Editor’s Note: I first met Jim Mielke about 20 years ago at the East West Center in Honolulu. I had just washed ashore in Hawaii from San Francisco and Jim, a native of Buffalo, was finishing his doctorate in Public Health at the University of Hawaii. A former Peace Corps Volunteer in Samoa, Jim and I had a lot of common experiences in the South Pacific and became fast friends. Jim had suffered a great deal as a young man and had learned to live with a disability. The lesson is that his disability that ceased to become an issue. In a sense he wore it on his sleeve. After graduation he left Hawaii and had a successful career as a public health doc in Southeast Asia. He is just on the cusp of publishing his memoirs and Hawaii Reporter will publish this first of a two part series that will introduce Jim what I’m hoping will be a growing readership.

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by Jim Mielke

I can still recall feeling like a new man almost immediately upon waking up with my ileostomy (a surgically created opening in the abdominal wall, with an external abdominal pouch to collect intestinal (fecal) output).  Suddenly, I was free from years of pain and misery lasting from age 14 to 19.  When I finally got my bag at age 19, I recall thinking, why did they wait so long? For the next three years, I was in and out of several different hospitals for 11 major ostomy-related surgeries, including total removal of the large intestine and rectum, while also struggling to withdraw from the addictive medications prescribed to me over the years.

During these hospital stays, I was sometimes called upon to informally counsel others facing ostomy surgery or recovering from surgery. One of the common concerns of the men I counseled related to sex, and like any normal young guy, I was pretty juiced up – chasing nurses down the ward with my red and white striped baggie flapping in the breeze. So I suppose the hospital staff felt that I could at least be a positive boost to these other guys. Following the ostomy surgeries, life simply took off with my fully recovered and excellent health.

I re-entered university in Colorado in 1980, having been forced to withdraw earlier for health reasons, and managed to complete a BA in Recreation, with a minor in Camping – all the fun stuff! Like many young people entering university, I had very little idea of what I wanted to do with my life, with no clear direction or ambition to pursue specific academic training or any particular profession. My purpose was simply to enjoy life, and to seek fulfillment by helping others find a healthy balance of work and play – and to live each day to the fullest.

I first learned about overseas volunteer opportunities with the YMCA while working as a summer employee or “Emp” at the Silver Bay Association, a YMCA Family Conference Center located on beautiful Lake George in the Adirondack Mountains of northern New York State. The YMCA’s core emphasis on a healthy body, mind and spirit has also clearly played a key role in setting my life’s course.

Early exposure to this holistic understanding of health and wellness has influenced my personal lifestyle as well as my choice of work, first in recreation, and later in international health and development assistance. These principles, embodied also in the “Silver Bay Spirit” continue to provide a firm foundation – at times an anchor in the storm – and guidance through an expanding array of challenges and unique experiences that can be known only by living them.

Soon after graduating in 1982, I left my job as the Youth Program Coordinator at a local YMCA near Denver, Colorado, and headed off to Sri Lanka on what was to be a 6-week summer internship with the Colombo YMCA – leading outdoor recreation and life skills programs for disadvantaged youth. During this time, I applied for and was repeatedly turned down by the American Peace Corps.

They did not understand that I was applying FROM Sri Lanka – and sent me form letters about “the risks” of working overseas with an ileostomy, and a final absurd one claiming that their MDs in Washington had “examined” me and found me “unfit” for Peace Corps. This was such an insult to my new-found health. Prior to leaving the USA, my personal physician had described me as “healthier than 95 percent of the population.”

Eventually, I went on to work with other voluntary organizations throughout the Asia-Pacific region, and sent a Christmas card each year to the Peace Corps Director in Washington, DC with photos of me working with Peace Corps volunteers to call attention to their global policy barring ostomates from overseas assignments. At one point, the Peace Corps Director visited Western Samoa while I was living and working there. Remembering me from the Christmas cards, she formally invited me to join the Peace Corps. But by then I was beyond volunteering with the Peace Corps.

For the next 8 years, I worked with various voluntary organizations in 15 countries throughout the Asia-Pacific region. In general, nothing was planned – there was no grand strategy, no burning ambition, life-long dream or goal to achieve other than a desire to continue living this incredible, fulfilling lifestyle out in the world. It all just happened. I came into these experiences largely by chance and without any prior technical international development training – with no formal pre-conditioning academically or professionally.

Thus, arriving as a “clean slate” my approach to each new situation was that of being open to learning from my experiences – learning by doing, and therefore naturally practicing what I later read about when I returned to school – the importance of sitting down with the local people, observing, listening, learning, as well as sharing whatever I had to offer.

Although clearly an outsider, I caught some glimpses of local situations and perspectives – working hardest at learning language, (during this time I picked up working levels of Samoan, Indonesian and Thai languages; later on, I picked up basic Khmer language and have also become proficient in Vietnamese language), which further facilitated my understanding about some aspects of the world, about people, about culture and about life – a kind of understanding that can only be gained from living these experiences.

Stay tuned for part 2 of this series

The Balinese believe when they die they’ll go to a place that looks just like Bali. And the town that looks the most like Bali, and feels the most Balinese, is Ubud, the island’s cultural center.  Ubud, whose name derives from the Balinese word “ubad,” meaning “medicine,” attracts an artsy crowd seeking a cure for the party animal hustle at the beach resorts of Kuta, Sanur and Nusa Dua. Located less than an hour’s drive inland from the coast, Ubud is a mountain town where the nights are cooler, the restaurants close by 10:00 p.m., and the closest thing to a disco is the local temple packed with teenagers watching the festive Barong dance till dawn.

One of Indonesia’s 13,000 plus islands, Bali has been a living legend since Western artists discovered back in the ’20s and ’30s and feared it would lose its soul to tourism.  It still hasn’t. Ubud preserves the storybook dreamscape that everyone associates with Bali: tender green rice fields and vaporous volcanoes, barefoot people who move with a trance like grace balancing towers of fruit on their heads, temple gates reaching to heaven, the air tinkling with gamelan music and wind chimes. There’s no doubt that Ubud has become a major resort, with its dozens of economical guesthouses and shops crammed with bewitching treasures, yet its major charm is its cleaving to tradition.

“Bali is like an old man,” one taxi driver told me. “Life is very classical here, there are not many modern things.”

Ubud preserves the traditional Balinese way of life which blends religious worship with the making of art.  There’s no word for “art” in Balinese, it’s just something the people do as naturally as breathing, with neither fame nor fortune as their motive. They express not themselves but their religious faith and joy.

In Balinese Hinduism, the mountains are the stronghold of the gods all temples are built to face the higher elevations while the sea contains darker forces. In seaside Kuta you can cruise from Mushroom Rock to Tropical Climax to beer-guzzling Peanuts, hearing Madonna and Bruce Springsteen, while in hilly Ubud your senses tingle with gamelan music and the fresh scent of frangipani and incense wafting from endless offerings in doorways and small temples.

Every night spectacular performances of famous dances like the

Legong, Barong, Kechak and Ramayana light up Ubud and nearby villages. Hawkers roam the streets, selling tickets for just $1.50 to $2.50 apiece, including transportation to the dance site.  This is not to mention the art galleries, museums, workshops, temple celebrations and occasional cremations that make the brain reel with exoticism and pageantry seldom seen in the West outside of Mardi Gras.

I arrived in Ubud with the hope of discovering what makes Balinese culture so rich. To my surprise, the Shangri La I’d expected first appeared as a boisterous little berg on a brokendown road selling Diet Coke alongside of handwoven backpacks.  The emerald terraces, waddling ducks and suspension bridge over a plunging ravine unfolded only as I was leaving town for the Amandari, Ubud’s premiere hotel.

I was lucky enough to spend my first night at the Amandari, an organic pleasure palace perched above a river gorge. Art and tradition rule here, too. Designed by Australian architect Peter Muller, who worked equal wonders with the Amanpuri on Thailand’s resort island of Phuket, the hotel simulates a Balinese village with 27 walled garden suites virtual houses with sunken outdoor tubs. Tip toeing over stepping stones through a pond full of lily pads, I opened my villa’s front door.

Rounded and thatched, with teak beams and rattan furniture, it had floor to ceiling screens and window walls which rolled back to let in the light and lushness of the outside.  From the terrace I heard the sigh of the Ayung River far below. Magenta bougainvillea and sprays of orchids splashed the greenery with color like laughter that melted into the twilight. At daybreak, workers with flowers behind their ears were up polishing the woodwork. The glassy hillside pool trembled under the fingers of a morning breeze, giving me a taste of that hushed, spiritual beauty that sets Ubud apart.

Art touches every upscale hotel in Ubud, and many budget spots, too. The chic Kupu Kupu Barong (“Big Butterfly”), not far from the Amandari, hotel’s heart stopping views from its split level rooms that teeter like cushy attic condos over the river gorge. Closer to town, the riverside Hotel Tjampuhan has a crumbling, ornate Balinese acquaintness with twisting paths to hillside rooms swallowed in banana trees and vines. At Ulun Ubud Cottages, a mossy stone stairway winds down past tiers of bungalows to a pool slung over the Campuhan River.

I wore the heels off my sandals hunting for a cheaper guesthouse along the backroads of Ubud.  Dozens of simple inns and homestays for $10 a night and under crowd the countryside, especially along Monkey Forest Road, a dusty thoroughfare past open fields and vagabond haunts recalling the hippie heyday. I checked out the Puri Muwa guesthouse with caged titiran birds hanging on every veranda (“wonderful alarm clocks,” said the manager), the Frog Pond Inn with its bargain cubbyholes (nobody home and all the doors wide open), and the Monkey Forest Hideaway with romantic old fashioned beds and kerosene lamps instead of electricity (already booked for the week).

That brought me to the edge of the forest, a cave like, rooty underworld housing the old Pura Dalem, temple of the dead. Even Ubud’s only jungle felt like a vintage illustration. I bought a temple sash and two bags of peanuts from a vendor, and stepped into the overgrown gloom.  Almost instantly, several gray, fuzzy monkeys barreled up like gargoyles and snatched at the bag in my hand, racing away with stolen peanuts.

One of them bit an overgenerous British tourist, and a Canadian girl murmured, “Oh dear, I hear they have syphilis” while the poor Brit cradled his hand. The potbellied grandfather monkeys, their brows knit cantankerously, lumbered up with a demanding air that made me hide my peanuts and head for the temple.  A sign on its rusted gates announced in pictures that tourists could enter for temple ceremonies only in Balinese, not Western, dress. No ceremony today. The colored sash would do.

Inside, monkeys swarmed everywhere. They lolled on the fanged statue of the witch Rangda, who was devouring a child; they sunbathed on the dragons and weather stained gates; they blended into the ornamentation, the baroque intricacy and animistic too muchness that typifies Bali, as though everything is seething with life and spirits. Yet the monkeys kept to themselves, obeying some unspoken rule of tranquility that made the temple a true sanctuary, both for them and the big hairless apes with cameras.

Heading back toward town, I stumbled on guesthouse called the Artini II guesthouse (Artini I is across the street), a lovely walled compound as peaceful as a convent, glittering with gilded doors and blooming gardens. The rooms, lined in bamboo matting, came with baths,fans, bamboo beds and porches where breakfast (usually a toasted banana sandwich and tea) was served every morning.  For $11 a night, I’d found my home in Ubud.

Rebecca Bruns, was a freelancer living in San Francisco, who specialized in the tropics and exotic culture. To find out more about her visit www.rebeccabruns.net. Stay tuned for Part II of this series.

That night I celebrated by going to see the Legong dance at the Puri Ubud, the palace grounds of Ubud’s old royal family.  It was the most beautiful performance I saw in Bali.  A gamelan troupe in intense red and blue sat before their golden gongs and Oriental xylophones in the moonlit courtyard. Candles on the ascending plateaus of the ”candibentar”, split temple gates, flared toward the stars. A priest glided through the gate, sprinkling water on the gamelan players.  With a staccato flick of the hammers, their bell-like music began, a flurry of chimes threaded with the plaintive tremble of a bamboo flute.

Out came the dancers, lithe Lolitas of 14 or less bound in green and yellow silk, fingers dilating, heads weaving side to side, flower petals flying from their hands just as the gamelan hammers struck the tossing note. Later a masked emperor and another young girl in purple launched the Legong story: a king captures a maiden, goes to war over her with her brother, meets a bird of ill omen, and is killed in combat with her brother. It’s a complex ritual ballet of good vs. evil, like all Balinese dances, and as precise as clockwork. The girls, so sure of every step, with darting eyes and painted faces so heartbreakingly fresh, were a mixture of innocence and wisdom beyond their years.

“The Balinese start to study art from a very young age,” said I. Wayan Sinti, gamelan teacher at SMKI, the highschool for the arts in Denpasar. “They come to school already knowing their art form.” Education only fine©tunes what is passed down through the family or picked up in the community. And Ubud is one of the centers where artists and performers are in high demand.  A 1990 TV special by National Geographic contended that tourist interest has helped fund a revival in the island’s arts. Judging from the crowds it’s true.

Foreigners flow in by the busload to catch the popular Kechak dance at the big community hall near Ubud in Bona.  The night I went, an entourage of men stripped to the waist flooded the stage uttering wild chants of “chak chaka chak” led by a sort of inspired drill sergeant. The gamelan orchestra was replaced by a frenzy of guttural calls and waving hands evoking a monkey army.

Enter the great white monkey god Hanuman. In the Kechak tale, from the Hindu Ramayana myth, Hanuman helps rescue the exiled Princess Sita and her brother Rama from the evil King Rawana, after many battles, magic transformations and close calls.

The men swayed and chanted like crazed fraternity brothers as a succession of damsels, wizards, monkeys, deer, a garuda (the mythical bird of Indonesia) and others traipsed across the stage, to that incessant “chak chaka chak”. How did the chorus so perfectly synchronize what appeared to be gibberish and animal flailing? Mass hypnosis?  A trance?  Somehow a whole new organism emerged, like a great vocal flower in motion, all its parts joined in one will.

An even more extraordinary trance dance followed. No sooner had the echo of the Kechak faded when a bonfire of coconut husks flared up on the stone floor. A man with closed eyes galloped out on a straw horse, skating through the flames, smearing the red©hot husks around with his feet, kicking them like autumn leaves. Sometimes the sparks flew into the audience.  This went on until the bonfire dwindled to embers. Then another dancer ran out and caught the trance dancer while a priest blessed him and brought him out of the trance.  He sat on the floor, dazed, while members of the audience approached to touch his feet as hard as bullhide and not even singed.

Entertainment can take the most unlikely forms. It’s not only staged for tourists but for the community’s pleasure. Temples celebrate the new moon or anniversaries every 210 days any excuse will do. One night I strolled over to a temple where, in the midst of mud and clove cigarette fumes, on a plastic tarp in a palm-fringed pavilion, something akin to Shakespearean theater had the Balinese crowd enthralled. Mobs of kids surged forward, jostling and bug eyed, to see the dragons and ghouls and white haired soothsayers they’d been seeing since babyhood but couldn’t get enough of.

As one guidebook said, “The religion is absolutely everywhere and it’s good fun!  The Balinese seem to feel that religion should be an enjoyable thing, something the mortals can enjoy as well as the gods.”

If nights are devoted to performances, days are for shopping. For even the most hardened anti-consumer, shopping in Ubud is a Magical Mystery Tour of homegrown art.

Stores wake early and close late, stocked to bursting with flying frogs and cherubs with huge phalluses, bamboo windmills and toy gamelan instruments, wooden banana trees, miniatures of island nirvanas, silver geckos and earrings set with garnets and amethysts, gold and silver pinkie rings, carvings of coolies and elongated dancers. For a good introduction, wander through the Sukawati Market’s choked collection. Yes, a lot of it is whimsical trash, churned out to satisfy the tourist lust for souvenirs but dig and you may find a neglected pearl among the profusion of kitsch.

Much of the work comes from villages around Ubud, each of which has a specialty.  Ubud, Penestanan and Batuan pour out decorative naïve paintings of heaven©on©earth landscapes, Hindu demons and rural life. Mas features carvings and masks. Celuk’s emporiums wink with silver jewelry. Gianyar’s factories spin superb, muted ikat fabrics, in which the abstract pattern is dyed into the threads before they’re woven. ”Batubulan’s stone temple guardians, warriors and animals, seen all over the island, line the roadside mantled in velvety mold.

These towns are no more than 45 minutes from Ubud by public vans and bemos, which constantly zip around picking up passengers. You could spend a whole day in any town, browsing the shops and bargaining. Or you can just watch artists at work, like the family of ten carvers I came on in Mas one blistering April afternoon under an awning outside their gallery, I. Made Darsana.

I ducked into the shade and watched them chiseling out ebony herons as easily as I might cut an apple. Such talents do run in the family. The Mas gallery of I. B. Sutarja, one of Bali’s most famous mask makers, not only showcases his $1,000 masterpieces but those of his children, all 12 of whom carve masks.

While crafts tend to follow traditional models, modern Balinese art straddles both convention and innovation. Paintings at the Neka Museum and the Museum Puri Lukisan in Ubud range from impressionism to abstract expressionism. Most of what’s for sale, though, is a sort of magic primitivism: mythical Bali with every leaf and rosy breast aglow in hallucinogenic detail (you can find small originals for just $50). An influx of Western painters who fell in love with Bali in the 1930s actually introduced the concept of individual art, removed from the temples and palaces. Since then it has flourished in galleries all over Ubud–including the flamboyant hilltop home of Phillipines-born Antonio Blanco, shrine of his erotic art and illustrated poetry.

It’s said that the Balinese believe when they die they’ll go to a place that looks just like Bali.  And the place most like Bali, most like paradise, is Ubud.

Rebecca Bruns, was a freelancer living in San Francisco, who specialized in the tropics and exotic culture. To find out more about her visit www.rebeccabruns.net.

The overnight boat from Bombay is jammed with cadaverous natives on their way to an easier life. Some other westerners and I pitch our tents on the deck between gibbering families and betel-nut chewers. The boat goes into the night as gently as a cradle, rocked by warm southern waters and sweet breezes blowing from our destination, but the air of expectancy on board – westerners are no less excited than the natives – makes it almost impossible to sleep.

Before  full sunrise everyone is up, bundling ragged possessions together and crowding around the deck rails. We are there! A golden radiance swells up behind thick palm jungle and spills across splendid empty beaches where waves run gently up and down for sparkling miles. I want to  dive overboard for joy! We are in a tropical paradise: Goa.

We  come ashore at Panjim. I catch a bus to the market town Mapusa and land in the bustling central plaza. It’s a circus! Motorcycles vroom, bicycle bells shrill, rattletrap buses wheeze by, the chants of bus recruiters vie with the cries of little boys hawking their wares. Stalls offer chunks of palm sugar, black with flies, tiny bananas pink as baby fingers, papayas big as watermelons.

Honey bees swarm around fragrant flower necklaces, smiling ladies under fractured umbrellas offer a skirtful of dried mackeral at a bargain. Drunk on exotic sights and smells, I catch the bus to the beach town of  Adjuna.

My  bus reels along a dusty road overhung with starlike blossoms, past blindingly green fields, past stocky little whitewashed missions and stocky pastel houses with molded love seats flanking front doors. At the Adjuna stop I drop out amid browsing goats and a few chickens. Some brown legged children carrying jugs start up the trail to Adjuna, and I follow.

It’s hot and dusty, I  am caked with dust. Then we are in the blessed cool of a palm forest, and suddenly through the trees sunlight glitters on blue water, the sound of flutes and guitars mingles with the cheerful namaste (good morning) of schoolgirls passing by. We are in Adjuna.

For two dollars I buy a beach hut  fully equipped (a kerosene stove, a lantern, a Ganesh poster for prosperity, a biscuit tin for storing food) and join the colony of beach dwellers. Mornings I wake to a girl leading a water buffalo by a string, selling fresh milk, or a boy selling  bottles of watered-down honey, a papaya lady, a coconut lady, a chiki lady. Many things come to my door.

A man dressed as a Hindu Jezebel goes from hut to hut dancing for coins. And dope is rampant. About once a week a nice looking clean-cut guy carrying a burlap sack of ampules of morphine  strolls door to door with his friendly greeting, “Hi. Want some morphine? 25 cents or two rupees an ampule.” The junkies mostly keep to themselves though once in a while a rash of thievery breaks out and you pretty well know who’s to blame.

There  is entertainment aplenty. Westeners make music, read tarot cards, do tattoos, preach, throw impromptu parties with shark stew for everyone and rock music blasting out of human-size  speakers, courtesy of a generator. Wandering home late at night with my coconut shell flashlight in hand (half a coconut shell with a candle stub inside) I stop for a visit with the banana man who fries bananas on the beach till midnight. At times I choose to stay in my little hut, reading by candlelight, or early to bed and to sleep lulled by the muted thunder of the waves, a sound I have come to love.

One day I decide to go exploring. North of Adjuna and Calengute, the favorite beach villages,  lie ten miles of  gorgeous and relatively isolated beach gashed by outcroppings and ending in jungle. I pack my sleeping bag and canteen, shut up the hut, and start walking.

I walk all day, sometimes crossing little rivers that cut into the beach, sometimes passing fishermen drawing in their nets; but mostly it is silent and empty, just me and the sea. Near sundown, approaching a nudist village, I see my first nude westerner. There are only a few dozen. They move quietly between the beach and their secluded village, or disappear  around a little freshwater lake and up into the jungle that swallows the hills behind  the sea.

In the jungle, I am told, some French girls live around a banyan tree. The next day I take the lake trail to find them and am soon hopelessly lost. A dry river bed leads me to a sheer red wall, on either side steep slopes mangled with roots. In a panic, I scramble up  a slope and  meet a tribe of large white monkeys loping along.

They stop and gather around me, and I plunge back down into the river bed. Somehow hours later the riverbed  leads me to the banyan tree where the French girls are indeed living on rice and  tea in primeval nude bliss. I stay the night, and snug in my sleeping bag hear a beast tearing another beast apart in the river bed below. In the morning I carefully follow the trail they show me  and leave the jungle behind.

I never  go  back to the jungle but gladly return to the cheerful noise and confusion of Adjani . Is there anything better than to stand in the doorway of your own little hut  in the cool pre-sunset breeze, sipping a cup of freshly brewed tea and watching the sun slip into the sea? But I’m almost out of money, and the year of my wanderings is over. I sell the hut for the $2  I paid for it, pack, and say my goodbyes. The Goa I am leaving has the friendliest natives, the gentlest sea, the most unspoiled beaches I will ever know. May

Vishnu the Preserver keep it so.

Rebecca Bruns, was a freelancer living in San Francisco, who specialized in the tropics and exotic culture. To find out more about her, visit www.rebeccabruns.net.

Roberta Davis never thought she’d end up living in Taveuni. The Honolulu-bornDavis and her husband, John Llanes, a Hawaii Island native, run a B&B style property called Makaira, just a few miles from an old dirt airstrip. The property consists of four bures (cottages) perched on four acres of a hillside, once the site of an ancient village.

It’s got an a 180 degree ocean view—essential back in the good old days when Fiji was known as the Cannibal Islands. When European settlers arrived, it morphed into a tranquil coconut plantation. Just down the hill is a white sand beach with better off shore snorkeling than you’ll find anywhere outside of Haunauma Bay.

Unlike Haunauma Bay there’s no Costco-sized parking lot, no tourists at your elbow and far more species of tropical corals.The property overlooks the Somosomo Straight, which has world-class diving and a fishery that includes Marlin, Sailfish, Wahoo, Mahi-mahi and Yellow fin. There are also a few other species not found in Hawaii such as Walu and Dogtooth Tuna and a host of reef fish. Roberta’s significant other, Captain John Llanes has released over 2,000 fish since he started charter fishing on Taveuni. (The average is about 9 releases a day).

The angling is so good that Hawaii Skin Diver made a pilgrimage to Makaira in May to film a show that aired last June on OC 16. (You can watch the Hawaii Skindiver show to see what I mean).

Known as the Garden Island, Taveuni is slightly larger than Lanai, and has about 12,000 inhabitants. A lush, rainy, formerly volcanic island, it boasts with waterfalls, parrots, giant fruit bats and a native boa constrictor. Locals (as in most of rural Fiji) are steeped in their indigenous culture, speak their own language, grow their own food and rely on the ocean for much of their sustenance.

Roberta Davis reckons she lives a lifestyle that harkens back to Hawaii of 50 or perhaps 100 years ago.Of course the good life in Fiji is not without it’s challenging side. The Fiji Islands reside in cyclone country and getting whacked by a mega storm every other year or so has become all too commonplace. Every cyclone is different. They can be mild or ferocious–short or long in duration.

Cyclone Tomas, which hit Taveuni in March of 2010, was both ferocious and long. Roberta described it simply as “terrifying.” Holed-up in a small concrete bunker, she feared for her life when the walls started to shake uncontrollably. “It was noisy,” she said. “The storm was like a freight train bearing down on us. In the distance we heard the trees firing coconut cannons and the cracking echo of shattering Monkeypod trees.”

Roberta described the the island going from “lush to desolate over night–like it was hit with Napalm.” Six months later it was back to lush again.

She went snorkeling with fear in her heart not long after the storm to assess the big surf damage. The beach is approximately a quarter mile long. From the shoreline to about 100 yards out and across the whole cove, the reef was completely desolated. Staghorn coral colonies lay shattered and uprooted with broken arms lying like so much rubble on the sea floor.

Despite the general devastation, some areas of the reef were leveled where as others were intact. The amount of damage correlated to the depth and the contour of the reef.

To her delight, Roberta discovered that her favorite underwater treasure had survived: a large rose bubble tip anemone colony with attending melanopus clownfish. Her second favorite prize, which she named the Aquarium, survived, perhaps because it lay inside a blow of reef.

Was it a was a sign from on high that things were going to be O.K?  Maybe but she knew something had to be done to attempt to resurrect the once beautiful reef system.

Rob Kay is the author of Fijiguide.com.  Stay tuned for part II of the story.

The practice can yield to spectacular results in just a few years. A little planting can protect the corals from their predators and can go a long way in helping reefs rebound. More importantly scientists have recently discovered that corals send out chemical signals that indicate a particular area is safe to populate. Other species of corals will answer the call and migrate into the area.

Roberta decided, she didn’t have fifty years to wait for the reef to mend itself.

Immediately after learning the replanting drill, she logged about 200 free dives to make certain replanting actually worked in the wild. To her relief and it did.  She has made thousands of free dives since then which consist of picking up coral fragments off the sea floor and planting them. She reports a 90 per cent survival rate for the coral fragments which “take-off like a shot within 4 weeks once they take root.” She’s also engaged the local population to get involved.Every Sunday, Roberta and a small group ofMakaira staff and teenage boys from the nearby village, plant coral fragments on the reef. Even resort guests have joined in.

Her favorite guest moment was right after the cyclone, when a thirteen year-old boy joined the Sunday coral gardening event. At this early stage the pounded reef was just bare rocks and coral fragments. The boy earnestly asked Roberta if he could plant his very own little reef. She smiled, shook her head and said “pick anywhere you like and knock yourself out”.

With much enthusiasm he planted what is now magnificent little reef, which makes her smile every time she takes guests on a snorkel tour.

Guests who would like to indulge in reef gardening are greatly appreciated. Generally Roberta will go out with them and pick an area where they can plant their own section of reef. They mark their territory with a fair amount of colorful, blue staghorn acrophora corals. Upon their return, guests can see the stunning results. Blue-green Chromis occupy the burgeoning coral and the rest of the reef fish population is catching up. Once guests see the fruits of their labor, they immediately schedule time to plant more corals.

Like the transplanted coral, the 50-something Kalani High School grad and her Big Island husband have surely taken root in the Garden Island of Fiji.

Rob Kay is the author of Fijiguide.com. For more information on Roberta Davis and John Llanes resort visit Makaira online.

We hadn’t been at the Borneo Nature Lodge more than an hour when we hopped on a boat and headed down the fabled Kinabatangan River in Sabah State on the Island of Borneo. As we snaked our way along the banks of the river on a two hour cruise, wildlife stirred in every corner of the jungle.

Pigmy elephants, a mother and a calf, trundled through the thickets; a host of birds, including four species of hornbills, darted in and out of the canopy; a family of orangutans foraged for fruit from a tall fig tree while nearby, a group of proboscis monkeys hung out in leafy branches.

That, as Joe Harry, our wildlife guide, pointed out, is what makes the 26,000 hectare Kinabatangan Wildlife Sanctuary so special.

“In terms of birds, reptiles and big mammals,” he noted, “the lower Kinabatangan has the richest concentration of wildlife in Southeast Asia. It’s great for visitors because animal viewing times are pretty predictable.”

Every day at around 4 pm as the jungle bursts into life, if you head out to the river, you can be sure you’ll discover an abundance of wildlife moving in its natural habitat.

Harry, a native of Sabah and an independent guide with 17 years of experience, has witnessed first- hand the remarkable transformation of the Lower Kinabatangan area over the last two decades. It has gone from a region dominated by a palm oil plantation economy to one that includes a growing eco-tourism industry. The formerly unpaved tracks built for the palm oil plantations are now roads that transport visitors to a variety of eco-lodges situated along the river.

Prior to the opening of the Kinabatangan Wildlife Sanctuary in 1997, the palm oil industry had encroached on much of the rainforest, especially the fragile areas bordering the river. In the 1970’s and 80’s, over-logging altered landscapes and impacted animal populations. Where cloud leopards once roamed, clear cutting and the growth of palm plantations decimated their populations. The entire ecosystem suffered, prohibiting the development of eco-tourism.

Since then, animal populations have begun to return, including primates such as the proboscis monkey and orangutan, as well as big mammals like the pygmy elephant.  There is hope that the cloud leopard will also rebound.

“The Sabah Government is on the right track,” says Joe.

According to our guide, in the past 15 years wildlife numbers have increased. Sabah state is also negotiating to buy land from plantation owners to widen animal corridors to promote their movement between areas bordered by plantations. Furthermore, the government is purchasing land adjacent to both sides of the river where wildlife traditionally feed and gather. This is because in many areas, plantations extend to the river banks, thus encroaching on animal habitat. Sabah state is now open to foreign NGOs helping to promote and expand the ecotourism industry.

In addition to the Sabah government’s active role, private interests, such as the Nestle corporation, have undertaken reforestation projects.

Accommodations

We chose to stay at the Borneo Nature Lodge, located on the banks of the Kinabatangan River. It’s an eco-friendly lodge and offers modest, no frill accommodations. The lodge practices water harvesting from rainfall and uses solar energy throughout the facility. The rooms were comfortable and clean. Currently this is one of few lodges in the area offering air conditioning in the rooms and restaurant. There are thirteen rooms that function on a twin sharing basis.

We would take issue with a few details that management may have overlooked, such as missing soap, beds with no slipcovers and threadbare bath towels.

Food, particularly lunch and dinner were generally good and depending on the cook, included local dishes, like curries and fresh fish. Typical desserts were tapioca and fresh fruit such as pineapple, honeydew melon and watermelon. We especially recommend the local honeydew melons, clearly the best we’ve ever had.

Breakfast was plain white toast, scrambled eggs and a hotdog-like sausage. We asked for extra fruit and the cook obliged. We would have liked to see more local food instead of the western-style fare that management assumes foreigners prefer.

Staff was friendly and generally very good about taking care of guests.

BNL has its own tour van and will pick you up upon arrival at the airport in Sandakan, which is approximately 140 km or two hours by car.

The Lodge offers activities including river cruises, jungle walks, night walks, a cave visit, bird watching and tree planting. We opted for their Kinabatangan River Safari package–the three day two night option. This entailed river cruises, both morning and evening, a rainforest walk, cave tour and bird watching.

The base package of 3 days is $400 and includes accommodations, meals and tours.

Seeing the Wildlife

If you’re lucky, as we were, you can see a plethora of critters in a very short amount of time.

Bird watchers in particular will love this place as birds are both easy to see from the boats and, numerous. There are roughly 120 species in the Lower Kinabatangan district. In many cases, birds as well as other animals have become familiar with humans. They often  allow visitors in a boat to come closer than one would expect in the wild.

This was the case with a minuscule blue-eared kingfisher (see photo) and the elephants that we observed on the river bank. As we slipped down the river in silence, we soaked up the symphony of bird calls and the steady rustling of primates in the trees.

Generally a guide is provided for each pair of guests. We were very lucky to have  Joe Harry as our guide and can’t thank BNL enough for setting this up. He was knowledgeable, congenial and articulate. A native of the region, he seemed to have a second sense when it came to finding wildlife.

Every tour operator has their own guides and there are very few specialists with greater or lesser expertise. Not all lodges possess the same caliber of knowledge and competence. It’s best to do your research in advance.

What to bring

When visiting Sabah you need some essentials.  Here’s our must-have list:

• Binoculars – We found the 10×42 glass ideal for this environment. We’ve been using the Bushnell Legend model for years.
• Short and long pants for forest walks—light fabric as well as “tactical style” pants. We used shorts from Vertx and long pants from Kitanica.
• Lace up athletic-style hiking shoes are preferable to hiking boots in this terrain. Our preference was the Terrain II from Wolverine products.
• Knee high socks are useful during forest walks. Tiger leeches are commonly found in the rainforest. The resort supplied leech socks.
• Sun hat
• Sun block
• Insect repellant
• Flash light for night walk or cave visits – compact is good.
• Basic First aid kit
• Backpack—Blackhawk makes sturdy ones that work for travel or wilderness.
• Electrical outlet adapter—don’t assume your accommodation will have one. You’ll need it to recharge camera gear, tablet, laptop, etc.
• Light cotton shirts or Dry Fit type shirts are preferable in this hot, sticky tropical climate.

Getting There

The trip to Malaysia started in Honolulu on Hawaiian Airlines to Seoul. From Korea we flew to Kuala Lumpur on Air Asia. Note that Air Asia also connects to Hawaiian from Tokyo and Osaka. Flight time between Honolulu and Seoul was about 9 hours. The link between Seoul and Kuala Lumpur was about 6 and half hours.

Air Asia, based in Kuala Lumpur, may not be familiar to many Americans. However, the travelling public in Asia has come to rely on this low-cost carrier which offers rock bottom prices, good quality service and modern aircraft. Much like Southwest Airlines, customers get bargain fares but any extras such as food or even water must be paid for separately.

The company, known as Air Asia Group, operates scheduled domestic and international flights to 100 destinations in 22 countries. From “KL” we flew Air Asia’s domestic system to Sandakan, which brought us to the east of Sabah state, one of Malaysia’s eco-tourism hotspots. Flight time from KL to Sandakan was a little over two hours.