Wanderlust

Pining

2010-08-13T18:37:00.004+01:00

It's only been six hours since we took off from Guate and I'm already missing Central America. I'm sitting next to a middle-aged woman who thinks she owns the plane just by having paid for her ticket: she's reclined her seat and won't straighten it for meals, take-off or landing (despite being told to do so by the stewardess). Then there's the girl sitting in front of me who violently shoved her way past another stewardess who was distributing newspapers down the aisle. I'm sorry, but if this is how the Spanish behave, I have even more reason to push Spain further down the list of places I'd like to visit. God forbid, you'd never see this sort of thing happen in Central America.

Note: On flight bound for Madrid

***

In El Salvador - particularly big cities like San Salvador, houses are surrounded by thick, high walls (one of the factors that would lead me to almost lose my mind). Neighbourhoods in turn, are closed off by barbed wire fences, cement or concrete walls. Then there's the craze for machete- and rifle-bearing security guards - you can find one in almost every business establishment, even small ones like the nearby restaurant (not unlike Malaysia's late-night mamak restaurants) that I frequented for meals. For $10 per household per month, our neighbourhood - Residencial Santa Margarita - hired a security guard to keep watch over it (ours was not fenced in). Our guard wielded a machete but the one guarding the neighbourhood just across the road from us had a rifle.

But despite their impermeable walls (a reflection of the country's social security), Salvadorenos are quick to let you into their lives - the English-speaking ones even quicker. And they always appear at the most unexpected moment: sitting at the next table in a restaurant or standing next to you at a bus stop. I can still remember the night the security guard at the aforementioned restaurant spoke to me in English (as perfect as American English can be) of how he had grown up in the States but had been deported back to El Salvador as a teenager following some 'bad business'. And my first proper conversation in Spanish was with this woman who had brought her elderly father to Boqueron for the clean fresh air of the mountain. Wheelchair-bound, he was dying from metastatic disease and the doctor had only given him another month to live.

I've also never encountered a people so keen, so ready - almost as if anticipating - to help. They'd patiently explain the menu and help you with the order. They'd answer your questions and show you the right way, sometimes leading you to the correct place or bus. Or even give you a lift if it's on the way or up a tree to get a better view of a procession. In a few moments, we'll be landing at Heathrow (I'm writing this between Salman Rushdie's The Jaguar Smile and sleeping) and I'm not holding my breath yet for someone to help me with my heavy rucksack.

***

England welcomes me home with rain at 14°C but my heart is still in Central America.

Tobes

2010-08-12T22:25:00.001+01:00

I'd forgotten how cold it can get here in Antigua, the start of the Guatemalan highlands. The first time I was here, I had to bring my blanket up to the rooftop where a few of us were chilling. The walls were high but the night was clear and one of the three volcanoes around Antigua loomed up in the distance before us.

Tonight, I'm up on the rooftop of another hostel with three layers on (I'm counting my vest as one layer). Fog shrouds the surrounding highlands but the walls are low and I can see the comings and going of the cobbled street below.

I'm glad I broke the backpackers' code of not visiting a place twice. Strolling down the familiar streets of Antigua, it feels different than when I did the whirlwind tour of the city. And with no time restrictions, I'm beginning to experience Antigua's charm.

The city still feels touristy with hostels a stone's throw away from each other (at times side by side) with tourist services filling the gaps in between. But now that I have the opportunity to look inside these businesses, it's absolutely interesting to see how they've customised themselves to find their own niche in the wide and varied market of tourism, be it an overpriced bookstore to a wine and cheese tasting parlour to a shisha smoking salon.

Conversely, I'm glad I honoured the philosophy of backpacking by deciding against a direct luxury bus from San Salvador to Guate. Instead, I made my way there slowly by various chicken buses with the entire weight of my rucksack on my shoulders. This gave me an extra day at El Tunco where I learnt how to surf (proof that at 24, you can still teach an old dog new tricks).

That's where I met Tobes (that's what I call him). Tobes (as in Toe-b-s as in Toby as in Tobias) and I shared a room in El Tunco. He had been paying $10 a night for his room until I arrived, after which we shared the room for $14 per night. So he had every reason to be happy, really.

But Tobes is a really cool German guy. We got on really well together somehow. We hung out together (he'd read on the hammock whilst I wrote on a table nearby or vice versa), we'd grab food together, and he even invited me to surf with him (he took the bigger waves while I the smaller).

He was going to leave the day before I did but changed his mind so that we'd travel together when I told him I was also heading to Guatemala. And the night before we left, he convinced me to join him in Antigua.

I don't think I'll ever forget the chicken bus ride along El Salvador's coastal route to the border at La Hachadura with Tobes: the occasional view of the Pacific crashing upon beaches isolated by sheer cliffs and the intermittent clucking from two chickens at the back of the bus. This crazy mash-up of classic love songs (including More Than a Woman and Sugar, Sugar) was playing, so I leaned over to Tobes and cheekily said, 'You know, with all these love songs, it's a shame we're not boyfriends.' And we had a good laugh.

He may be no boyfriend but I truly treasured his company and I wouldn't trade our time spent wondering the streets of Antigua amidst the colourful houses with an evening by myself in Guate.

Leon

2010-08-04T18:57:00.001+01:00

Leon is, as they say here, muy tranquilo. And in more than one way.

It's very much a functioning city catering to the local population. Home to a few universities, it has a young population demographic. And although the two most popular backpacker hostels were full when I arrived, you don't see many of them around so there's none of the Western decadence I saw in Antigua. The hustle and bustle of the city is locally produced with locals leaving you to your own business while they go about theirs.

Then there's that sense of security which pervades the entire town (from now on, I shall refer to Leon as a town because it feels more like it - despite having a cathedral). When I first arrived, I was scared: it was after sunset and roads were badly lit - if not at all. The bus station was quite a distance away from the town centre but I decided to hoof it; and although the streets were filled with people, I couldn't help but anticipate that they would set upon the lone foreigner with slitty eyes.

But as the days went by, I got to see the opposite side of Leon: where the streets are lit by light streaming out of houses through open doors and windows - something you don't find in El Salvador where walls are built high and opaque.

Here in Leon, people leave their doors wide open in the evenings. An irresistible invitation to look into their homes, you see people rocking away in their rocking chairs. Some bring them out on to the pavement whilst others simply sit on their doorstep to watch the comings and goings of the neighbourhood. Even the street leading to the hostel from Parque Central - which isn't lit at all and is usually empty - has so far been safe. But apparently - according to American bloke - Nicaragua is really safe: I've left my bag unattended twice (I know it was an unbelievably stupid thing to do) and it didn't get stolen. But whether that was due to nice people or good luck, I don't know.

And finally, the hostel. Run by three generations of women - the grandmother, the mother and the daughter - the hostel is one of the lesser-known budget accommodations for backpackers in Leon. For USD$5 (100 Cordobas) a night, you get a dorm bunk bed (although no hot water) which I think is pretty decent. At any one time, there'd be at most around two to four people spread out over the hostel. (Three would fit in our dormitory and after American bloke had left for Costa Rica, there were only two of us until I left. The other was an Italian literature student from Padua on an Erasmus-ish exchange programme here in Leon). But the clincher were the hammocks in the communal area upstairs with the balcony overlooking the street. Did I ever tell you that I love hammocks? All this and the quiet location made it a perfect pace to relax, recuperate and reorganize my thoughts.

Wanderlust: found

2010-08-03T22:23:00.000+01:00

Last night, I laid in a hammock and swung myself. The night was cool after a day of intermittent (tropical = heavy) showers and the crickets were throwing in the kitchen sink. I was exhausted and had had a lousy dinner. My body itched all over from angry mosquito bites that don't appear to be getting better at all. And I was dreading the trip home the following day. I was obsessed with just one thought: that I'd lost my Wanderlust.

But by the fickle finger of Fate (as Charity would put it), just before climbing up into my top bunk, I decided to stay another day: I switched off my mobile which was set to go off at 4:00 am (although it still managed to ring despite being a really cheap mobile).

This morning, I was sitting at the feet of giants and gazing down at the people milling about Parque Central. I explored the cupolas of the cathedral against the dramatic backdrop of the volcanic range.

In the afternoon, I walked to the indigenous village of Subtiava (which was the focus of the area before the Spanish founded Leon) to catch a bus to Poneloya. And before I knew it, I was getting my khakis wet with the Jose brothers in the high rolling waves of the Pacafic.

Now I'm back in the very same hammock, swinging myself side-to-side. It's raining outside but the crickets are stubborn. I'm happily sunburnt (for now) and I'm looking forward to heading home tomorrow. It wasn't that I'd lost my Wanderlust; I just didn't know how to look for it.

Blessing in disguise

2010-08-01T21:51:00.003+01:00

I didn't make it to Granada today - which was the original plan: to do Granada at 6:00 am like I did Antigua and make it to Meridia on Isla de Ometepe by sunset. And yet, it may just be a blessing in disguise.

I think somewhere between Guasaule and Chinandega, whilst talking to other passengers on the bus, I realized I wasn't going to make it. So I got my Lonely Planet out and started recalculating ETAs and making alternative plans. My main concern was if I'd taken two days to get there, I'd need two days to get back. And if I wanted to catch San Salvador's procession as part of its Festival de El Salvador celebrations on Thursday, that would mean spending just one night at Meridia before making my way back early the next morning.

In the middle of all this, I thought, 'This is ridiculous. I can't force myself to make Ometepe.' And it was only after putting away my Lonely Planet that I looked out of the window to see the unmistakable perfect cone of a volcano towering out from a range of mountains. I would later find out that Momotombo was the southernmost volcano of Condillera de los Maribios, a chain of ten or so volcanoes. That's when I decided to pass the night in Leon - the safer option than Managua.

***

Over dinner at a roadside food stall, I met these two girls who teach French on Ometepe. They told me that boats from Granada only ran on Mondays and Thursdays. I checked my trusty Lonely Planet and found that they were right and that I'd misunderstood what was written. Plan A would still have worked but it would've been slightly more tricky. Blessing #1.

Back at the hostel, I discovered that there was a communal area with hammocks and a balcony. There, I met this American bloke who had been to the island. He said that it probably wouldn't be worth the trip if I only had an evening to spare there. He said I'd probably enjoy it more here.

So here I am, on one of the hammocks just by the door looking out into the balcony and beyond and really, for the first time, relaxing

Guatemala was

2010-07-30T20:58:00.000+01:00

nice. I'm writing this almost a week after to avoid the influence of exhaustion and disappointment but this is the best I can come up with. Even I'm surprised!

I realize that making weekend excursions - even three- or four-day ones - simply isn't economical: you spend most of your time getting to and from a place. The limited budget hasn't helped either.

Then there are the tourists. And with them come the tourist commodities, the raised prices as well as the touts. It seemed as if Guatemala was very touristy although the places I visited were hardly off-the-beaten-track.

It's weird though because I was really looking forward to going somewhere touristy: I was dying for a decent conversation in English. And when it was just two people, I'd willingly strike up a conversation. But any more than that, I tended to avoid them. It's something I'm still struggling to understand about myself. And so, I found myself wanting to leave a place as soon as I'd gotten there.

Then again, there have been moments when I've been at ease with everything around me. For example sitting in a bus full of locals and watching the sights play on the windows. Or waiting for a bus at the square of a transit town and letting the sounds and noises wash over me. Or simply being out and about Antigua and Santiago de Atitlan at 6:00 am. That's when the world comes alive with a distinct clarity that makes me feel thankful to be alive.

And that is how, I suppose, Guatemala is nice.

$2.66

2010-07-13T18:30:00.000+01:00

It is now 6:30 pm on Tuesday, the 13th of July and I have just returned home (having missed the stop at San Luis on the way back from Terminal de Occidente and having to follow the bus on its route back). I started with $100. Now, I only have $2.66 to last me till tomorrow when I can get more cash from the bank.

I believe I left the house at 7:30 am on Saturday the 10th and since then, I have been to La Palma, San Ignacio and El Poy in El Salvador as well as Nueva Ocotopeque, La Entrada and Copan Ruinas in Honduras.

It was just this morning I was breathing in the clean fresh air of Cerro El Pital, the highest peak in El Salvador and shaking from the cold at that altitude. Now I'm back in this furnace that is San Salvador; breathing in the fumes of its clogged up roads.

Chase

2010-07-11T23:27:00.000+01:00

Chase and I stayed up late into the night talking. He was a 25 year-old Mormon who had done two years of missionary work in Mexico. I was interested in Mormonism: its faith, the lifestyle and what it was like to do missionary work.

During his stint in Mexico, he became disillusioned with his faith: he began to think (thinking tends to do that), disagreed with Scripture, tried to reconcile it with his own beliefs on how religion should really be, and failed. The Guilt Factor (the Trump Card of religion) didn't help very much either.

But when you think about it, morality - this notion of Good and Evil - becomes subjective; changing on a case-by-case basis. So what I think is Right or Wrong may very well be different from what you think is Right or Wrong; deing dependent on upbringing and education as well as culture and beliefs.

So now, he's trying to start afresh. But how does one turn his back on something that his entire life has been built on? His family, his social circle, his upbringing, his values and lifestyle. Then again, now that I think about it, sure, it might be difficult; but hardly impossible - look where I'm at now.

Of the many things we spoke of, one other thing made me think and that was his take on death. Although his approach is similar to mine, he deconstructs the emotions surrounding death into two: what I call the 'loss' and 'miss' emotions. And whilst I don't feel the former, I certainly do the latter and this has put into words what I've been trying to do since I started thinking about it.

Big 'G'

2010-07-08T17:44:00.001+01:00

No water again today - that's twice in two weeks. Possibly even more, given that I've always showered at 7:00 am and on both occasions, I showered late - today, after I'd done my laundry (for which there was still water). That's twice I've had to bathe outside at the stone basin - I had some leftover water from the washing.

***
Before we had a maid, mother used to send me to a babysitter: Mrs. Lie (most likely Lai) I think her name was. I have only this one memory of it so it must've been some time way back. As far as I can remember, we've always had a maid; but this must've been whilst I was still in kindergarten.

I always had to bathe outside. When the heat of the day gave way to the cool of the evening, her son would lead me outside to a walled-in part of the frontyard. I would undress; he would hose me down and soap me up (in a non-homoerotic way).

And then we would play this game of his (I think he came up with it): he would turn me around to face the wall with my back to him. And as I stared at the punched-out floral motifs of the white wall, he would write alphabets on my soapy back. And under the gentle evening sun, I'd have to guess if it was a "big 'G'" or a "small 'a'".

That's where the memory ends.
***

Of course, there are many interesting aspects about this memory and its significance. For one, why was I never allowed to bathe upstairs? Does it say anything about our different social status?

But what I'm most intrigued by is *why* this memory? They say we remember events that are emotionally charged but the funny thing is, I can't even conjure up the emotion that is associated with it.

So why this memory?

Pafos - sunset/night stroll

2009-08-03T20:33:00.004+01:00

The last video actually comes with a story: Zara and I had decided to fly out to Cyprus together. When we were in the check-in queue, we got slightly worried that we might not be able to sit together on the plane. So we came up with a fail-safe plan: if we couldn't get seats next to each other, I'd get down on one knee and propose to her in front of everyone!

Luckily, we didn't have to go through with our plan because we got our seats. But we both thought we should keep an eye out for an engagement ring whilst in Cyprus should we need it for our return flight back to England. Of course, there was absolutely no way I was going to convincingly kiss my 'fiance'. But we figured a sparkly ring might just do the trick.

Kourion/Pafos - road trip

2009-08-03T16:36:00.001+01:00

On our road trip to Pafos via Kourion, I remember telling Dafni how I thought Cyprus was really barren - not quite the lush green you'd imagine this island paradise of Aphrodite to be. But apparently, summers here are so hot and dry (what with the recent drought) that only in the cooler and wetter winter months does the island take on its fertile Mediterranean appearance. For now however, the contrast between sun-baked earth and refreshing sea is simply spellbinding.

You can't hear very much except for Keane's (Dafni's Key-Anne) Somewhere Only We Know playing on the speakers but Zara's giving the low-down of the day's highlights thus far. And Pan is this Cypriot bloke reading Engineering at Cambridge who I think is absolutely yummy.

Kourion - Kourion beach

2009-08-03T14:46:00.000+01:00

Lunch

Kourion - Sanctuary of Apollon Ylatis

2009-08-03T13:50:00.000+01:00

Kourion - Ancient Kourion

2009-08-03T12:12:00.001+01:00

Annexe of Eustolios

Amphitheatre

We (or maybe just the girls) thought it'd be a great idea to dance the syrtaki on stage and perform in a (ruined) amphitheatre. Don't even ask. Please ignore my camp inflexion at the end of the video.

Early Christian basilica

House of the Gladiators

Kourion - Kolossi Castle

2009-08-03T10:10:00.000+01:00

Cape Greco - fish meze

2009-08-02T18:38:00.000+01:00

Agia Napa - Nissi Beach

2009-08-02T14:58:00.002+01:00

Agia Napa - night out

2009-08-01T19:54:00.001+01:00

Mexican restaurant

Ambassaden bar

Club Seed

*photos have been censored due to illicit content

Protaras - Konnos Beach II

2009-08-01T14:46:00.000+01:00

Protaras - Blue Spice

2009-07-31T20:51:00.004+01:00

From left: Dafni, David, Zara, me.

This was where it all lead up to: our first ever debut performance of the syrtaki at the open-air restaurant and pool bar of the Blue Spice hotel. When Dafni's old dance coach heard that we'd been (trying) to learn the syrtaki, she suggested that we perform after her own dance school's show at the hotel.

We weren't sure at first but we did turn up just to watch the show and have a good night out. Well, when I say we, I meant David was uncomfortable with dancing a Greek folk dance in front of Cypriots who obviously know the dance well. But word got around the hotel, and I don't think the locals would have let a bunch of tourists (let alone tourists who dance) leave without dancing the syrtaki for them.

Note to readers:

1. Please excuse the bits of fudging at the start - apparently there are many different variations to the structure of the dance.
2. Please also excuse random people in the shootage - there wasn't a good vantage point (or at least, there wasn't enough time to secure a good vantage point).
3. Please also excuse the loud whistling which would have probably blown your eardrums by now - Cypriots like to do this during their dances.

All in all, please excuse the poor quality of the video although the camerawoman did a pretty darn good job of it, I have to say.

Note to self:

The syrtaki is not a Latin American dance; fast spins, hips moving from the core, as well as kicks with good preparation and recovery are not appreciated. :p Although I'm sure my coach would still tell me to watch out for my posture and timing. ;)

We spent the rest of the night having impromptu dance lessons on traditional Greek/Cypriot dances. What can I say? All in all, it was quite Fun!

Protaras - Fig Tree Bay II

2009-07-31T15:53:00.001+01:00

Yeah, so apparently it's Fig Tree Bay. We've all been calling it Victory Bay since the night we spent on it counting shooting stars. I didn't get a close-up shot but the signs all said 'Fig Tree Bay' in large bold uppercase letters.

Larnaka - Steph's bar

2009-07-30T20:40:00.001+01:00

Alcohol. Karaoke. Enough said.

Lefkosia - lunch @ Shiantris

2009-07-30T13:33:00.003+01:00

One of Lefkosia's hidden delights, Shiantris is named after its memorable owner who cooks up a fantastic array of seasonal beans with lemon, parsley and olive oil, and for carnivores, some meat dishes such as afelia (pork stewed in wine) or baked lamb. He greets everyone vociferously, pats people on the back and brings out fruit and Turkish delight after lunch. The restaurant was moving to a bigger space across the road, so it should be able to accommodate a few more hungry lunchers. A great place to immerse yourself in local life and cuisine.

Lonely Planet - Cyprus

I was greeted (albeit not vociferously) and we did get fruit after lunch. BUT we didn't get Turkish delight AND I didn't get my pat on the back. Humph!

***

When Dafni was in secondary school, she joined - aside from her other geeky interests such as the Ecology Club where she planted trees and cleaned up swamps - some sort of peacekeeping corp which aimed to reunify the divided island of Cyprus. During her membership with the society, she participated in conferences held in the States where both Greek and Turkish Cypriot students discussed (I presume) ways and means to bring the two parts of the island together. She also apparently organised a football match that had been postponed mid-match due to the 1974 invasion at the Green Line where both teams finished off the long-overdue match. Zara - who used to be on the basketball team, the netball team and the volleyball team in secondary school - says that she used to beat up girls from the Ecology Club. And Dafni thinks I'm taking the mickey whenever I mention the peackeeping corp but we all love her though, really.

North Nicosia - Buyuk Han

2009-07-30T12:17:00.002+01:00

North Nicosia - Library of Sultan Mahmut II

2009-07-30T11:55:00.001+01:00

North Nicosia - Selimiye Mosque

2009-07-30T11:37:00.001+01:00

Lefkosia - Ledra Crossing

2009-07-30T11:21:00.002+01:00

As we walked through the Dead Zone, the azan is sounded and I am transported through time and space back to the land where my blood hath spilled. The call to the Muslim brothers to perform their Zohor prayers in a place where Cypriots once fought one another was surreal.

Lefkosia, the last divided capital in the world, is partitioned by the Green Line into north Nicosia of the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus and Lefkosia of the Republic of Cyprus.

At the Ledra Crossing, they are merely two minutes walk apart (minus customs) and yet are two distinctly different entitites. One, a thriving city of congested roads with people bustling in and out of shops, restaurants, cafes, bistros etc. The other, an abandoned, dilapidated town where the only people to be seen are scattered tourists perusing the odd souvenir and antique shops or performing their prayers in the mosques as part of their pilgrimage.

Picture the city you live in, with your friend's house just down the road. Now imagine having to show your passport at the crossing checkpoints before crossing a haunted strip of rubble and ruin - the Dead Zone, remnant of the 1974 Turkish invasion - patrolled by Greek and Turkish Cypriot as well as UN peacekeeping forces. Finally, flashing your 'visa' - a mere piece of paper with the unrecognized stamp of the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus to the sour-looking guard on the other side of the crossing just to hang out with your friend. The very thought of it just makes me sick with sadness.

Paralimni - syrtaki

2009-07-29T21:49:00.003+01:00

A lesson on the Greek folk dance syrtaki

Yes, that was me going 'Awww' in the background - I'm such a big fat gay.

And yes, we did learn how to dance the syrtaki. Being dancers ourselves, it would've been unacceptable not to learn at least one traditional Cypriot dance during our holiday. Yes, we are just too cool (for school).

Larnaka - Salt Lake & Hala Sultan Tekkesi

2009-07-29T17:11:00.001+01:00

Larnaka - Galu Beach Bar

2009-07-29T15:57:00.003+01:00

This is why I am such a geek: I arrived with the book On Royalty by Jeremy Paxman and ended up buying The History of Cyprus and Bitter Lemons of Cyprus.

Larnaka - Town Hall

2009-07-29T10:33:00.002+01:00

Larnaka - Grand Mosque II

2009-07-29T09:19:00.000+01:00

Views from atop the minaret

Larnaka - fort II

2009-07-29T09:05:00.000+01:00

Larnaka - beach II

2009-07-29T08:55:00.000+01:00

Cape Greco - Konnos Beach I

2009-07-28T16:29:00.004+01:00

Below the chalky white precipice, the sea is a kaleidoscope of blue, green and gold. With the wind singing in my ears and caressing my sun-kissed torso, I sit myself down and inevitably start thinking.

***

We had our own little beach party at Fig Tree Bay last night. It was, in my personal opinion, better than the one we had intended to go to but had gotten the date wrong.

Beneath the diamond-encrusted sky, we laid on sunbeds and counted the falling jewels. Over the soft chorus of waves, we held discourse on religion interrupted only by sips of chilled coffee.

I'm always very cautious on the topic of religion - even more so when with my friends (simply because one tends to be very opinionated when one is a student at Cambridge; whether it's a cause or effect is another matter altogether).

The problem is; people tend to take it personally - religious or not. And I guess it's not their fault because religion is a personal thing. But what really surprises me is how passionate atheists also tend to be on the subject matter: it's as if they are consumed by a fire not unlike that of religious fervour.

On my part, I agree that, like so many other things, religion has both its good and bad. No other factor has played so great a role in the division of mankind; the justified wars of God, the martyrs of saints and mujahideen, the suffering and oppression of those under the yoke of religious extremism.

And then there's the good that religion has brought to humanity: the art of Christiandom, the science of the Islamic empire, and the philosophy of Siddharta Gautama. Most architectural wonders of the historic world have been built to celebrate religion. There's so much I enjoy about religion: its symbolism and iconology, its rituals and traditions, the cathartic power of prayer and the brotherhood that unites all religions.

And just like so many other things, you have to accept the bad with the good. I personally think that we could all do without kleptocracy but I do see its merits. What I find terribly unhelpful is when people claim with absolute certainty that we'd be better off without religion. Absolute bollocks: there's no way to construct a control experiment with an almost exact replica of human civilization except for religion to test out the hypothesis. And people need to realize this before making such blaise statements.

Paralimni - meze

2009-07-28T12:24:00.004+01:00

Three ice-creams yesterday:

I'm such a fatso. And that meze was a huge meal. Zara says it's not good to talk about food and weight and eating habits because it's apparently very easy to lapse into eating disorders. But just for the record, I'm neither anorexic or bulimic.

Three goals of Cyprus Summer 2009:

1. Appease my geeky side with history and archaeology
2. Get a tan
3. Get fat

Protaras - Fig Tree Bay I

2009-07-27T23:23:00.001+01:00

Paralimni - churches

2009-07-27T17:50:00.001+01:00

Churches of Agios Georgios (new and old)

New church of Agios Georgios

New church of Agios Georgios

Old church of Agios Georgios

Church of Agia Anna

Paralimni - Dafni's house

2009-07-27T16:59:00.000+01:00

Larnaka - beach I

2009-07-27T14:01:00.003+01:00

But srsly, what is with our obsession with sun and tan?!

Larnaka - Church of Agios Lazaros

2009-07-27T12:03:00.000+01:00

Larnaka - Grand Mosque I

2009-07-27T11:50:00.001+01:00

Larnaka - fort I

2009-07-27T11:42:00.002+01:00

Agia Napa - Dafni's apartment

2009-07-26T16:42:00.001+01:00

Protaras - Sunrise Beach

2009-07-26T15:17:00.001+01:00

I figured that after the previous video, things would only get better. Funny how I'm this uncomfortable in front of the camera despite having starred and hosted two television series for kids when I was seven.

Cyprus Summer '09 - Intro

2009-07-26T09:22:00.006+01:00

I hate my voice on camera. And people wonder why I don't vlog.

Li Phi falls

2009-07-03T04:14:00.013+01:00

Travelling on your own, you're often left alone with your thoughts.

The river began in the distant past. It flows to the sea without ever stopping; gaining in size yet decreasing in speed. At certain points along the way, it meets with resistance - obstacles, like the boulders of rapids. And depending on chance, some of its waters crash into the rocks while the rest swirl turbulently around them. The river moves on; never stopping, never waiting.

My life began in the distant past. It has always been dependent on mere chance and circumstance. Any good that has ever come out of it has been due to being at the right places at the right times:

I was born into a Chinese family living in an Asian country. Today, I reside in the West whilst immersing myself in everything that is white - its quirky manerisms, posh inflection and novel culture. I've travelled the world with gweilo backpackers - witnessing double standards and experiencing preferential treatment. And yet, I've also seen the poverty of Southeast Asian children relative to my childhood experience.

And that's a fact: life is unfair. But the moot point is how you deal with it - that's what really matters. And having observed the disparity of the world that we live in, I see no better desire than to make life as fair as possible for those deprived of the opportunities I had - for better or worse.

Max once told me that he was searching for his answer to life. He hadn't found it yet. But I enviously thought, 'Well, you're pretty darn close.' Today, I've found mine.

Fairytale

2009-05-24T23:41:00.002+01:00

Norway won this year's Eurovision Song Contest in Moscow with Alexander Rybak's Fairytale. The song's been stuck in my head ever since I first heard it and I can't seem to get rid of it. Annoying.

0430

2009-05-16T04:32:00.001+01:00

It's half past four in the morning. The long wide hallways of the hospital are empty but for a few. At this god-forsaken hour, only Death walks these corridors. You can see it in their bowed shoulders, shuddering. You can see it in their teary eyes, sobbing. No one would stay this late except to watch the dying die.

Want

2009-05-10T10:48:00.007+01:00

He lingered at the door, and said, 'The Lion wants courage, the Tin Man a heart, and the Scarecrow brains. Dorothy wants to go home. What do you want?'

'A little peace and quiet.'

'No, really.'

She couldn't say forgiveness, not to Liir. She started to say 'a soldier,' to make fun of his mooning affections over the guys in uniform. But realizing even as she said it that he would be hurt, she caught herself halfway, and in the end what came out of her mouth surprised them both. She said, 'A soul-'

He blinked at her.

'And you?' she said in a quieter voice. 'What do you want, Liir, if the Wizard could give you anything?'

'A father,' he answered.

Gregory Maguire
Wicked

Phone sxx

2009-05-01T19:07:00.003+01:00

Hello?
You're making me really horny. I'm really hard right now.
Err. Oh-kay.
I want to touch your pecs and lick your abs-
Oh my god! Stop, please! This is so weird.
It's not going to work, is it?
Err. No.

Hollow

2009-04-10T01:04:00.003+01:00

I am woken up by soft kisses in the hollow just inferior to the lateral half of my right clavicle. What's the time? I groan sleepily and ruffle his already ruffled-up hair tenderly.

The sun streams brightly through the small window of my bedroom. As I stretch the sleep away, my hips lift from the bed. He takes this as a sign and makes his way down slowly - planting little kisses as he goes along: through pectoralis major, intercostal spaces six and seven, inferior costal margin and rectus abdominis.

Moving lateroinferiorly, he reaches the hollow of the inguinal ligament. Hooking his fingers around the waistband and pulling my shorts down slightly, he starts licking along the line of the ligament knowing that it turns me on tremendously. I suck in a sharp breath of air. His wet tongue leaves behind a pool of saliva in the hollow. My abdomen trembles from laughter, "You're worse than the dog."

Winter wonderland

2009-02-03T03:33:00.003Z

Mxlxysxxn Nxght dance rehearsal - I've been doing this for three years now. This time around, it feels like I've been handed a bunch of rejects who I'm expected to miraculously transform into talented dancers for a performance that will open the show and set the atmosphere for the rest of the evening. Unlike the first year where almost every dancer was involved in the play. Unlike the second year where the three dancers were the main actors of the play.

What really gets to me is how only half of them just can't be arsed. If it was all of them, I could get in a strop without feeling guilty. But when I get stroppy, I'm not angry because they never arrive on time or they don't concentrate during practices. I'm angry because it's not fair to the other half who are trying their best to pull off a decent dance show; who are taking it seriously and committing precious time and effort. And people question why Malaysia is still a developing country.

***

Stepping out from the practice venue, I'm confronted by two inches of snow on the ground. My bike had not been spared. I'm surprised I didn't even notice the snowfall despite the glass walls down one side of the venue. Talk about being focused in a rehearsal.

***

Taxa and I took a really long walk around Cambridge - up Castle Mound, across the Backs, through Market Square to Parker's Piece. Midnight past and we were one of the very few outdoors enjoying the freshly fallen untrodden snow. Wet hair from snowball fights, a wet back from a snow angel and frozen fingers from a snowoman. Banter intermittent banter.

It was really cold - I was wrapped up in five layers. Self-righteous snow against ironic night, I wondered which of the two is icier. The soft crunching of snow beneath my feet is the only reassurance I get.

Bedford by night

2008-10-28T00:53:00.014Z

No, no, you go ahead. You must be in a rush.

Night falls. I decide to take a long walk to my local. Swap my Dockers for jeans, my leather Clarks for Converses, my bleep for my Nokia mobile and my stethoscope for my iPod Shuffle. Within minutes, I'm a different man altogether and with Rihanna thumping in my ears, I'm normal once more.

As I walk further and further away from Bedford Hospital, my steps become lighter and this weight on my shoulders slowly ebbs away.

You're a good doctor. You don't talk down to me like the others do.

I'm no longer the person you expect to be caring and compassionate every second of the day. I'm no longer the person who has all the answers and reassurances. I'm no longer the person to whom you confide all your troubles.problems.worries.anxieties as if I don't already have my own to deal with. Most important of all, I'm no longer the person you've placed your high expectations on. Yes you, and you, and you.

A local isn't exactly a local when it's this far away but more than half an hour later, I'm shopping for cereal and milk as well as sugar and tea along the aisles. No one makes way. Not a single person casts even a sideways glance.

Back on the roads, I note my slow respiratory rate and watch my breath condense before my very eyes into shapeless puffs of vapour.

So where does that all leave me?!

I'm glad for this quick and easy escape if only for a semblance of what normal used to be. How it once felt to be carefree. I'm not even sure which worries me more: the fact that it's becoming more difficult or the fact that there's no turning back?

Ephemeral steam

2008-10-21T00:49:00.005+01:00

Thank you very much. I'm fine but I feel lonely.

What constitute loneliness? Is it having a bowl of cereal at 2:00 am whilst my friends (who also happen to be my housemates) are fast asleep upstairs? Or this feeling of dread towards my cold bed? Maybe it's not having a family to turn to? Or just anyone else for that matter?

I try to shout for help but the alter ego within me stifles my cry and tells me to deal with it like the strong man he is.

Half an hour later and I'm standing under a scalding hot shower. Mesmerized by the rivulets of water running down my torso, I drift away with the ephemeral steam.

Is Man inherently lonely? The fact that we're social animals must surely open up the possibility of us being lonely. My guess is, more often than not, if not always.

I very much doubt that loneliness is dependent on the number of social connections one has. I think it all boils down to how well another person knows us. But is it possible to know or understand another person completely? A single entity of firing neurones and fiery passions in its entirety?

I don't think it's at all possible; not with a long-standing partner, or even family. But if this is indeed the case, then aren't we all a sorry bunch of lonely bastards?

Cephas tells me that my loneliness stems from thinking too much - which is little consolation - and my acute perception of this loneliness which most people apparently do not notice. But my reassurance comes from the subtle suggestion that he might have reached the very same realization himself.

Si Phan Don - Don Khone

2008-08-14T22:00:00.000+01:00

Railway hike following the old rail bed

Rusting locomotives at the abandoned rail service yard

Abandoned French loading pier

Cambodia just across the river

which explains the abandoned loading pier and railway line: someone must've thought it a good idea to have a loading pier facilitating trade across or along the river and then distribute the goods via train to the surrounding area. Or vice versa. And when the French left, they took away its dreams of development with them - probably for the better.

Si Phan Don - Don Det

2008-08-14T21:49:00.000+01:00

Day four on Don Det. The reason why I've not written anything at all for the past three days was because I decided to take a break from everything upon my arrival here on this island. No rushing, no writing, no thinking even. I told myself that I'd recuperate from my wounds and injuries; recharge and recover my energy; rest and relax from my adventures thus far.

Si Phan Don, literally translated to the 'Four Thousand Islands' greeted me with rain falling from low dark clouds and sullen tourists in windbreakers leaving the islands. I'd heard that southern Laos is the wetest part of the country. I thought, 'Maybe I expected too much from it after having been told of its wonders.' I couldn't have been more wrong. Approaching the islands by boat, the relative movements of the boat on the river causes the illusion that the islands themselves were floating downriver.

This far upriver, the Mekong flows with fast strong currents to its distant delta in southern Vietnam. Its surface is disturbed and half-submerged trees try their best to stand upright - the remains of islands drowned by the rising water level during the rainy season now as the river carries melted snow from the Tibetan mountains.

The constant murmur and gurgle of the river fills the cool air. And I mean cool - it's the first time I've ever had to use a blanket during sleep. There is no need for fans as the cool breeze blows into the wooden bungalow (which I've rented) through windows and the door (which I leave ajar) as well as floorboards beneath which the river runs and laps at the stilts and bank.

Life here is idyllic, perfect even. I wake to a glorious sunrise and the (less pleasant) rev of rocketboats on their way to the market at Ban Nakasang across the river or Don Khong further upriver. The rest of the day is filled with reading (which I've contradictorily) allowed myself on the hammock hung in the balcony interspersed with short breaks of taking in the view of the river that ultimately end in short naps.

When I'm hungry, I eat. When I'm bored, I take long walks along the muddy trail circumventing the island or the rocky path bisecting the island. The former takes you past wooden houses on stilts where chicks run behind their mother hen, where ducks and cows graze in what tiny patches of grass there are, and piglets and boar-lets are tied to coconut trees. The latter takes you through emerald green paddy fields where adolescent boys drive oxen to plough their fields and children help their parents plant young paddy shoots.

Here, I feel like Maugham's Lotus Eater. I don't think his failed suicide was a reflection of his inability to make tough decisions after having liver a life without them. I think he realized that life was just too good and he couldn't bear to leave it for the uncertainties of death.

In the evening, the women go down to the river to do their laundry. Little boys bring their small boats made of bamboo with makeshift propellers of elastic bands and flat sticks down to the river to play. As the sun dips even lower in the evening sky, everyone heads down to the river to bathe: stark naked children and sarong-clothed adults.

With the setting of the sun, the islands are plunged into darkness. There is no electricity supply to the island but farmers and bungalow landlords have installed generators to generate electricity for a short while into the night to prepare for bed. Nights here are oh-so-humid but for the cool breeze from the river. Some are characterized by heavy monsoon storms with strong winds, brilliant flashes of lightning and the crashing of thunder as the rain falls noisily on the river and the tin roof.

Here, the people wake with the rising of the sun and sleep with the setting of the sun. Their days are a neverending cycle of fieldwork and other related housekeeping chores. There is no sense of time; only a rough reckoning based on the position of the sun and the growling of stomachs.

It is absolutely perfect here. The place is gorgeous, the weather just right and life here is simple, basic. If I didn't leave today, I would never ever leave. Somewhere on this island is a guesthouse with a signboard saying, 'Welcome to Paradise,' and true enough, here at Si Phan Don, I've found a piece of paradise on earth. I promised that I'd return again someday and I definitely will.

Dong Kralor - border crossing

2008-08-11T13:09:00.000+01:00

Stung Treng shyness

2008-08-10T22:03:00.000+01:00

Kampong Cham to Stung Treng via Kratie

2008-08-10T20:48:00.000+01:00

Today has been nothing short of an adventure (of sorts). It all began when I met two Israelis also on their way to Laos and decided to travel with them. Looking back, I'm still not sure if it was a good or bad idea.

Bad idea. One of them was simply unbearable: a big brutish bully; spoilt, rude and foul-tempered. Everything had to be done his way and if he couldn't get it, he'd throw a violent tantrum, hurl obscene insults in English and Hebrew as well as physically threaten anyone involved.

Traveling with him was an unpleasant experience but to be associated with a person such as himself made me feel absolutely terrible. Doesn't he know that getting angry won't get him anywhere in this part of the world? Written in retrospect: he developed malaria overnight at Stung Treng. Karma's a bitch, but for once, I'm not complaining.

Good idea. The other guy, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. Certainly more brains than brawn; he was soft-spoken and mild-mannered with a calm and rational mind. Talking with him was a pleasure as he was also quite well-travelled and had strong opinions on the places he had visited so far.

***

Kratie

Upon arriving at Kampong Cham, we tried to get to Stung Treng on the very same day. Asking around, we were told that it was impossible as the last bus had just left. Desperate not to stay at Kampong Cham any longer, we bargained hard with a taxi driver to drive us all the way to Stung Treng via Kratie for US$80. Yes, I shared a taxi with four other passengers - the driver found two other local passengers to cut down the cost. In the end, we had two sitting in the front passenger seat with us three at the back. This trip to Kratie lasted four hours.

At Kratie, we had to change taxis: this time with a total of seven passengers. Three in front, four at the back. This was one of the longest two hours in my entire life.

***

Passing through the Cambodian countryside is weird: the further we drove away from towns, the more wild and untamed the countryside became. Cultivated fields give way to wild grass. Houses become sparse and cars morph into buffalo-driven carts. Every now and then, village people can be seen herding their cows across the road. Like being home in a dream - surreal.

Angkor National Museum

2008-08-09T21:38:00.000+01:00

Like the Cambodian Museum, I highly recommend the Angkor National Museum before you visit the Angkorian temples, especially if you're not planning on hiring a tourguide. It's a bit pricey, but you pay what you get for: a really luxurious building with spacey exhibition galleries. the halls are air-conditioned, offering respite from the heat and the amount of information is just right - not too much to overwhelm you but not too little not to learn about anything. Information on the Khmer civilization , its religion and rulers as well as its culture are disseminated by excellent use of multimedia. You'll definitely spend more than two hours here.

Beijing Olympic Games

2008-08-08T23:12:00.000+01:00

If anything, the opening ceremony of the 29th Olympic Games in Beijing was a blatant show of China's nigh-unlimited resource of human talent. If China were to build the Great Pyramids of Giza, they'd easily succeed. After years of imperialism - of being bullied and being looked down upon, China has finally had enough and is now unleashing its true potential.

Ok, so maybe I'm glossing over the nitty gritty details of China's human rights record - e.g. the pageant of 55 children dressed in traditional costumes of the officially recognized ethnic minorities of China over a backdrop of the government's efforts to decimate these minorities. But come on, a total of over 15000 performers - Wow!

As an aside, it was very interesting to watch the Parade of Nations. To me, it reflected the current political makeup of the world - specifically Korea fielding two separate teams, Taiwan walking under the banner of 'China Taipei' and Hong Kong having its own contingent.

In the distance, I spot the Malaysian flag and I sit up in anticipation. (Apparently, the countries are ordered according to the number of strokes in the first character of their names in simplified Chinese.) But my excitement is shortlived when I realize that the Malaysian contingent is dressed in baju Melayu and baju kurung of the royal golden-yellow hue.

I was in Malaysia just a few weeks ago and last I checked, it was still a multi-racial country. Athletes from other contingents were allowed to wear their own traditional costume. Take for example the Libyan contingent. If not, blazers are appropriate, not to mention smart. Look at the Singaporean contingent. Or even the hot Lithuanian team with their polo-tees and khaki shorts. Funny that. Come on, even a batik shirt with slacks would do better.

The last thing I want to do is to judge my own country with the standards of other countries. But when people assume that I've forsaken my homeland and ask me why I've adopted the British accent and lifestyle, this is why. Before you judge me, you might want to stop yourself to think - because maybe I care about my country more than you do.

Hot Lithuanians!

Roluos - Preah Ko

2008-08-08T17:57:00.000+01:00

Roluos - Bakong

2008-08-08T16:49:00.000+01:00

Roluos - Lolei

2008-08-08T15:40:00.000+01:00

Bang

2008-08-08T11:29:00.000+01:00

The ominous rumbling of a large vehicle behind me - probably a bus carting off tourists to Angkor Wat for the sunrise. Its powerful headlights light up the dark road before me instead of my weak dynamo-powered bicycle lamp. The furious roar of its engine. A loud bang and a violent jolt.

You know what they say about your whole life flashing before your very eyes just before you die? It's bullshit. Revisiting the incident, all I could think of whilst flying through the air was to stay alive. Seconds later and thump I'm on the road. Instinct tells me to breathe after having the air completely knocked out of me but the force of the impact still has my body in shock. With some effort, I manage a small gulp of air, like a gasping fish out of water. Auto-pilot takes over and I scramble to the side of the road to avoid the oncoming traffic.

Within an hour, I'm being rushed to a hospital. The sound of an ambulance's siren is not strange to me but hearing it from inside an ambulance itself, especially after being placed on a stretcher like they do on television, is surreal.

White fluorescent light on white ceiling. Beige walls. Sterile. The doctor wants to administer an anaesthetic. I refuse for many reasons: the cost (I'm not insured), the HIV scare in Cambodia and the fact that pain tells me I'm still alive. As they clean my wounds, I grip the bed railings so hard that they start to rattle.

This is where the true Cambodian spirit reveals itself and thank goodness they live up to their name. Whilst lying on the ground, I saw the bus carry on down the road and I thought the driver was going to pull a hit-and-run. Thankfully, he stopped and other motorists stopped to help. The tourist police was very helpful but I found the guy from the insurance company to be the most helpful, surprisingly. Maybe it was because I could've filed a lawsuit but didn't. All I wanted was the company to pay for the medical fees and the rented bicycle which was wrecked - (which they did). I just wanted it all to be over and done with. Besides, you can't set a price on everything: on the pain I'll have to endure? On the missed sunrise and wasted time? On distress and shock? On limbs or life itself? Ridiculous. I get further with an apology.

Looking back on the accident, I was awfully lucky. The angle of my front wheel could have been different or the vector of the force with which I was hit could have been different, and I would've been flying to the middle of the road in the path of the bus itself. I could've been decapitated, my head smashed against the front of the bus with brain splattered all over like the watermelon in seatbelt or safety helmet advertisements. The irony being that I wasn't wearing a helmet either.

Oh how weak and fragile our bodies are? Pathetic. How insignificant and puny our lives? Like the scene of the video I saw at the Reunification Palace: gun to head, bang, falls down to knees, dead. Next scene. Moving on. All I can see in my mind's eye is a candle flame. Exposed. Blow. Out. Blown out. Snuffed out. Just like that. Poof.

The thing is; everyone's going to die and to be honest, we can't control the way we die (naturally). So is there any point in trying our best to live when it's actually this hard?

I've not broken any bones. My lungs did not collapse. But I've yet to analyse any psychological effect this accident might have on my mental state. I hope it's nothing serious, if not permanent.

Angkor - Pre Rup

2008-08-07T17:06:00.000+01:00

So I've been cycling for five days now and I'm thinking, 'Enough is enough.'

Firewood

2008-08-07T16:02:00.000+01:00

So I'm cycling to Preah Kahn when these two little girls by the side of the road call out to me. Replying their call, I carry on with my journey. Cycling back from Preah Kahn, I see them again: this time with firewood stacked on the back seat of their bike. This is what always gets to me.

Angkor - Preah Kahn

2008-08-07T14:55:00.000+01:00

Preah Kahn is a must-see only because it's supposedly similar to Ta Prom. However, whilst most of Ta Prom has been left to the mercy of nature with many of its structures a mere collection of large stones, Preah Kahn has undergone a lot of conservation work.

As a result, you get a good rough idea of how these temples would look like back in the days of its glory: a long symmetrical rectangular arrangement of pillared galleries and covered shrines. In fact, almost the entire part of the temple is roofed, plunging most of the temple into semi-darkness or even complete darkness where the windows - mere squares in the wall - are absent. Goodness knows how they lit up the place: candles probably.

Angkor - Neak Pean

2008-08-07T13:52:00.000+01:00

Neak Pean is definitely one of my favourite sites. It's not even a temple, I don't think. It's basically a circular mound of stairs leading up to a shrine built in the shape of a tower. The whole structure rises up from the middle of a square hollow lined with steps. This centrepiece itself is surrounded by four other smaller and shallower but otherwise similar square hollows at each of the four compass directions.

In the past, when Angkor was the capital of the Khmer empire, every one of these hollows would have been filled with water - sacred water even. Today of course, they've all dried up and are now covered with grass. It would be prettier if they were still filled with water. And although these pools must have served a religious purpose back then, I can imagine this place being a hotspot for local children to swim in during the evenings.

I like this place because it's not a very popular site and tourists are countable with my fingers. It's so quiet and peaceful here. Ta Prom would have undoubtedly been my favourite if not for the hordes of tourists.

Angkor - Ta Som

2008-08-07T11:48:00.000+01:00

Angkor - Ta Prom

2008-08-07T10:06:00.000+01:00

Ta Prom: where Man and Nature engage in a battle for supremacy.

Angkor Wat and many of the other popular tourist sites are the result of decades of conservation effort - trees and undergrowth have been cleared, walls and roofs cleaned of moss, and structures have been restored or completely rebuilt.

Here, trees grow everywhere: on the walkways and in the courtyards, on walls and even on the roof of the temple. Their enormous roots search out every crevice, grow long and deep, cracking and breaking up slabs of stone in courtyards and causing walls and structures to collapse. A slow but definitely steady process of destruction.

There is a lesson to learn from Ta Prom: the impermanent nature of existence - both the works of Man or the fruits of Nature. Man set out to conquer Nature when the Khmers undertook the task of building their great city here at Angkor. After their decline and subsequent abandonment of the area, Nature sought to reclaim what was once hers. Now, conservation work is being carried out and it seems as if Man has won once again. But for how long more? One thing's for certain: not forever.

Breakfast at Bayon

2008-08-07T07:47:00.000+01:00

Breakfast in front of Bayon again. It's cheap here so I cycled from Angkor Wat to see if it's open. It's not, so I made my way to Ta Prohm. Only a few metres ahead, the same girl calls out to me on the opposite side of the road on her bicycle heading towards her stall. She recognises me and I her.

There, I hear the music again and tracing its source, I come upon a house on stilts where the monk who resides there invites me in for a look. Inside, little children from the countryside were learning to play instruments.

Angkor - Angkor Wat III

2008-08-07T06:36:00.000+01:00

Sitting by the northwestern baray, there's a sort of earthly peace as the sun slowly rises above the towers of Angkor Wat. Somewhere in the distance, traditional Khmer music - similar to the one I heard at the Royal Palace - floats on the early morning breeze. In the gloom just before the break of dawn, the priests carry out their ablutions. With their prayers, they celebrate the dawning of a new day.

Angkor - Angkor Wat II

2008-08-06T17:42:00.000+01:00

Angkor - Ta Keo

2008-08-06T17:39:00.000+01:00

Angkor - Royal Terraces

2008-08-06T16:33:00.000+01:00

Angkor - Baphuon

2008-08-06T16:25:00.000+01:00

Angkor - Bayon

2008-08-06T14:15:00.000+01:00

Lost in Bayon: a collection of stone courtyards enclosed by pillared galleries decorated with bas-relief. Despite being symmetrically arranged in the shape of a square, I lose my sense of direction amidst the identical pillars and similar galleries. Different landings throw me off even more. And everywhere I look, I see the smiling face of Jayavarman II on any of the four sides of towers crowning the galleries, shrines, corners and centres - all leading to the central circular edifice. There's nothing enigmatic about his smile: he knows the secret of immortality.

***

These fxckxng huge edifices of stone towering towards the heavens are simply astounding. Built to honour the gods, they're truly something.

Towering towards the heavens, they leave men behind and their insignificant puny little lives behind. A testimony of the greatness of their gods and the blessings they've bestowed upon mankind.

Up here, the constant cool wind is a blessing, a respite from the merciless and oppressive heat. Up here, I see and know all.

***

Cycling around Angkor Wat and its immediate surroundings within the inner circuit, its immense size yet minuscule detail is stupefying. To give you an idea: the moats here are as wide and long as rivers and distances are measured in kilometres; each pillar, wall and ceiling are methodically decorated with bas reliefs depicting religious themes or mythical creatures and floral motives. I can't help but imagine how this place must've been at the height of the Khmer civilization. Its glory during the Angkorian period must've rivalled that of the Old Kingdom of Ancient Egypt.

To have built such magnificent monuments, the Khmers must've been very rich and powerful. Just think of the many labourers conscripted to clear the land, dig the moat, work the quarries and cart everything to this site before putting them in place. Such numbers only occur during times of peace. With such great numbers, the Khmers could take advantage of the Tonle Sap's potential to irrigate other wide fields. The kings must've been very rich as well to be able to support these labourers together with the stonemasons and artisans including sculptors and artists and painters. Resources would be brought from the far reaches of its empire or imported from distant lands. And such high form of art could only have developed in times of long peace.

Angkor - Angkor Wat I

2008-08-06T11:29:00.000+01:00

Angkor - Phnom Bakkeng

2008-08-05T21:50:00.001+01:00

The Cambodian countryside is very much like that of the Mekong delta: flat plains being used as farmland as far as the eye can see. However, instead of the many rivers fanning out from the Mekong to irrigate its delta, ditches have been built to bring water from Tonle Sap. Pol Pot may have been right: the Extraordinary Great Leap Forward could possibly happen if it were to be carried out properly.

***

The bulk of tourists starts to leave Phnom Bakkeng by climbing down the steep, small steps of the temple situated at the crown of the hill. Thank god. It was as if god had decided to flood the earth for forty days and forty nights again and climbing little Phnom Bakkeng would save their sorry lives. Like helpless little ants on an anthill we were.

But come on, what's the point of climbing Phnom Bakkeng to catch the sunset if you're not even going to stay for it. I mean, a low sun in the sky is not a sunset. It's a setting sun. Notice: noun vs. verb.

Only a few of us remain, waiting patiently for that brief window of time just after the sun dips completely below the horizon and throws its final rays of dying red. Some sit and enjoy this new peace and quiet. Others the view. The rest update their journals. Ironically, it was a disappointing sunset in the end due to low clouds on the horizon. Oh well, it happens.

Within minutes, the hill is plunged into utter darkness and climbing down the hill becomes almost impossible as the trail disappears just two feet in front of me. I'm the last to leave and suddenly, I get a loneliness attack.

Cycling very slowly back, I try to rationalize things out: Humans are said to be social animals but does that mean that we *need* to be sociable? A need to dispel loneliness? Back at the hostel, the din of the bar falls behind me as I climb the stairs onto the balcony to see the stars - it's one of those nights. Perfect.

Phnom Penh III

2008-08-04T18:06:00.000+01:00

Boeng Kak Lake

I visited the backpackers' area by the banks of Boeng Kak Lake. It's a beautiful lake covered with aquatic plants on its surface. Many hostels have extended their bars over the lake by means of floating platforms and boats: an excellent place to catch the sunset. But what with all the tourists around, prices must be sky high. Plus, no way am I going to sleep in a room filled with mosquitoes.

Boeng Kak Lake

The same goes for the riverside with its upscale bistros and bars as well as high-end cafes and restaurants.

Riverside

I really like the place I'm currently staying. It's not very far from the centre. And with a nearby market, it's so easy to get cheap local food. Plus, no bugs at night.

Russian market

Tuol Sleng

2008-08-04T16:02:00.000+01:00

It's just like any other school - except for the dense barbed wires above the encircling walls. As a prison, it used to be enclosed by double walls made out of corrugated iron. Walking around the deserted school grounds, I hear the chatter and laughter of students during recess. Entering the empty classrooms, I hear lessons being conducted.

Seeing the beds in the classrooms and the accompanying photographs showing prisoners chained to them cause my body to tremble. In an attempt to compose myself, I clench my fists and jaw. I'm not even sure of my current state of emotion: anger, pity, sadness, disbelief, shock, revulsion, disgust. Neither am I certain to what or whom am I directing such powerful feelings: the prisoners, the perpetrators; or the brutalities of civil war, the horrors that mankind can conceive; or the fact that it was once a school, a paedogogical institution turned into a torture complex of fear - where prisoners were hung from the very same bars that students used to play with.

It's just like any other school. It could've been any other school. It could've been my school. It could've been the regime of my country. It could've been my time.

A whole floor of classrooms has been dedicated to the mugshots of prisoners interred in this prison - a surreal collection of expressions. Men, women, adults, children, the elderly: whole families of suspected anti-revolutionaries. Some smiles of people oblivious or ignorant to their fate. A few defiant glares initially aimed at the perpetrators, now seeking recrimination for the wrong done to them. Many sad and fearful faces hoping for their eternal peace by telling us their story. And fear, fear of what's to come... Mostly vacant stares as if their very lives had been snuffed out as soon as they had resigned to their fate.

Despite its age, a mugshot so vivid I could see the tears welling up in his eyes. Another so clear I can make out the silhouette of the photographer in her big clear eyes. It could've been my mugshot up there amongst them. What would my expression be?

A classroom dedicated to the accounts of the perpetrators and it's Milgram all over again. It's easy to judge and condemn but harder to answer what I would do myself if put in a similar situation: to survive on the sufferings and deaths of my brethren or to die without even the certainty that I've spared the lives of others. I'm just glad I've never had to make such a decision.

A one-hour video show later and I realize: it wasn't a very long time ago. Middle-aged adults today probably lost their families and lived their childhoods in fear and terror through the Khmer Rouge regime. Many today are still searching for family members and loved ones who were displaced or went missing during that time. Others are still unsure as to whether they should seek recrimination. And that is why Cambodia stagnates: unsure of cremating the remains of victims, setting their spirits free and forgetting all wrongs; or preserving the memory as proof of the injustice done to them in the Cambodian Crimes Court.

Step 2: Understand

Choeng Ek Memorial

2008-08-04T11:47:00.001+01:00

I sit in the shadow of the stupa looming up before me. The Choeng Ek Memorial houses almost 9000 human skulls of the innocent people who died under Pol Pot's Khmer Rouge regime. With skulls grouped in age groups of 0-20, 20-40, 40-60 and above, there's surely no better place to study human anatomy and development. In the quiet of the early morning, their empty orbital sockets stare back at me. Hollow. Lifeless. Death.

Their mandibles are missing. But if we could find them and piece them back to their correct skulls; and if they could then speak, they'd shock the world with their stories: of being bound and blindfolded, of the brutal massacre of entire families and themselves by blows with farming tools. All that remains now of their stories are the cracks, holes and dents in their skulls - a blow by a hoe, a hatchet, a shovel perhaps - but I'm no crime scene investigator.

A fellow tourist slides up to me quietly from behind - obviously trying not to disturb me from my thoughts. She makes me jump right out of my skin and my heart stops beating momentarily as I suppress a loud curse. We both start laughing and the oppressive weight lifts for a while.

At the back of the memorial, tourists have left messages on scraps of paper wishing the victims eternal peace and promising that their deaths will never be forgotten. Back at the front, a bus-load of Korean tourists arrive and start laughing whilst taking photos of themselves in death poses - a mockery and a show of disrespect to the gruesome deaths here. To move on or to revisit the past? How does one answer such a question nearly 30 years since?

I leave my own message written on a piece of paper torn out from this very journal. Step 1: Know.

***

The fields are dotted with hollows - sites of excavated mass graves where the bones were uncovered - now overgrown with grass and weeds. The area of unexcavated graves is now overgrown with small low trees and shrubs even. To move on or to revisit?

Around the fields, pieces of cloth can be seen, half buried in the earth. I tread around them carefully, shuddering at the thought that they might have belonged to the victims.

What should be done with the physical evidence of the dead? Should the bones be cremated in accordance with Buddhist principles? Or should the mass graves and bones serve as visual evidence to the atrocities committed; functioning as a testimony to the crimes of the Khmer Rouge? In short, how could a community convey countless instances of inhumanity while being culturally, religiously and individually sensitive?

Phnom Penh II

2008-08-03T18:45:00.002+01:00

Independent Monument

Cambodia is such a different place from Vietnam. The language is different - both written and spoken. Their histories are also different.

In my opinion, Vietnam's progress - albeit slow - is partially due to the fact that there was an ultimate victor in the Vietnam War. Here in Cambodia, there never was a victor: their government is a coalition which must make decision-making slightly more difficult (although not impossible).

And this sense of stalemate exudes from Phnom Penh - the whole city festers in it. A stagnating city where its citizens apparently don't seem to care less whilst its rulers still wage an ongoing war.

Cambodian National Museum

2008-08-03T16:31:00.000+01:00

If you are at a complete loss when it comes to Hinduism or Buddhism or Khmer mythology, this is the place to visit before you move on to Angkor Wat. The Cambodian Museum is an excellent repository of Khmer art and sculpture - displaced from Angkorian temples all over the country by whatever means (usually pillage).

Now, I can at least distinguish the statues of their main deities Vishnu, Bhrama and Siva. And I have a rough introduction to the Reamker: the Khmer interpretation of the Ramayana which is depicted on the murals of the walls encircling the Silver Pagoda. I'm not sure if they differ but I wouldn't be surprised if it does in subtleties.

Phnom Penh I

2008-08-03T13:03:00.000+01:00

Imperial Palace

Unlike Hanoi, Phnom Penh has a regal atmosphere about it - a worthy capital of a nation descended from the great Khmer civilization. Khmer architecture itself is the very embodiment of majesty from the elaborately adorned tiered-roofs of the palace to the tall spires of the many temples dotting the city. Its wide boulevards become the centre of activity in the evenings when people turn up for a stroll or a jog, exercise or play sports, or even just sit and chat with friends. for a drink from a vendor and a chat with friends. Statues watch protectively over the people and monuments confer the last aesthetic touches upon the city.

Central Market

However, its poverty is also simultaneously evident: derelict shophouses doubling up as homes can be found just behind the royal palace - a stark contrast to the grandeur and extravagance of the palace. Children without shoes and clothes play in the dirt and mud whilst their parents try to make a living by whatever means possible - behaviours hardly befitting of such an imperial city.

Phnom Wat

Stagnant. The royal palace and temples give the impression of time having stopped in this land - when the great and glorious Khmers were still at the height of their power, still adorning the land with great monuments. But the same is true of the other side of the penny. 'Stagnant' is quite a good word - as if the city were neither falling back into obscurity nor progressing forward from its poverty.

Boat into Cambodia

2008-08-02T19:13:00.000+01:00

I'm currently sitting on the roof of the boat. From up here, the Mekong river is one wide expanse of water. It's not difficult to see how this great river supports the whole of Indochine (to borrow the French word). Along the river, villages encroach timidly upon its banks. Little bridges straddle little tributaries that drain into the Mekong; like gates into another world of small villages.

Louis and Martinez (who were also couchsurfing at Steve's while I was there) take out their guitars and entertain us with a mix of English and Spanish songs as we pass the morning by. The engine roars deafeningly - so loud that I can't even think. It causes the boat to shudder and vibrate beneath me. The other tourists can't stand it. Myself? It doesn't particularly bother me. At least now I can concentrate on the view.

At every passing village, children run out of their houses right up to the edge of the riverbank to wave at us. As we wave back, their smiles grow from ear to ear. Some jump up and down excitably whilst others dance around maniacally. The commotion causes the adults to pause at whatever it is they're doing: fishing, mending nets and boats, washing clothes and utensils, or preparing dinner. I guess being this far away from anything, a boat-load of tourists must provide some respite from the monotony of their lives.

As dusk approaches, young herders lead their cows down to the river. The scorching heat gives way to a gentle cool as both man and animal bathe in the calming waters of the river.

***

A white crack of lightning and it starts to pour. A five-second run for cover and I'm drenched. My first instinct is to save my journal - funny. In the van, we pass smooth green fields by. The distant woods are shrouded in mist and it isn't hard to imagine a mysterious ancient civilization hidden in such a beguiling country.

Cham minority village

2008-08-02T11:20:00.000+01:00

Having grown up in an Islamic country, there's something reassuring about seeing a mosque or a headscarf or a songkok in a foreign land. A few years ago, when I was studying in a government - and therefore, Islamic but masked by the word 'Malay' - college, my teachers and friends had told me that it was wrong to greet them in the Muslim way. Looking back on those years, I'm disgusted at my naivete for having thought it acceptable to say such things and horrified that it happened in my very backyard as it were. Isn't such exclusivity the cause of today's many conflicts?

Today, I greeted the imam of the mosque with an 'Assalamualaikum.' He smiled at me and replied, 'Waalaikumsalam.'

Chau Doc floating village

2008-08-02T09:05:00.000+01:00

Chau Doc III

2008-08-02T06:03:00.000+01:00

So this morning, I woke up like, really early to catch the sunrise and all, which was ok, I guess. And I had breakfast by the side of the road as usual. And I was eating my noodles when I picked up a piece of meat with my chopsticks and I went like, 'Oh my god! Is that a mesentery? Like eww!' I'm usually up for crazy stuff but I didn't feel like intestine this morning - not from any animal. So I pushed the intestine and possibly liver and kidneys aside. As I left, I think the lady was laughing at me so I flipped my hair at her as I walked away.

Chau Doc II

2008-08-01T20:33:00.001+01:00

Much like the lazy brown waters of Hau Giang river on which the town straddles, Chau Doc moves about with a slow pace. Traffic is almost non-existent with hardly anyone rushing. Sellers conduct business at the market and shops almost lethargically. In the evenings, people sit or stroll along the riverside promenade whilst youngsters practise martial arts. It feels as if Time decided to stop somewhere along its tracks and kept rewinding and replaying itself. It's the perfect place to unwind, relax and recuperate.

***

Traveling on your own, you get to meet all sorts of people like Dung (pronounced 'yum') with hair up to her knees. She speaks Malay, Mandarin, English and Vietnamese and I find it such an honour to be able to converse with her. For three hours, we spoke about many things: about herself, her dreams, her thoughts, her three years spent working in Malaysia, myself, my hopes, my thoughts on the Vietnamese. I told her of my confusion over the Vietnamese and she explained to me that the Vietnamese "simply have big hearts": it's why they're so resilient. It's a real pleasure - meeting people like her along the way who lighten up the path that I've decided to take.

***

The air is humid - very humid. So humid that the sweat doesn't evaporate from my skin but forms a thin glistening layer. The little bugs that only come out when it's about to pour swarm about the white fluorescent light next to me. They reflect the light like a million fireflies. They fall around me like snowflakes but I carry on eating. If they drop into my bowl of noodles, I push them out. If I miss them, they get eaten. They're hardly poisonous I don't think. I think most people would freak out but I carry on eating. It starts to drizzle. I finish my meal and pay the vendor. An early night tonight.

Banh Mi

2008-08-01T15:19:00.000+01:00

I brave the drizzle and puddly roads in my slippers for lunch. What is it about growing up and our obsession with keeping our feet clean? Note to self: must go for a jog in the rain through muddy fields when back in Cambridge.

***

I muster enough courage to try Banh Mi for the first time ever (and possibly the last unless I can find it outside of Vietnam). Reasons why I've never tried it so far:

Everything - bread, meat, vegetables - is handled with bare hands
There is no element of heating (cooking) involved
The whole thing is wrapped in newspaper and placed in a plastic bag

...It's actually really good! Now to wait and see if I fall sick.

***

Yay! the rain has stopped and I'm not sick.

Chau Doc I

2008-08-01T12:22:00.001+01:00

It's lovely here in the Mekong delta town of Chau Doc - so much so that I've decided to spend another day here. I need to remind myself that there's absolutely no rush at all. Besides, I really should gather as much information as I can about my boat trip to Phnom Penh before I commit to anything.

I've got really nice accommodation too - my own room with two king-size beds and my very own similarly-sized balcony. The bathroom is out on the landing but because my room is the only one up here and it's the highest floor, no one ever comes up here so I basically have the whole floor to myself. The view up here is good too: it faces away from the river but I can peek over the side to get a view of it.

It's currently raining, which blows, because I got up late and decided to skip breakfast. So now I can't get lunch or look around town. I also had to bring in my clothes which were drying out on the balcony. But the overall effect is calming and in some ways, surprisingly reassuring. I don't think I could've asked for more: rain in the Mekong delta. I do hope everything clears up soon though and it'll all be beautiful after the rain.

Mekong delta

2008-07-31T19:29:00.001+01:00

There's no way roads in inner Southeast Asia are worse than those in the Mekong delta. No fucking way. A six-hour ride on literally non-existent roads for more than half of the journey - alternating between a hardly smooth surface of large rocks and deep potholes with dusty paths and muddy tracks. And whoever designed these roads clearly never thought about the gradual incline to and from bridges.

I'm surprised my stomach withstood it all despite a lunch of soup noodles - even the conductor stuck her head out of the window to throw up. Irony: foundations of new tarred roads and wide bridges being laid down parallel to the 'road' we were on throughout the entire journey by labourers.

The Mekong delta is bewildering even when viewed at sea level - what more from above. It's one wide expanse of lowland divided erratically into little islands by the Mekong river which fans out into the region. There are no mountains to behold, just flat farmland as far as the eye can see - obscured by tall trees every now and then.

Throughout the journey, we cross countless bridges spanning the little tributaries of the Mekong river, bordered by little villages that live off them. At the ferry crossing, the land looks as if it had been torn asunder and the sea rushed into the gash and churned up the silt to form the great brown river.

The harvest season must've just ended. The fields are mostly bare and the smog and the smell of smoke in the air suggest the burning of chaff. I see more churches here - apparently thanks to the missionaries who tried to save the poor souls of the tribes who live in godlessness far away from the civilization of big cities. Development is approaching, slow, but everywhere you go, you see the sign of the New Messiah.

So I'm sitting in this bus, and I'm thinking, 'This is going to be worse than Chongqing and Dazu.' There, at least I had a map (not for Dazu) and I could probably save my life with Chinese. But here, I don't have a map and I speak only three phrases of Vietnamese. This is going to be hard and will most likely be the toughest leg of this trip this time around.

The thing about sunsets is that they're very brief. The sun puts on its show just within that small window of a few minutes; just before it dips completely below the horizon, throwing red splashes all over the darkening sky. And for a brief moment, it's all over and the world is plunged into darkness.

Ho Chi Minh City Museum

2008-07-30T16:36:00.000+01:00

Reunification Palace

2008-07-30T13:22:00.001+01:00

Visiting the Reunification Palace and the Ho Chi Minh City Museum has been an enlightening experience. Ho Chi Minh City's take on the Vietnam war is a refreshing change from that of Hanoi. Coming from the capital city of the defeated faction in the civil war, it is also a more informative and interesting perspective.

I think it's fair to say that Vietnam's history is unique. Throughout its history, it has always faced the threat of invasion by foreign powers: the imperial Chinese dynasties of Qin, Han and Ming; the Mongolians under Kublai; as well as the French and American imperialists. And they have always fought back for their freedom and sovereignty. Although they have not always prevailed, this nationalistic fervour seems to have bridled under the surface like embers waiting for the right conditions to fan into a blazing fire of vengeance.

And this is why I don't understand the Vietnamese. After having gone through such a turbulent past, you'd have expected it to show in their behaviour whether in their ferocity in handling business, or their suspiciousness towards foreigners, or even a certain roughness in their speech. But instead, you find the opposite in the Vietnamese. If anything, they appear to have a blase attitude towards everything.

I spoke to Kiet about this and he thinks it's because the Vietnamese knows there's nothing that can be done but to try their best to keep on surviving. There's nothing they can do about the war, but there's certainly something they can do to save themselves. And that's how they persevere.

Forgive me but I don't think this is true. Being fatalistic does not cause a people to unite and build Ho Chi Minh's Trail, or even dig the Cu Chi Tunnels or win the Vietnam war. Being fatalistic only lets you survive for a little while longer.

After two weeks in Vietnam, her people still intrigue me.

War Remnants Museum

2008-07-29T16:18:00.000+01:00

The War Remnants Museum is an excellent museum - and not just because of its detailed English captions. As its name suggests, it houses - as part of its exhibits - a collection of US fighter planes, tanks, artillery and bombs. Small mention is made on the Indochina war with the French but the stress lay more on the (second) Vietnam war.

My favourite exhibit has to be the exhibit dedicated to the photojournalists who risked their lives to bring us such vivid photographs of a war even before my time, which now serve to remind me of unfortunate times. Aside from the informative captions, their photographs are also accompanied by excerpts from their journals, writings, books or interviews (those who survived). I don't think I've ever been moved by such an exhibition before.

What I like about this musum is the lack of outright recriminations (except for one exhibit). Instead, its exhibits sue for peace and act as a reminder to all so that history is not repeated. Even the emblem of the museum bears a white dove in the foreground. Sure, it's not entirely neutral but I find the exhibits on chemical (Agent Orange) warfare and the brutality of war to innocent civilians a warning to the horrors of any war.

Couchsurfing Saigon

2008-07-28T18:57:00.000+01:00

Meet Steve. He's a high-school graduate from Canada. He lives in Ho Chi Minh City with Charlie from Buffalo, Martin from York and Whitney from an undisclosed location. Minh does not live here although she apparently spends more time here than wherever it is she lives. She's Vietnamese but speaks impeccable English and only a smatter of Vietnamese which gives me doubts as to her background.

They all live together in this house, a 45-minute walk from the centre. Their rooms are simple and basic - some with only a mere mattress on the floor. It's a good indication as to how I might possibly live now that I've got a house of my own. They all teach English at private tuition centres around Ho Chi Minh City.

When prompted as to why Ho Chi Minh City, they replied, "This is the life!" What followed was a discussion on the different mindsets between Asians and Caucasians. Steve said it is "more free" here - easier to get a job with his high-school credentials. I've yet to ask whether a 'free-er' job meant a non-'nine-to-five' job or a job that's not the standard professional job as expected of a person who comes from a society that can afford tertiary education or where tertiary education is so easily available.

Giac Lam

2008-07-28T16:27:00.000+01:00

Altar for body remains: The walls are lined with shelves enclosed by glass. Within them are jars in which ashes of the deceased are kept. Some jars are plain and simple, some are carved in the shape of lotus buds, others are ornately decorated with Buddhist themes. Photos are attached to some. And one jar, huddling inconspicuously amongst the rest, displays two photos: ashes of both husband and wife. A love inseparable even by death - a true everlasting love, one that surpasses space and time.

I like this temple very much. It's a true place of worship where prayer is taken seriously: only between Man and God. The front doors are locked and the only way in is through the back. But obviously only if you're familiar to the place of worship (or if you explore it thoroughly).

Most pagodas are seven-stories high. They represent the seven steps to enlightenment or so I read somewhere. And I quite like the whole concept: reaching nirvana by climbing seven-stories of stairs, or in this case, the top where you get a sweeping view of the land, the state of nirvana when one comes to deep understanding.

And what a view, houses spreading in all directions as far as the eye can see. It's like a never-ending Athens. And all around, you hear the noisy sound of traffic and the deafening noise of construction. Even the chanting of monks which filled the entire temple complex are drowned out. It's actually driving me up the wall.