It's a busy place with a bustling waterfront, noisy markets and a motley population made up of Chinese traders, oil workers, loggers and a fair mix of tribal people who come here to seek their fortunes. The bas mini rounds a corner and proceeds slowly down a narrow lane where hawkers are starting to set up their stalls for the night market. Refreshed after my double espresso, several cigarettes and a phonecall to find out departure times for the Express boats in the morning, I step out of the hotel and straight into the sauna-like humidity. As usual, my glasses fog up instantly. The place is really bumping and jumping - but in a slow, tropical sort of way.
People amble down the streets, some holding hands- a fairly common Asian expression of friendship.
The air is thick and blue from the exhaust fumes created by the seemingly endless cavalcade of motor cycles, buses and over-loaded trucks. At intersections the noise can be deafening as hundreds of engines rev up for the race to be first off the mark when the lights turn green. Scattered amidst the organised chaos and in the most unlikely places are little havens of rest and tranquillity - the ubiquitous coffee shops and hawker stalls, where the cacophony of sounds suddenly becomes a secondary background as the mental focus shifts towards an icy cold drink or plates laden with food. As I wander down the narrow lanes leading to the waterfront , the area suddenly opens up into a large market, crammed with stalls selling everything from fresh produce to plastic ware, clothes and an incredible variety of live animals, most of which no doubt, are destined for the cooking pot. On the far side of the square the market takes on a native character - with groups of Ibans squatted on the floor selling jungle produce, baskets, rattan mats, brass gongs and the odd bits of native craft.