There is often a certain stigma attached to spending time on a desert island, one that usually involves storms and wrecks and volleyballs named Wilson. My experience with such a location, though perhaps less dramatic than Shakespeare would have it, was nonetheless an adventure worth a few words.
Setting off in the wee small hours, we (my boyfriend and I) swiftly found ourselves in the heart of the Malaysian jungle, hurtling down a dirt road that was slightly more unkempt than the perfectly pristine Singaporean streets from which we had set out. Dodging the potholes, and sometimes people, in a beaten up mini van seemed like an art form the driver had worked long and hard to perfect. Besides, it would’ve been rude to start screaming.
Four hours later, we were dropped at the Tanjung Leman Jetty. By reputation, a bustling hive of local activity and industry. In actuality, a few fishing boats, a questionable vending machine and a very bedraggled kitten. Not exactly San Pedro, but good enough for us.
After a pleasant exchange with the harbour master (a sea-salt weathered gent who, no doubt, had some fine stories to tell) and handing over the extortionate maintenance and usage fee of 3Ringgit (around 30 pence EACH), we sat and waited for the ferry. Clearly we had made good time on the journey here…though I cannot imagine why.
After being in Asia for a few weeks, one gets used to seeing a certain type of individual, and even at the best of times, being greeted by a six and a half foot Aussie with the brightest of teeth and blondest of curly hair is enough to take anyone a little by surprise. But Malcolm, like a flip-flopped and backward-capped angel, was here to lead us on.
Stepping into the boat – a nippy little number named something inoffensive, like Seabreeze – we were asked to strap down our backpacks and arm ourselves with lifejackets. Standard procedures met and we were given the okay go. It was three minutes in to this half hour trip, that Malcolm thought it would be a fantastic idea to ‘see what she can really do’ and ten minutes later, we reached the island; wet through with sore posteriors, but giggling like naughty schoolchildren.
There are only five huts visible from the northern beach of Pulau Sibu, though I am told there are at least ten more nestled amongst the palm trees along this small inlet of the island. It is important to note that one of these structures, pointed out to us by a very enthusiastic Malcolm, was the bar.
Our home for the next week was approximately twenty meters from this watering hole, a stone’s throw from the densely packed jungle and a hop, skip and a jump from the ocean, where a naturally occurring reef lay in the shallows. For first impressions, it wasn’t half bad.
Over the course of our stay on Sibu, we met what amounted to four people (all of whom worked on the island), twelve mosquitoes (after counting the bites) and a myriad of local fauna (both land- and water-dwelling). During one afternoon snorkel with Chaz – boldly attempting the activity despite being able to see without his specs – I thought it best to calmly, but quickly, signal my return to shore. Following a few seconds behind, he questioned my actions, laughing off my insistence that I had seen a reef shark. He wasn’t so amused after Tony, the best barman this side of Johor, confirmed that ‘Yes’ there were indeed sharks, ‘but they only get up to about five foot’. Suffice to say, excursions into the ocean were a little less frequent from that point on.
As any typical castaway would do in the situation, we explored the rock-pools and relaxed on the sand, drank tropical cocktails and ate like kings, and even narrowly avoided a few WHOMPS on the head from falling coconuts. On one particularly pro-active day, we took a slippery forest path only to stumble into what was, at the time, the only other resort on the island. After encountering a screaming child, we were happy to discover that the grass isn’t always greener.
Mostly, we were content to take in the beauty that even such a small part of the world offers. Though I wasn’t exactly struggling for survival, I like to think I learned a little about island life. To use the old adage, ‘What you see is what you get’, may seem stereotypical, but when the view’s are this good, it’s a wonder we don’t try and stay stranded a little longer.
26 January, 2012 9:00 am
If you are interested in being a featured writer please get in touch below. We'll be in touch if we want to feature you.
For all other enquires please contact the blogging team on
