, guided by the light of my phone, I stumble through the grove to the paddy field’s edge. Along the embankment I go, till the grove falls back. I turn and took into the black. There are the distant lanterns of our guesthouse and above it, a million stars. The night is crystal clear, and to the right, looming distant behind our bamboo house is a black peak, as clear as a bell in the starlit sky. The Germans who checked in late last night are somewhere up there, trudging. Great weather for a climb.

Regrets are worth it sometimes.

The sun-dappled route towards the park, through what has replaced much of it. Photo: Stuart McDonald

About five hours later we’re back on the bike, retracing our route towards the coast, still just shy we turn right and head south. Our target, is the famed Alas Purwo National Park.

If you look at Java on Google Earth you’ll see its far east has a green sock that loops below Bali. This is the coast you can see from Bali on a clear day and also Alas Purwo National Park. A notionally protected area established in 1992, it covers almost 50,000 hectares—mid-sized by Java standards—and is believed to host Java’s oldest forests. Its name, Alas (forest) Purwo (early/ancient/beginning) reflects this. Or, to put it another way, Javanese mysticism holds that the earth first emerged from the ocean at Alas Purwo.

Seems legit. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Old trees aren’t all the expanse holds though—riddled with caves, mysterious buried relics, and more than one jungle-surrounded Hindu temple, Alas Purwo is a hub of Java’s Ghost Empire.

I’ve written before about the dark arts in Bali, but within Indonesia, the practising of black magic is far from unique to Bali. While Lombok and to a lesser extent Nusa Penida are famed as places to refill your juju, the island of Java is bookended by hotspots, with Banten to the west and, you guessed it, Banyuwangi to the east, famous for their dark art practitioners.

Make an offering to keep the ghosts at bay. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Known as dukun, they can turn their talents to all manner of subjects, both to cause mayhem or to undo the handiwork of other dukuns. Not something one majors in at college, rather a gift (or curse) bestowed, often through a dream or vision, sometimes passed down by a parent. As I wrote of the Balian I met on Bali:

“His power (again, like magic, a poor word to use) came to him years ago—“a gift from the spirits,” he says. It came to him before he was married and, through the years, his power has strengthened. He knows the way of the light and the dark, he says, and he can help those in need—regardless of if their needs are good or evil.”

In Banyuwangi’s case, many dukun head to Alas Purwo, to wander its labyrinth of forest trails and meditate in its caves, to touch the earth and harness its powers. Not only the power of the forest but of the spirits and ghosts that inhabitant it.

Next stop Exmouth. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There’s Princess Gayatri Sri Rajapatni, a relic of the Majapahit Kingdom—if you’re camping and sleeping fitfully, don’t be surprised to encounter her, dressed in a traditional kemben with a beautiful shawl over her shoulder. She’ll chat with you about how she’s lived in the park for ages, since before Indonesia existed, her duty to promote peace and well being. Ghostly chit chat over, she fades into the forest, and you’ll fall into a peaceful sleep surrounded by a “princess fragrance.”

Others have reported on meeting meditating mystics who’ve encountered both Mohammad Hatta and Sukarno while meditating. Buttressing the park’s reputation as a layover for long-gone kings.

The forests sheltering these ethereal beings once stretched along Java’s south coast to at least below Jember, over time much was cleared for farming or simply by illegal logging, driving a wedge to the sea, separating Alas Purwo from Meru Betiri National Park to the west. In 1998’s heady post-Suharto days, as President Habibie struggled to hold things together, illegal logging ratcheted up while around the same time, plans surfaced to “develop” the park for tourism. Road construction in the park was repeatedly beset by “paranormal challenges.” The seat of the Ghost Empire was unsettled.

Coffee, please. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Simultaneously, from mid to late 1998, a raft of killings was unleashed in Banyuwangi with almost 150 alleged dukuns killed, often by beheading. The climate of fear and chaos is driven by unknown sources as varied as you can imagine—from politicking to coups, to religious posturing, to, you guessed it, tapping down the dukuns to clear a way for development in the park. Yes it might sound unusual, but then take this quote from a New York Times report at the time:

“It begins when people try to chase someone suspicious,” explained Sukiando, a 42-year-old rickshaw driver who said he was in the mob that beheaded one suspect on Sunday. “Sometimes the ninja turns into a cat, and sometimes he stays human. If he stays human, then they cut off his head.”

Sounds like a rough deal to me. Regardless, the illegal logging was pulled somewhat into line, and the development of the park into grander tourism schemes ground to a halt. The Ghost Empire sunk back into the woods.

Lovely. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It’s a solid two-hour ride from our bamboo house to the park. After paying our 30 times local admission to enter, we ride past the “park information centre”, its smashed windows and empty halls ridiculing us for paying a premium that clearly goes nowhere near park management, and into the woods. The sounds of civilization vanish—other than our motorbike of course.

We reach the primary Hindu temple, Pura Kawitan Alas Kurwo, where a clutch of faithful go about their rituals, their glowing white garb bright against the forest’s deep greens and the charcoal grey of the temple. A bell tinkles somewhere, a driver, bored, leans against his van, waiting, smoking, staring at us. We push on.

At Pantai Trianggulasi, the beach is broad, grey to white sanded, clear warm waters wash in. The high tide point is marked by a colossal amount of trash, both flotsam and plastic, as with the beach, it stretches for miles. Big signs warm not to swim due to dangerous rips—get swept away here and it is next stop Exmouth. We just paddle.

Glad to not be on the bike. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Onwards at Pantai Pancur a small waterfall drops into the sand, emptying out to sea. At its base, the rubbish, rich in styrofoam is six inches thick. I think there’s a metaphor here but am too depressed to think of what it is. By the empty campground a difficult-to-see trail leads off to caves a few kilometres away—we pass.

From here we can ride no further, a jeep is required to reach Pantai Plengkung, so we cough up the 250,000 rupiah for the twenty-minute drive. As we leave, a storm blows in, raindrops the size of rambutan pelt down, putting the R in rainforest. We surprise a family of wild pigs that scurry across the road in front of us, diving into the forest so thick they vanish in seconds. We cross small inlets, the mangrove roots choking in decorative styrofoam, flip flops, bras and plastic bottles. What else should you expect along the coastline of the second-largest contributor to ocean debris on the planet?

Our driver harks from Bandung, but he’s worked here for over twenty years, as he drives he talks of seeing tigers in the forest. When he finds out we’re Australian he rattles off the Australian towns he knows surfers from—Melbourne, Perth, Sydney and Bondi. I’m dubious about the tiger story but don’t tell him Bondi is a part of Sydney. He’s so far from Bandung on account of his Banyuwagian wife, though she’s in Taiwan on a three-year work placement—he hopes to see her in a year. Globalization flows within our Jeep as the rain pours through my broken window.

The surf was not up. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Like most tropical storms, by the time we reach Plengkung it has eased, we wander by the boat landing for the speedboats that hustle over surfers from Bali to ride some of the best breaks in the country, then the helipad for the flash surfers, beyond it a huge deer, antlers reaching for the sky stares at us unblinking, eerily like the guy in the temple car park.

The sea is pretty, that beautiful blue topped by the moving foam the tropics do so well. The surf is flat, but regardless it’s a sight.

There are a few Australians dossing about and I ask after getting a meal from the nearby surf camp. They explain the stay is full board with set meals, so they doubt we’d get fed. I refuse with a smile the offer of a muesli bar one has in his back pocket and we hike back to the jeep.

Not a ghost in sight. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

On our way out we pass by the “savannah.” Cut out of the jungle in the 1980s to form a paddock for feeding endangered animals, it seems out of place in a national park, domestic tourists surreptitiously photograph Will and me as much as the beasts in front of us.

Then we’re out, racing down the tarmac with the vaulted church roof trees above, past the vast teak plantations, then dragon fruit, then villages. It’s two hours to Pantai Pulau Merah and it’s so lovely that within an hour of arriving we decide to stay an extra night.

These trip plans you see, are made for breaking.

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Best laid plans and all that. Before Will and I even get going we have our first speed bump. My bike is a rental and the owner tells me I can’t take it to Java. This isn’t uncommon as inter-island theft is a problem, and we have a solution at hand—Sam owns her bike, so I’ll just borrow that. Sorted. Well, not really.

It turns out Sam’s rego has lapsed, ahhhh some time ago ... so we sort that out—thanks Wayan! Then it seems prudent to get it serviced. Oil, what’s that? The service guy politely points out bikes run better with oil, so I get some of that. The cracked brake pads? Yeah, fix that too, please. The clutch is “almost broken” according to my new mechanic friend, but he doesn’t have a spare. “Just ride carefully,” he says.

Eat your heart out Dennis Hopper. Photo: Samantha Brown.

Then come departure morning, of course Wayan still has the rego papers, so our 6 am “let’s dodge the traffic” start gets nixed. Still, by 8:30 am we roll out, up the gang, and off we go—Java here we come!

Our first planned stop is Balian, roughly an hour and a half up the road. The normal route takes you on a big inland loop, heavy with trucks, through Tabanan, but, thanks to some new “according to Google” roads, we can cut straight through. Perfect.

Google Maps and I clearly differ on what a road is, but we make our way through and enjoy some gorgeous scenery along the way. It’s easy to forget how gobsmackingly beautiful Bali is when you spend most of your time in the south, but cruising over rice field covered hills in the back-blocks of Tabanan, yes, the West is the best.

Bali putting on the pretty. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In a little shy of two hours, we are perched in my favourite Balian cliffside cafe, Deki’s Warung, the sets rolling in offshore. Far busier than mid-last year when I was last here, the tourists are well and truly back. As an assist for your next trivia evening, Balian is also Bali’s number one spot for shark attacks—Will forever in hope, thankfully disappointed yet again.

From Balian, we ride onwards to Medewi, another popular surf spot. The Umadewi’s lawn garden cafe overlooks the break and as they welcome non-guests, this is always another spot to take a break, have a coffee, and shake off the latest layer of concrete dust.

“No WIll, I’ve never been here before either.” Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I mentioned the tourists are back and nowhere is it more obvious than on the road. Long-distance buses haul customers to and from Java, driven by maniacs, every single one. Will is largely oblivious, earphones in, enjoying the scenery—I’m glad to reach Gilimanuk, Bali’s port town facing Java. Behind it, Ijen soars into the clouds.

Of course, there’s no better way to bid Bali farewell than with a serving of betutu, and while this place is forever wrapped as the best on the island, it isn’t. This isn’t to say it is bad, it isn’t—but the staff here can be so outlandishly rude and indifferent, they really leave a bad taste in my mouth—or maybe it was just the concrete dust.

Hi Medewi! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We have a farcical rapid test, so shallow it seems pointless. This is where two years of Covid have got me—I’m complaining I didn’t get the nose javelin treatment—I guess what should one expect for 35,000 rupiah. Ferry e-ticket purchased, bike ownership proved and we are through. The Ramadan travel madness is yet to kick off (we’ll get that on the way back), so it is straight onto a ferry and Bali slides away.

The Javanese town of Banyuwangi is our first port of call. I’ve been here before so we don’t slow down, instead we ride into town, take a right, and then head up into the hills. I say hills but I mean volcano as Banyuwangi is wedged between the magnificent Ijen and the sea. As we steadily ride up, the peak teases us, occasionally poking out from the cloud crown that wraps it. At closer quarters, the forest thickens as the traffic thins. The roadside is dotted with restaurants, greenhouses and coffee shops—more open than I expect.

Bye Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Our target is Bamboo and B, a rustic example of bamboo madness I found trawling the web before leaving. A smart young staff greet us with a smile, check-in is seamless and before we know it we’re walking through the gardens to our bed for the night.

Apparently Belgian-owned, the owner is in Bali the staff tell me, but they’re enthusiastic and nothing could be too much trouble as she shows me the two rooms in the main structure, telling me as we’re first in, we can pick which we want.

Gurgling stream included. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

One is on the second floor, its open-plan overlooks a gurgling river below, and through a grove of trees, rice fields stretch out in the afternoon light. The second is a loft-style room, reached by a steep bamboo ladder. The views are elevated and impressive and apparently include the volcano in clear weather. For ease of access, we go with downstairs.

Staff tell me the place has been here about five years, and it feels it. Bamboo looks great from afar, but it can age quickly, particularly bamboo flooring, and it feels like in another season or two the whole structure will need a solid work over. This is to say it’s perhaps a little too on the rustic side of rustic for some, but the setting is so serene, and the place so wildly imaginative, it’s easy to look over the scruffiness and wear and tear.

The menu comes by WhatsApp, with a note there are plenty of places to eat outside if we prefer, but we’ve had enough time on the bike for the day, and we’ll eat in. Order whenever you want, they tell me, we’re available 24 hours.

Our abode. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

This is the thing, I’m not saying it is easy to have great staff, but when you have them, they make all the difference. Hotel owners, please treasure your staff.

Later, chatting to staff about some ideas for tomorrow, they bring up Ramadan. Apologizing in advance, they say the nearby mosques will disturb us in the evening. I wave it off, saying I’ve lived in Indonesia for years and am familiar with the heightened activities around Ramadan. “It’s no big deal”, I say, “I’ve heard it before.”

“Not like this,” comes the reply.

I guess I’ll know in a few hours.

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So the other morning my son wandered into my office, laptop open. He told me he’d found a waterfall and would I like to go there for the weekend? “Google says it is only ten hours away,” he said, then, seeing the look on my face, he added “it’s in Java.” He knew he’d have me with those last three words. And so it is tomorrow morning we’re off on a wee road trip—though not a ten-hour one.

Best laid plans and all that. Screenshot: Stuart McDonald.

When I asked him how he’d found it he said he’d been searching for things to see “near Surabaya,” and the falls, Tumpak Sewu surfaced. This was the reveal of the true calculus going on in his head—he hoped I’d agree to go, but baulking at riding that far, would go with a flight to Surabaya. He loves flying as much as I loath it, which is to say he loves it a lot. A lot.

Nevertheless, he miscalculated—badly—we’re going by motorbike.

I’ve hopped and skipped through some of the highlights of East Java, but I’ve never had the time to go there and just wander. Will’s ten hours has blown out to seven days—or so. He attends a distance school out of Australia, so as long as we have internet access, he can keep up with his studies. Plus, given the time difference and his homework allergy, schoolwork will be done and dusted by midday. Perfect.

Now we’re talking! On the way down from Ijen. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Aside from surfers, southeast Java’s coast sees few foreign tourists. From what I’ve been able to garner so far, along the south coast accommodation (where there are any at all) is basic, and the roads are not great. There are though a tonne of waterfalls and beach after beach after beach. All that backing onto some of East Java’s most magnificent volcanoes. In summary, it could be worse.

The tentative route is for a blast out to West Bali early tomorrow for the ferry over to Banyuwangi in Java. There, we’ll sleep on the slopes of Ijen before looping to the south via Kalibaru to Jember. Along the way, there are a bunch of beaches we’ll try to check out, but it will depend a bit on the state of the roads and the weather.

Light supper at Mbok Wah, Banyuwangi. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

From Jember we’ll press on to the actual waterfall, then down to more south coast beaches. From there, north to Malang for a hot shower and perhaps a splurge at the Tugu. Also, the food—Malang’s food is terrific. Then we’ll cut east and ride into Gunung Bromo’s caldera from the side entrance and sleep on the northern rim.

After that, assuming we’re still talking, it will be to Probolinggo. After that, the plan gets pretty loose, back to Bali somehow.

This is how most of my trips start. Grab a map and start drawing lines. Ask for tips on Twitter. Troll through Instagram (though its location search is just awful). Do a bit of other random online research. Once you’re on the road, things change—roads wash out, traffic clogs up, tempers flare—or sometimes it all falls into place. We’ll see how things shake out—I’m hoping for the latter.

Band practice at Glenmore in Kalibaru. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The thing is, to fit the above into seven or eight days will be a mission in itself. I could spend twice as long doing the same loop. Yet even pre-Covid, outside of Bromo and perhaps Malang, you could do this entire trip and not see another non-Indonesian backpacker. When Sally and I did the East Java research trip a few years ago, we were on the road for around three weeks. The number of obviously foreign tourists we saw? In total? Under two dozen.

Under two dozen.

I’d struggle to better illustrate the monumental failures of Indonesia’s tourism promotion efforts. “Ten New Balis” … give me a break.

Rawon of Malang I am coming for you. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Anyway, I’m a believer in doing rather than whining (though I’m quite apt at the latter), so we plan to detail our trip day by day, warts and all. Perhaps we’ll discover the reason why foreign tourists don’t bother, but, my gut feeling is we’ll have a great trip.

So, over the next week, I’ll be juggling Couchfish around a bit. The paid posts will be on hold and you can expect a daily update on the free list instead. Each day (internet allowing!) we’ll replay our footsteps onto Couchfish. Who knows, we might even inspire you to take a look-see yourself.

Our East Java sojourn—fingers crossed for more waterfalls than whining.

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The steel towers of Kuala Lumpur glint in the morning sun as my train pulls out of KL Sentral. A short, two and a half-hour train ride north will deposit me at what was once the largest tin producer on Earth—Ipoh.

If you read tourism PR much, you may have encountered the town, often described as Malaysia’s “other Penang.” It is true it lacks to the same extent the hordes that blight Penang’s George Town, but untouristed it is not. More to the point, its roots lie in harder stuff than the colonial administration that built George Town. In Ipoh’s case, it is all about tin.

Always good to have a sign to remind you of where you are. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Malaysia (then Malaya) in the early 1900s was very much an extractive undertaking. Around the turn of the century, the peninsula was almost covered with forest—including some of the oldest rainforests on Earth. Eyeing the tremendous value, the colonialists granted vast exploitative concessions to resident Brits. The timber felled, they’d export it, delivering enormous wealth—to the concessionaire. In a tilt at turning the land to labour, in its place came tea, rubber and palm oil. These cash crops would see the denuded land deliver an ongoing return to the Brits.

It hasn’t been just the colonialists of course. Long after they’d left, Malaysia has remained in the thrall of these often politically-connected industries. In 2013 it shamefully held the record for the highest deforestation rate on the planet. But that’s fodder for another post, instead, I’m going to wheel back to a concessionaire.

Not short of arches. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

While I’d never heard of the place till today if I had to suggest a candidate for “place most unlike anywhere in Peninsular Malaysia,” Kellas would be it. Set between the south coast of Scotland’s Moray Firth and Cairngorms National Park, the town is the namesake of a once thought to be mythological cat. Reads the entire entry on Wikipedia:

“Kellas is a village in Moray, Scotland. It is approximately 3 miles (5 km) northeast of Dallas on the B9010 road. The Kellas Cat is named after the village.”

It also happens to be the birthplace of one William Kellie-Smith, who landed sometime in 1870. Two decades later, grown up into a civil engineer, he arrived in Malaya. Like many of the time, he got into extraction and made a windfall off of forestry around Batu Gajah.

Looking down upon the ruins of Kellas House. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Feeling flush, he bought 1,000 acres in the district of Kinta and started putting rubber into the ground. He built what is described as a modest wooden bungalow to live in, but considering what came next, think a bit less modest than a beach bungalow. As his fortune grew, in a nod to the Motherland, he named his landholding “Kinta Kellas”.

In the early 1900s, he returned home to marry his childhood love, Agnes, who, like him, had come into a truckload of dosh. Unlike him, she’d got it through inheritance rather than by levelling a parcel of a foreign country.

Ghost sightings are common. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In 1904 their first child, a daughter, was born, and within a half-dozen years, his first project was complete. Dubbed “Kellas House,” the brick mansion was to be but a staging ground for a far grander dream. The dream? Kellie’s Castle.

Depending on who you read, the castle was to be a gift to his wife or newborn son, the latter born in 1915. Whatever the true intention, his wife paid for it, which saw some of his peers refer to it as “Agnes Palace.” Expats, I tell ya, always back-biting.

The architecture, a fusion of Roman, Moorish and Indo-Saracenic, was a bit of a flavour of the day, but Kellie-Smith took it further. He brought in 70 skilled workers from Madras to build it, even the bricks were Indian imports. Italian marble also featured—spare no expense it seems. Cement did not exist in Malaya at the time, so a mix of duck egg-white, sand, chalk, brown sugar and honey affixed the bricks. The structure contains not one nail, nor any metal—not even tin.

Reasonably-sized lodgings for a family of four. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The finished plans called for fourteen rooms (for a family of four), an indoor tennis court (why?!) and a rooftop terrace for entertaining. Yet, there were strange omissions. The plans featured no servants’ quarters, kitchens or bathrooms. Pierced with ventilation holes throughout, the castle was to be cool and classy, but with nowhere to pee.

There were though tunnels, secret staircases and hallways—and ghosts. While accounts make no mention of lingering paranoia or tin foil hats, his relations with expat-land were not great. The colonial administration ridiculed him for both his business acumen and needing his wife’s money. The Castle, some suggest, was Kellie-Smith’s effort to prove them wrong. It would be grander than even the Residency in Taiping. Or not.

During construction, other than the workers, the entire estate was devoid of residents. Agnes and the children were back in Britain for schooling. Kellie-Smith spent large tracts of time in Timor where he had a new planting concession.

The most popular spot for ghost sightings. Not creepy at all. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Then the time came for the installation of the Castle’s crown jewels—an elevator. Not just any old elevator, but rather the first elevator on Malayan soil. In 1926, while travelling to Portugal to pick one up (as you do), Kellie-Smith, then aged 56, caught pneumonia and died.

The Castle was never finished and, Agnes, by then living in a “well-appointed apartment” near Harrods in London, never returned.

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