6th May 2012

Last night, we took a short ten-minute jaunt from the hotel to a nearby Chinese restaurant. Sadly, the mosquitoes decided Sue was the evening’s all-you-can-eat buffet. At the same time, I made do with a rather disappointing plate of “lemon” chicken that had misplaced the lemon. The language barrier stopped me from sending it back, so I gamely soldiered on. The silver lining? No digestive fallout the next morning, proof, perhaps, that my taste buds had been more offended than my stomach.

Earlier that day, one of the hotel receptionists had kindly invited us to explore the island’s north with her and her boyfriend. We politely declined, fearing our idea of fun might not match theirs and wishing to avoid imposing on their kindness.

The next morning, we set off for a crocodile farm. The heat was stifling, the kind that makes you sweat just for being there. The crocs, clearly seasoned pros at such weather, remained impressively still until tempted with chicken carcasses from a couple of large buckets we had purchased, at which point they lunged with terrifying speed. These weren’t your garden-variety zoo specimens either; they were the size of small cars and looked every bit as ancient and grumpy as you’d expect.

A troupe of daring Malayans then treated us to a series of stunts that fell somewhere between “courageous” and “have you lost your mind?”, lying on the crocs, lifting them, and even placing heads inside their gaping jaws. The crowd gasped; the crocs, I suspect, rolled their eyes.

The entertainment continued with a traditional Malayan dance before we moved on to feed turtles, ostriches, and otters, all with live fish. We offered the fish a heartfelt apology beforehand, though I doubt it did much for their morale.

From there, we made for Koto Belud, which looked promising on the map. Naturally, we got lost. Luckily, a kind woman among the paddy fields set us straight and even recommended a few restaurants. Sadly, her dining suggestions were less accurate than her directions. On arrival, we were greeted by a cheerful political march, the activists waving flags and honking horns in what felt like the polar opposite of a British protest.

Hunger drove us into town in search of lunch, but most restaurants looked as though they’d last seen a deep clean sometime in the last century. Salvation came in the form of Colonel Sanders himself, and we tucked into chicken, rice, and a free “mystery soup” whose ingredients remain a secret to this day.

An open-air market tempted us briefly, but the lacklustre atmosphere encouraged a swift exit. On the way back, we stumbled upon the ferry terminal we’d failed to find earlier. Though the view was gorgeous, we’d missed the last boat, so we carried on to a bay with a quiet fishing village. Driving through, we received the kind of curious stares reserved for people who are clearly not from around here.

We paused to watch some local lads playing football until dusk and drizzle chased us back to the main road. Lacking a 4×4 for the muddy tracks, we took the sensible route back to the hotel.

After a restorative shower, we ventured to a Malaysian restaurant recommended by someone at the hotel (whose name has escaped me entirely). The place was buzzing with locals and, judging by the attention we received, we were the evening’s entertainment. The menu was simple but tasty, the fruit juices outstanding, and the lack of beer surprisingly forgivable. We waddled back to the hotel, gloriously full and ready for bed.