Fairytale

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Railway hike following the old rail bed

Rusting locomotives at the abandoned rail service yard

Abandoned French loading pier

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

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

Stung Treng shyness

Kampong Cham to Stung Treng via Kratie

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

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

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