Tuesday 29th December 2009, 1pm, Dam Sen Water Park, Saigon - Vietnam
I have never seen so may Asian children in my entire life. In fact, scrap that, I have never seen so many children in my entire life. There must be a hundred thousand of them here, 100,000 little Vietnamese faces having the time of their life - school groups and birthday parties, family outings and coach trips full of children, plus 3 very noticeably White, Western, 20-something year olds spending an afternoon's leisure time at Dam Sen Water Park, just outside Ho Chi Minh City. I'm sat in the area marked with the sign 'Where Foreigners Can Sunbathe', so I'm doing as I'm told - a foreign sunbather looking after the bags of my two friends whilst they play in the wave machine. Don't fret though, I'm not being a killjoy, I'm just feeling a tad delicate today due to indulging last night in one of my life's great passions - tequila slammers. I told them to leave me with my notebook for 20 minutes and then I'll be bulldozing Asian children in all directions to get on the water drop zip-wire and the slide flumes.
I thought I would take this opportunity to write about something I have been meaning to for a while. Well, not something, rather someone; the enigmatic 'companion'. It was my intention when first starting this blog that I would not name anyone, it's my choice to write about people, but I thought it would be courteous to allow my blog 'characters' partial anonymity. However, this has proved impossible thus far as I haven't the imagination to create pseudonyms for everyone I meet, and she is understandably such a pivotal part of my life right now that if anyone deserves a name it is her. I have asked her permission to write about her and I think she is quite looking forward to seeing what I have to say. Her one condition was that I don't mention the evening where she returned home unknowingly stoned having drunk a 'Happy Shake' at a restaurant in Sihanoukville and then sat sprawled over the sofa, wide-eyed and grinning like a Cheshire Cat for a good hour whilst I tried to keep her talking just to see what funny things she would come out with when spaced out. So I definitely won't write about that.
Before we decided to spend 7 months of our lives travelling together we had only known each other for 10 weeks. A week after I had made the decision to book my ticket and embark upon this adventure alone, we were introduced by a mutual friend (the same boy who talked me in to coming away - man he has a lot to answer for!) at a pub quiz in The Florist Arms in Bethnal Green. I chatted away about my new life direction, we came 2nd in the quiz and won a pizza, I liked her cardigan and she liked my jewellery, and a week later she sent me a very sweet and nervous e-mail saying that she too wanted to travel, to the same places and at the same time as me, and how would I feel about tagging along together? Evidently I thought this was a brilliant idea. After a few wine-fuelled 'getting to know you' evenings in London we were set, and when we met each other at Koh Samui airport on the 29th November it felt like greeting an old friend; such a relief on that nerve-wracking first evening to have a familiar face in attendance.
We've been living side by side for over a month now, and I couldn't be happier that she had the courage to send the e-mail she did to a relative stranger. So what can I say about her other than that having her here has automatically doubled our wardrobes and halved our rooming costs?! She has buckets of style, her share and mine I think, but this figures as in her previous life she was working as a freelance fashion designer; she prefers 'Womenswear Designer' though because she says that 'Fashion Designer' sounds like one of those unattainable childhood dream job aspirations - but this is her career! Her hair makes me green with envy - down to her waist, golden blonde, naturally dead straight - life is full of injustices but at least she lets me play with it and plait it for her so this is some recompense for my jealousy. She has an unfathomable knowledge of obscure up-and-coming London bands and artists that I have never heard of - yes quelle surprise Grace I hear you say - I am always the last to know about the next big thing and still think that La Roux is the best thing to happen to pop music since Beyonce.
She sometimes forgets what country we're in and speaks Thai to Cambodians and Cambodian to Vietnamese. Personally I find this very endearing, especially when she looks at me, her forehead creased into a frown and says 'where are we?'. She refuses to give up Mojitos even though beer is a fifth of the price (relevant quote time... 'I need to ask the barman two questions. One is about the pitchers. I don't remember the other one.'). She thoughtfully points out babies and puppies that she knows I'll go 'clucky' over and she has the superhero ability to scope out blonde dread-locked Swedish surfer types within a mile radius - if I point out someone I think she will be attracted to she has always already clocked him 15 minutes ago. She is rarely silent because if she's not talking she makes adorable little humming/clicking/hiccupping noises and she has no idea she's doing it until I start mimicking her, she eats a banana pancake in almost every place we go to and then when finished takes on a quiet, contemplative face before giving me a rating and rationalised Pancake Judgement Breakdown, (I believe she is also keeping some kind of deadly serious recorded scoring system for this in her notebook), and if we are running low on toilet roll, instead of saying 'Grace we need to go to the Mini-Mart' she says 'Gee-Gee, we need to steal some more loo roll.'
Mostly though, what I love about her, why she has turned out to be a pretty perfect travelling companion for moi, is that she too craves Gallivanting and Goodness, she just gets it. She knows how to party and of course wants to have as much fun as we possibly can over the course of the next 6 months, but she also wants to know about the history and culture and traditions of the extraordinary countries we visit, to learn about other places and people in the hope that it might teach her something important about herself and her own place in the world.
She's running over now, huge smile plastered to her face, drenched from head to toe and wearing my t-shirt over her bikini because she was worried about 'being the most naked person at the water park'. No longer an enigma, but still the most considerate, adventurous, intelligent, exuberant, long-blonde haired companion I could have hoped for... Ella Cloud Pritchard. Her friends' and family's temporary loss is very much my gain.
Wednesday 30 December 2009
Saturday 26 December 2009
Hospital Hi-Jinks
Boxing Day 2009, 11am, Sihanoukville General Hospital
I am writing this blog entry from my bed, my bed in Sihanoukville hospital. So, this is my second Cambodian hospital experience in the same number of weeks, however this time I am unfortunately here not through my own choosing. I do have a needle in me again though! It's just that instead of taking blood out, I am having 4 bottles of fluid antibiotics transfused in through a drip painfully passed through a vein in my hand. Lovely. I was astute enough to ask for the drip to be placed in my left hand though in order that my right one would be un-pierced and free to document this!
I'm perfectly fine and just quite surprised to be here really. I got out of bed this morning and discovered that what I thought were about 30 tiny, harmless little bites on my legs, had now grown 5 times their original size, filled with pus, itched like hell and made me look like a leprosy victim. No problem I thought - go to the hospital - get magic cream - bites calm down. But when I got to the hospital (one ward, no doors on the front of the building - open shop medical care!) I was informed by the Doctor through a translator that the reaction I've had to the bites proves I have a viral blood infection and needed to lie down for 2 hours whilst they pumped me full of drugs. So here I am! I've also been given a whole bag of pills to take for the next 7 days (should be fun crossing the border tomorrow with all these in my bag, morning in Cambodian hospital, afternoon in Vietnamese prison?!), antihistamine to take before bed which will apparently put me in a coma-resembling sleep, and the magic cream that I had initially travelled here for. The real thing that's troubling me is that the nurse has told me I'm not allowed to drink alcohol for the next week whilst on all this medication. I smiled sweetly, thanked her, and told her that I appreciate her opinion but it is New Year's Eve in 6 days time and I'm afraid there's nothing in my power I can do to change this. Tablets Schmablets.
Icing on cake - when I got on the back of the motorbike this morning to bring me here I managed to burn the only bite-free part of my leg on the exhaust pipe. I found this hilarious, laughed my head off the whole way here and told the Cambodian guy driving the bike that I guessed it was a happy coincidence we were going to the hospital anyway, oh the irony! I am still laughing as I lie here now, the motorbike driver and all the nurses looking at me like I'm a madwoman. Sometimes things that shouldn't be funny just are though aren't they, and I like having a proper laugh at myself, good for the soul.
Strangely enough though I'm the only one giggling away on the hospital ward this morning. The boy in the bed next to me had to have an injection in his bum, is a pale shade of green and keeps vomiting in to the empty gasoline carton/sick bowl next to his bed. An old woman in the bed opposite is covered in tubes and wires and catheters with her family sat nervously around her head. Another English woman is being treated with a drip like mine but for heat exhaustion and dehydration. An Australian girl on the other side of me has the worst case of bed bugs I've ever seen in my life - she's basically just one big red mark. Only me and the Doctor are having any fun... he's sat on a bench in the middle of the ward watching Miami Vice on the TV and smoking a cigarette. Couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
I am writing this blog entry from my bed, my bed in Sihanoukville hospital. So, this is my second Cambodian hospital experience in the same number of weeks, however this time I am unfortunately here not through my own choosing. I do have a needle in me again though! It's just that instead of taking blood out, I am having 4 bottles of fluid antibiotics transfused in through a drip painfully passed through a vein in my hand. Lovely. I was astute enough to ask for the drip to be placed in my left hand though in order that my right one would be un-pierced and free to document this!
I'm perfectly fine and just quite surprised to be here really. I got out of bed this morning and discovered that what I thought were about 30 tiny, harmless little bites on my legs, had now grown 5 times their original size, filled with pus, itched like hell and made me look like a leprosy victim. No problem I thought - go to the hospital - get magic cream - bites calm down. But when I got to the hospital (one ward, no doors on the front of the building - open shop medical care!) I was informed by the Doctor through a translator that the reaction I've had to the bites proves I have a viral blood infection and needed to lie down for 2 hours whilst they pumped me full of drugs. So here I am! I've also been given a whole bag of pills to take for the next 7 days (should be fun crossing the border tomorrow with all these in my bag, morning in Cambodian hospital, afternoon in Vietnamese prison?!), antihistamine to take before bed which will apparently put me in a coma-resembling sleep, and the magic cream that I had initially travelled here for. The real thing that's troubling me is that the nurse has told me I'm not allowed to drink alcohol for the next week whilst on all this medication. I smiled sweetly, thanked her, and told her that I appreciate her opinion but it is New Year's Eve in 6 days time and I'm afraid there's nothing in my power I can do to change this. Tablets Schmablets.
Icing on cake - when I got on the back of the motorbike this morning to bring me here I managed to burn the only bite-free part of my leg on the exhaust pipe. I found this hilarious, laughed my head off the whole way here and told the Cambodian guy driving the bike that I guessed it was a happy coincidence we were going to the hospital anyway, oh the irony! I am still laughing as I lie here now, the motorbike driver and all the nurses looking at me like I'm a madwoman. Sometimes things that shouldn't be funny just are though aren't they, and I like having a proper laugh at myself, good for the soul.
Strangely enough though I'm the only one giggling away on the hospital ward this morning. The boy in the bed next to me had to have an injection in his bum, is a pale shade of green and keeps vomiting in to the empty gasoline carton/sick bowl next to his bed. An old woman in the bed opposite is covered in tubes and wires and catheters with her family sat nervously around her head. Another English woman is being treated with a drip like mine but for heat exhaustion and dehydration. An Australian girl on the other side of me has the worst case of bed bugs I've ever seen in my life - she's basically just one big red mark. Only me and the Doctor are having any fun... he's sat on a bench in the middle of the ward watching Miami Vice on the TV and smoking a cigarette. Couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
A Christmas Card
Christmas Day 2009, 10pm, Monkey Republic Guest House - Sihanoukville
To, my Loved Ones,
Today I took a boat to a private island with 4 lovely ladies and 10 strapping lads. The 15 of us swam in the ocean, had a barbecue on the beach, played with a frisbee, slept in hammocks, and drank cold beer dressed in tinsel and bikinis. We also had hi-jinks setting up a camera on a tripod, with a timer, and all attempted to jump up in the air at the same time for our Christmas card photo homage to The Beach. I had as much fun as it sounds like I did, but missed you all dearly. I hear it is snowing at home, and even though the new friends, sun on my skin and dance beats on the boom box were welcomed with open arms, a small part of me couldn't help wishing I was with old friends, in the freezing cold of London town, sick to death of hearing Jingle Bells on the radio.
If we are lucky I figure that most of us will see around 75 Christmases in our lifetime? This thought makes my heart leap this evening; I have had 23 traditional Christmases with family and friends and 1 Christmas celebrating on a Cambodian island, who can tell at what future parties and with what future loved ones I will spend my next 51 Christmas Days. It is a good feeling to have no idea, for the first time I am relishing the unpredictability of life - not knowing what another 51 Christmases have in store for me makes just being alive seem like one big adventure. I only hope that this time next year, wherever I am, whoever I smother in kisses at midnight on Christmas Eve, whether I'm moaning about frostbite or sunburn, that I will have held on to this contentment. My favourite author, Carol Shields, says that 'happiness is a pane of glass we carry in our heads', the idea being that it is perfect and pristine, but fragile, and sadly, too easily broken. I'm cushioning mine in bubble wrap this Christmas, refusing to let it shatter.
Merry Christmas my darlings, far away but holding you all firmly in my heart today.
Here's to the Uncertain Future.
All my love always,
Gracie xxx.
To, my Loved Ones,
Today I took a boat to a private island with 4 lovely ladies and 10 strapping lads. The 15 of us swam in the ocean, had a barbecue on the beach, played with a frisbee, slept in hammocks, and drank cold beer dressed in tinsel and bikinis. We also had hi-jinks setting up a camera on a tripod, with a timer, and all attempted to jump up in the air at the same time for our Christmas card photo homage to The Beach. I had as much fun as it sounds like I did, but missed you all dearly. I hear it is snowing at home, and even though the new friends, sun on my skin and dance beats on the boom box were welcomed with open arms, a small part of me couldn't help wishing I was with old friends, in the freezing cold of London town, sick to death of hearing Jingle Bells on the radio.
If we are lucky I figure that most of us will see around 75 Christmases in our lifetime? This thought makes my heart leap this evening; I have had 23 traditional Christmases with family and friends and 1 Christmas celebrating on a Cambodian island, who can tell at what future parties and with what future loved ones I will spend my next 51 Christmas Days. It is a good feeling to have no idea, for the first time I am relishing the unpredictability of life - not knowing what another 51 Christmases have in store for me makes just being alive seem like one big adventure. I only hope that this time next year, wherever I am, whoever I smother in kisses at midnight on Christmas Eve, whether I'm moaning about frostbite or sunburn, that I will have held on to this contentment. My favourite author, Carol Shields, says that 'happiness is a pane of glass we carry in our heads', the idea being that it is perfect and pristine, but fragile, and sadly, too easily broken. I'm cushioning mine in bubble wrap this Christmas, refusing to let it shatter.
Merry Christmas my darlings, far away but holding you all firmly in my heart today.
Here's to the Uncertain Future.
All my love always,
Gracie xxx.
10 Things I Hate About Cockroaches
Christmas Eve 2009, 2pm, Otres Beach - Sihanoukville
1. They move faster than the speed of sound.
2. They serve no purpose to anyone or anything other than the furthering of the cockroach race.
3. After you're definitely sure where they are because you've been watching them sit in the same place for 10 minutes, they start scuttling about the instant you turn the light off.
4. They are not scared of people, not even a little bit, and will therefore happily run at you and over you even though the little fuckers are 2000 times smaller than you. This is just friggin' cocky.
5. If you stamp on them they release their eggs as they're dieing. So you get rid of one cockroach and gain 50 more of it's soon to be hatched, vengeance-seeking cockroach babies instead. Perfect.
6. They are indestructible, nothing kills them. They could survive nuclear holocaust, and this is not right.
7. There is no such thing as one cockroach. If you have one, you have 20 of his mates hiding somewhere else in your room.
8. Their heads and antennae move independently of their bodies so sometimes when they turn their heads from side to side it looks like they're looking for you. This gives me the creeps.
9. They are nosey and intrusive. If you leave your bag unzipped then you can guarantee that the one place they're going to be when you get back to your room is nestled in a bikini top.
10. They are the one living creature that proves I'm not as brave as I like to think I am... last night one ran at my foot, I flew 4ft in the air and jumped on to my bed squealing - hard as nails.
In conclusion: In future I will be making friends with more boys who look chivalrous and tough in order that they can de-cockroach my accommodation for me. Despite trying in vain to find something cute about them and tell myself repeatedly that they can't hurt me, it has not worked. I REALLY hate cockroaches.
1. They move faster than the speed of sound.
2. They serve no purpose to anyone or anything other than the furthering of the cockroach race.
3. After you're definitely sure where they are because you've been watching them sit in the same place for 10 minutes, they start scuttling about the instant you turn the light off.
4. They are not scared of people, not even a little bit, and will therefore happily run at you and over you even though the little fuckers are 2000 times smaller than you. This is just friggin' cocky.
5. If you stamp on them they release their eggs as they're dieing. So you get rid of one cockroach and gain 50 more of it's soon to be hatched, vengeance-seeking cockroach babies instead. Perfect.
6. They are indestructible, nothing kills them. They could survive nuclear holocaust, and this is not right.
7. There is no such thing as one cockroach. If you have one, you have 20 of his mates hiding somewhere else in your room.
8. Their heads and antennae move independently of their bodies so sometimes when they turn their heads from side to side it looks like they're looking for you. This gives me the creeps.
9. They are nosey and intrusive. If you leave your bag unzipped then you can guarantee that the one place they're going to be when you get back to your room is nestled in a bikini top.
10. They are the one living creature that proves I'm not as brave as I like to think I am... last night one ran at my foot, I flew 4ft in the air and jumped on to my bed squealing - hard as nails.
In conclusion: In future I will be making friends with more boys who look chivalrous and tough in order that they can de-cockroach my accommodation for me. Despite trying in vain to find something cute about them and tell myself repeatedly that they can't hurt me, it has not worked. I REALLY hate cockroaches.
Famous Last Words
Wednesday 23rd December 2009, 3pm, Serendipity Beach - Sihanoukville
I've not written anything for a few days, this is because since Sunday night I have been permanently in two states that are not conducive to holding a pen - drunk or hungover. I'm in Sihanoukville, or 'Schnooky' as everyone abbreviates it to, a beach resort on Cambodia's Southern coast. The atmosphere here is very similar to that of Phangan and the Full Moon Party - party hard between 8pm and 5am, recover on the beach from 11am til 6pm. The difference between the two places being that Schnooky is on a much smaller scale, so once you've been here for a few days everyone knows each other - every face becomes a familiar one, you have 20 new facebook associates, and when you are all reunited at Dolphin Bar on the beach in the evenings you are thrilled to see a bar full only of people you are now calling friends.
The past few days have passed in a hedonistic haze, I have done absolutely nothing of cultural interest and have been behaving like a naughty sixth former on her first 18 to 30's holiday rather than a 23 year old backpacker in search of enlightenment. What's more, I don't feel even a little bit guilty about it. Myself and the companion have decided that we're taking a holiday within our holiday and that we will not in any way beat ourselves up about all the things we should be doing or seeing just because his Lordship the Lonely Planet guide says so - it's Christmas, and we're having a very merry time.
We met a group of crazy English boys on Sunday night who sum up Schnooky living pretty well I think. They'd gone out dressed only in pink boxers, neon paint, and motorbike helmets and were buying rounds of 25 beers a time then handing them out for free to any girls at the bar - hence how we met. One of them, Matt, told us that the boys' travelling experience over the past few months has basically consisted of the 4 of them getting drunk a lot, every day, in various different locations around South East Asia. This routine had become so much the norm, the daily grind for these boys, the 9 to 5, that every now and then they take it upon themselves to have a 'Daycation' - a day's holiday within their vacation. A Daycation, so I'm told, is centred around getting monumentally trollied and mischievous, as opposed to regular drunk and mildly stupid. We only saw the boys in regular mode apparently, normal vacation time, and I cannot even begin to imagine in that case what kind of debauched little pile of mess a Daycation must look like.
So for now, for our Christmas holiday week, I am going to unapologetically drink too much, wear too little, sleep too infrequently and flirt too blatantly. As my best friend always says to me when trying to encourage me to misbehave... 'Gracie, what's the worst that could happen?!'
I've not written anything for a few days, this is because since Sunday night I have been permanently in two states that are not conducive to holding a pen - drunk or hungover. I'm in Sihanoukville, or 'Schnooky' as everyone abbreviates it to, a beach resort on Cambodia's Southern coast. The atmosphere here is very similar to that of Phangan and the Full Moon Party - party hard between 8pm and 5am, recover on the beach from 11am til 6pm. The difference between the two places being that Schnooky is on a much smaller scale, so once you've been here for a few days everyone knows each other - every face becomes a familiar one, you have 20 new facebook associates, and when you are all reunited at Dolphin Bar on the beach in the evenings you are thrilled to see a bar full only of people you are now calling friends.
The past few days have passed in a hedonistic haze, I have done absolutely nothing of cultural interest and have been behaving like a naughty sixth former on her first 18 to 30's holiday rather than a 23 year old backpacker in search of enlightenment. What's more, I don't feel even a little bit guilty about it. Myself and the companion have decided that we're taking a holiday within our holiday and that we will not in any way beat ourselves up about all the things we should be doing or seeing just because his Lordship the Lonely Planet guide says so - it's Christmas, and we're having a very merry time.
We met a group of crazy English boys on Sunday night who sum up Schnooky living pretty well I think. They'd gone out dressed only in pink boxers, neon paint, and motorbike helmets and were buying rounds of 25 beers a time then handing them out for free to any girls at the bar - hence how we met. One of them, Matt, told us that the boys' travelling experience over the past few months has basically consisted of the 4 of them getting drunk a lot, every day, in various different locations around South East Asia. This routine had become so much the norm, the daily grind for these boys, the 9 to 5, that every now and then they take it upon themselves to have a 'Daycation' - a day's holiday within their vacation. A Daycation, so I'm told, is centred around getting monumentally trollied and mischievous, as opposed to regular drunk and mildly stupid. We only saw the boys in regular mode apparently, normal vacation time, and I cannot even begin to imagine in that case what kind of debauched little pile of mess a Daycation must look like.
So for now, for our Christmas holiday week, I am going to unapologetically drink too much, wear too little, sleep too infrequently and flirt too blatantly. As my best friend always says to me when trying to encourage me to misbehave... 'Gracie, what's the worst that could happen?!'
Making Friends and Enemies
Saturday 19th December 2009, 8pm, Monkey Republic Guest House - Sihanoukville
I got myself in to an argument with a 26 year old Norwegian guy the other night. I have mentioned previously that when we were on Koh Chang I met someone who I took a disliking to. When this happened I managed to remain civil, polite, pseudo-friendly, and then just discreetly avoided spending time in his company. On Thursday evening, the day we had visited Tong Sleung prison and the Killing Fields, I met someone else I couldn't get on with, but this time I was pretty vocal about it. Anyone who knows me well will know how strange a start this is for a story of mine. Generally, I don't meet people I don't get on with, I'm a 'people person' and I love human beings flaws included (quite often in fact, the more the flaws the more I love them). I do not like unnecessary confrontation, try to stop rows rather than start them and am not easy to anger. On Thursday evening however, at a table of 10 fellow backpackers, relaxing, having a few quiet beers, I told this man that I thought he was ignorant, offensive, vile and disrespectful. Needless to say the other 10 backpackers at the table all voiced their agreement with me and some thanked me for challenging him after the temporary confrontation was over and he had left the table; all of them men, all remained silent when it mattered, all too familiar.
So, this Norweigan , let's call him John. John (who was, by the way, wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the words 'Orgasm Donor' - we were never going to be best friends) is living in Phnom Penh, working as an English teacher and is educated, articulate and well-travelled. He walked over to the table where myself and the companion were serenely sipping mojitos and asked if he could join us. Within about 6 minutes and 20 seconds I regretted being so welcoming and berated myself at having not been more cautious about striking up conversation with John, given that he uses his t-shirt slogans to advertise imagined sexual prowess. I'll tell you why the row started. Although now I think with this build up you will expecting more than actually occurred within those 6 minutes and 20 seconds or so. You'll think I was on my high-horse, gladly leaping up on to my soap box just for the sake of it, you'll think I overreacted, that I was just looking for a reason to yell at him because of his damn ugly t-shirt. But you are entitled to think these things if you want, I can only tell one side of the story and you will make your own mind up.
Thinking I'd met somewhat of a local to Phnom Penh who also spoke perfect English I took the opportunity to ask him quite casually (I did have a mojito on the go after all) for his opinions on the prison and the fields. He sneered, shook his head, laughed and said 'I am not interested in death. I would rather spend my free time in Phnom Penh getting inebriated.' He'd never been, never shown even a glimmer of interest in the history of the country where he currently earns a living, never read one word about Pol Pot or the Khmer Rouge, never considered that the people he spends his days teaching are descendants, survivors, orphans of that genocide. Maybe I did overreact and maybe I was being too sentimental, but it was incredibly hard not to be after everything I had seen that day. I couldn't let him get away with being so disgustingly blase at so many people's shattered lives. The companion was very understanding of my need to lose us a friend and it turns out, knew exactly what I was thinking as he continued to spout more vitriol and nonsense. After his initial comment (oh yes, he didn't stop there) she saw my clenched white fists, gritted teeth and the steam coming out of my ears and nodding at me gave her blessing to the verbal castration of John that followed - in my head I swear I could hear her saying 'go get him Grace.' So I did. No need to go in to it too much, but amongst other things I did tell him that the prison and the fields aren't about death, but everything to do with life, and that even so, when it happens to himself or someone he bothers to care about, I thought he might suddenly find death more "interesting". He was unrepentant, quieter yes, but obstinately unrepentant about his self-imposed ignorance.
On Friday night, the day after my argument with John, myself and the companion were wandering around the restaurant district on the lake and were ushered in to eat at 'Oh My Buddha!', already overcrowded and packed to the rafters with Western faces. Unconcerned by the lack of any available tables when she quarried us through the front door, the restaurant manager sat us down at a table for 4 people, already half occupied by 2 men in their late 50's having dinner together. Colin (I'm using his real name because I would only ever have nice things to say about him), like 'John', is an English teacher who has spent the majority of his life in Asia. He now lives in Japan with his partner Keiko, he is a techno-phobe, a Blues enthusiast and harmonica player, an English Barber waistcoat-wearing gent with a free spirit, liberal mind and restless roaming feet. On April 17th 1975 the Khmer Rouge enforced evacuation of Phnom Penh and began shooting civilians on the street who dared to question why they had to leave their homes. Only 2 weeks before this a 25 year old Colin teaching in Cambodia left Phnom Penh; sensing growing political unrest he reluctantly flew home - if he'd made the same decision 14 days later, it would have been too late, there wouldn't have been a flight to get on. One of the students he left behind was our other dinner buddy, Ung - infectious laugh, penchant for Scottish single malt, chain-smoker, kind-hearted, generous, and patriotic. We were fortunate enough to join these men for dinner on the day that they were reunited - share their whiskey, listen to their stories and ask them our questions - 34 years after Colin made the decision that saved his life.
Ung managed somehow to escape to America after the Khmer Rouge took over and Colin ensured he kept in touch with him, e-mailing and phoning for three decades a displaced Cambodian student who is now his lifelong friend, they were clearly delighted to be in each others' company again. Personally I was pretty delighted to be in their company too, most of the men I normally go to dinner with back home talk about themselves, to my chest, so Colin and Ung's warmth, age, wisdom and humility were all gratefully received. I told them about my set-to with John the previous evening and voiced my disbelief at having found a young, educated man who could hold such opinions. Colin advised me that if his experience of people is anything to go by, John is no anomaly, that there are many of us who choose blissful ignorance, who change the TV channel during the Oxfam appeals and war reports because it upsets us. He also told me he believes it is very difficult to change the opinions of someone so forthright and that my reprimanding of John was probably a waste of my breath, 'but that's OK Grace, some things are worth wasting your breath for.'
To make peace after my outburst at John I asked him on that Thursday evening if he would just visit the prison, walk in the fields, read something about the regime and maybe just spend one day giving credence to and showing respect for this country and it's people. I even gave him my e-mail address and asked him to let me know if he visited, I guess I was hoping he would have a perspective turnaround, apologise for his comments and thereby renew my faith in the human race. He hasn't e-mailed though, Colin was right - I was wasting my breath. I have decided however, on the back of their wonderful advice and for the preservation of my conscience, that I will always in future risk wasting my breath if it is to speak out against ignorance, apathy, and tasteless t-shirts.
I got myself in to an argument with a 26 year old Norwegian guy the other night. I have mentioned previously that when we were on Koh Chang I met someone who I took a disliking to. When this happened I managed to remain civil, polite, pseudo-friendly, and then just discreetly avoided spending time in his company. On Thursday evening, the day we had visited Tong Sleung prison and the Killing Fields, I met someone else I couldn't get on with, but this time I was pretty vocal about it. Anyone who knows me well will know how strange a start this is for a story of mine. Generally, I don't meet people I don't get on with, I'm a 'people person' and I love human beings flaws included (quite often in fact, the more the flaws the more I love them). I do not like unnecessary confrontation, try to stop rows rather than start them and am not easy to anger. On Thursday evening however, at a table of 10 fellow backpackers, relaxing, having a few quiet beers, I told this man that I thought he was ignorant, offensive, vile and disrespectful. Needless to say the other 10 backpackers at the table all voiced their agreement with me and some thanked me for challenging him after the temporary confrontation was over and he had left the table; all of them men, all remained silent when it mattered, all too familiar.
So, this Norweigan , let's call him John. John (who was, by the way, wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the words 'Orgasm Donor' - we were never going to be best friends) is living in Phnom Penh, working as an English teacher and is educated, articulate and well-travelled. He walked over to the table where myself and the companion were serenely sipping mojitos and asked if he could join us. Within about 6 minutes and 20 seconds I regretted being so welcoming and berated myself at having not been more cautious about striking up conversation with John, given that he uses his t-shirt slogans to advertise imagined sexual prowess. I'll tell you why the row started. Although now I think with this build up you will expecting more than actually occurred within those 6 minutes and 20 seconds or so. You'll think I was on my high-horse, gladly leaping up on to my soap box just for the sake of it, you'll think I overreacted, that I was just looking for a reason to yell at him because of his damn ugly t-shirt. But you are entitled to think these things if you want, I can only tell one side of the story and you will make your own mind up.
Thinking I'd met somewhat of a local to Phnom Penh who also spoke perfect English I took the opportunity to ask him quite casually (I did have a mojito on the go after all) for his opinions on the prison and the fields. He sneered, shook his head, laughed and said 'I am not interested in death. I would rather spend my free time in Phnom Penh getting inebriated.' He'd never been, never shown even a glimmer of interest in the history of the country where he currently earns a living, never read one word about Pol Pot or the Khmer Rouge, never considered that the people he spends his days teaching are descendants, survivors, orphans of that genocide. Maybe I did overreact and maybe I was being too sentimental, but it was incredibly hard not to be after everything I had seen that day. I couldn't let him get away with being so disgustingly blase at so many people's shattered lives. The companion was very understanding of my need to lose us a friend and it turns out, knew exactly what I was thinking as he continued to spout more vitriol and nonsense. After his initial comment (oh yes, he didn't stop there) she saw my clenched white fists, gritted teeth and the steam coming out of my ears and nodding at me gave her blessing to the verbal castration of John that followed - in my head I swear I could hear her saying 'go get him Grace.' So I did. No need to go in to it too much, but amongst other things I did tell him that the prison and the fields aren't about death, but everything to do with life, and that even so, when it happens to himself or someone he bothers to care about, I thought he might suddenly find death more "interesting". He was unrepentant, quieter yes, but obstinately unrepentant about his self-imposed ignorance.
On Friday night, the day after my argument with John, myself and the companion were wandering around the restaurant district on the lake and were ushered in to eat at 'Oh My Buddha!', already overcrowded and packed to the rafters with Western faces. Unconcerned by the lack of any available tables when she quarried us through the front door, the restaurant manager sat us down at a table for 4 people, already half occupied by 2 men in their late 50's having dinner together. Colin (I'm using his real name because I would only ever have nice things to say about him), like 'John', is an English teacher who has spent the majority of his life in Asia. He now lives in Japan with his partner Keiko, he is a techno-phobe, a Blues enthusiast and harmonica player, an English Barber waistcoat-wearing gent with a free spirit, liberal mind and restless roaming feet. On April 17th 1975 the Khmer Rouge enforced evacuation of Phnom Penh and began shooting civilians on the street who dared to question why they had to leave their homes. Only 2 weeks before this a 25 year old Colin teaching in Cambodia left Phnom Penh; sensing growing political unrest he reluctantly flew home - if he'd made the same decision 14 days later, it would have been too late, there wouldn't have been a flight to get on. One of the students he left behind was our other dinner buddy, Ung - infectious laugh, penchant for Scottish single malt, chain-smoker, kind-hearted, generous, and patriotic. We were fortunate enough to join these men for dinner on the day that they were reunited - share their whiskey, listen to their stories and ask them our questions - 34 years after Colin made the decision that saved his life.
Ung managed somehow to escape to America after the Khmer Rouge took over and Colin ensured he kept in touch with him, e-mailing and phoning for three decades a displaced Cambodian student who is now his lifelong friend, they were clearly delighted to be in each others' company again. Personally I was pretty delighted to be in their company too, most of the men I normally go to dinner with back home talk about themselves, to my chest, so Colin and Ung's warmth, age, wisdom and humility were all gratefully received. I told them about my set-to with John the previous evening and voiced my disbelief at having found a young, educated man who could hold such opinions. Colin advised me that if his experience of people is anything to go by, John is no anomaly, that there are many of us who choose blissful ignorance, who change the TV channel during the Oxfam appeals and war reports because it upsets us. He also told me he believes it is very difficult to change the opinions of someone so forthright and that my reprimanding of John was probably a waste of my breath, 'but that's OK Grace, some things are worth wasting your breath for.'
To make peace after my outburst at John I asked him on that Thursday evening if he would just visit the prison, walk in the fields, read something about the regime and maybe just spend one day giving credence to and showing respect for this country and it's people. I even gave him my e-mail address and asked him to let me know if he visited, I guess I was hoping he would have a perspective turnaround, apologise for his comments and thereby renew my faith in the human race. He hasn't e-mailed though, Colin was right - I was wasting my breath. I have decided however, on the back of their wonderful advice and for the preservation of my conscience, that I will always in future risk wasting my breath if it is to speak out against ignorance, apathy, and tasteless t-shirts.
Friday 18 December 2009
Four Nights and Three Days
Friday 17th December 2009, 5.25pm, decking platform on the Boeng Mak Lake - Phnom Penh
Due to the overwhelming sadness and introspection that the past couple of days in Phnom Penh has brought us I haven't found any right moment or focus to write about the fantastic time we had in Siem Reap. Only 4 hours from here but a world away in terms of atmosphere and attitude, Siem Reap was a perfect backpackers city haunt.
We bartered our arses off for jewellery, clothes and hand-painted opium vases (to be used as incense burners!) in the markets, we had hand massages by blind masseurs, we visited silk and stone workshops, wandered through the food markets and gagged at the smell of rotting fish and pig heads, ate in beautiful restaurants, sat with our legs in a pool of water containing hundreds of dead-skin hungry fish, treated ourselves to a few hours at a hotel swimming pool, got disgustingly drunk and spent a night and most of the next morning clubbing with the Cambodians, sat in a movie bar laughing our heads off at Will Ferrell, played a few rounds of pool (if the aim of the game were to pot the white as much as possible then we would be pool masters), had whisky downing contests with Swedes and Canadians, visited the exhibition and the hospital, and the companion, far braver than I, ate a fried tarantula leg from a street vendor! I stood about a metre away holding the camera, trying to keep my dinner down and telling her 'don't put it near me'.
My initial suspicions on our first night in Cambodia were bang on the money. It wasn't lust, I wasn't being fickle, after 4 nights and 3 days there I was truly, madly, deeply in love with Siem Reap. The two of us are firmly in agreement that we had a bit of a ball there, and if it weren't for timetables and sightseeing checklists we could easily have pottered around Siem Reap for a good while longer. The really great thing about it for me is that despite the liver-bashing it didn't feel over indulgent or excessive, the city lends itself perfectly to balanced living, to travelling with a conscience.
All of this and I haven't even mentioned our day of trekking round the temples of Angkor - a recognised eighth wonder of the world. The temples are so magnificent, so breathtaking, that I willingly concede to not being able to do them justice with my own descriptions, so I'll let the guidebook help...'Angkor Wat is the largest religious structure in the world, the Khmer's national symbol, the epicentre of their civilisation and a source of fierce national pride. Soaring skywards and surrounded by a 190m wide moat that would make it's European castle counterparts blush, Angkor Wat is one of the most inspired and spectacular monuments ever conceived by the human mind.' Yeah, it weren't bad. :)
I spent the day clambering up and down, under and over the temples playing Lara Croft. Portions of Tomb Raider were filmed here and I took further advantage of this fact by collecting as many Cambodian children as I could find to wander round with me so that I felt truly Angelina. At the end of the day we had the perfect sunset experience. After a steep climb of about 200 crumbling, 1000 year old steps, I sat perched atop Pre Rup temple from where all the Angkor temples spread carpeted out to the horizon in front of you. As the sun made it's descent on Angkor I raised a cold beer with the companion and four wonderful new friends, and cheering we drank to sunsets you never thought you'd be lucky enough to see.
Then we headed back into town, went to Pub Street, and got wrecked. See?!! Balance.
Due to the overwhelming sadness and introspection that the past couple of days in Phnom Penh has brought us I haven't found any right moment or focus to write about the fantastic time we had in Siem Reap. Only 4 hours from here but a world away in terms of atmosphere and attitude, Siem Reap was a perfect backpackers city haunt.
We bartered our arses off for jewellery, clothes and hand-painted opium vases (to be used as incense burners!) in the markets, we had hand massages by blind masseurs, we visited silk and stone workshops, wandered through the food markets and gagged at the smell of rotting fish and pig heads, ate in beautiful restaurants, sat with our legs in a pool of water containing hundreds of dead-skin hungry fish, treated ourselves to a few hours at a hotel swimming pool, got disgustingly drunk and spent a night and most of the next morning clubbing with the Cambodians, sat in a movie bar laughing our heads off at Will Ferrell, played a few rounds of pool (if the aim of the game were to pot the white as much as possible then we would be pool masters), had whisky downing contests with Swedes and Canadians, visited the exhibition and the hospital, and the companion, far braver than I, ate a fried tarantula leg from a street vendor! I stood about a metre away holding the camera, trying to keep my dinner down and telling her 'don't put it near me'.
My initial suspicions on our first night in Cambodia were bang on the money. It wasn't lust, I wasn't being fickle, after 4 nights and 3 days there I was truly, madly, deeply in love with Siem Reap. The two of us are firmly in agreement that we had a bit of a ball there, and if it weren't for timetables and sightseeing checklists we could easily have pottered around Siem Reap for a good while longer. The really great thing about it for me is that despite the liver-bashing it didn't feel over indulgent or excessive, the city lends itself perfectly to balanced living, to travelling with a conscience.
All of this and I haven't even mentioned our day of trekking round the temples of Angkor - a recognised eighth wonder of the world. The temples are so magnificent, so breathtaking, that I willingly concede to not being able to do them justice with my own descriptions, so I'll let the guidebook help...'Angkor Wat is the largest religious structure in the world, the Khmer's national symbol, the epicentre of their civilisation and a source of fierce national pride. Soaring skywards and surrounded by a 190m wide moat that would make it's European castle counterparts blush, Angkor Wat is one of the most inspired and spectacular monuments ever conceived by the human mind.' Yeah, it weren't bad. :)
I spent the day clambering up and down, under and over the temples playing Lara Croft. Portions of Tomb Raider were filmed here and I took further advantage of this fact by collecting as many Cambodian children as I could find to wander round with me so that I felt truly Angelina. At the end of the day we had the perfect sunset experience. After a steep climb of about 200 crumbling, 1000 year old steps, I sat perched atop Pre Rup temple from where all the Angkor temples spread carpeted out to the horizon in front of you. As the sun made it's descent on Angkor I raised a cold beer with the companion and four wonderful new friends, and cheering we drank to sunsets you never thought you'd be lucky enough to see.
Then we headed back into town, went to Pub Street, and got wrecked. See?!! Balance.
Thursday 17 December 2009
What Separates Us
Thursday 17th December, 6pm, Happy 11 Guest House - Phnom Penh
''A child is never the author of it's own history.''
''A child is never the author of it's own history.''
- Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
I've been thinking a lot about chance today, about how precariously we balance between one fortune and the next, how because of genetics our futures are so dramatically affected. I read the book quoted above a good 6 months ago, but that line didn't leave me, and I remembered it sadly today whilst I was sat on a bench in the Killing Fields, Phnom Penh, next to a tree on which the heads of babies and children were smashed to death in front of their helpless, soon to be bludgeoned mothers. You understand my need to sit down I think. I'd just about managed to hold it together at the former detention centre this morning, through the preserved torture chambers and cells, the thousands of nameless photographs of terrified Cambodian faces already unknowingly condemned to pain and death, the mass graves, the piles of the dead's clothes, the memorial building with glass cabinets containing skulls upon skulls upon skulls. And then I saw the tree, the sign next to which reads 'Killing Tree - Babies and children were beaten against this tree until death'', and I suddenly and desperately needed to sit down and cry my heart out. I hope you don't think I'm being gratuitous in my description of the violence, this is the furthest thing from my intentions. I just do not want to whitewash what I have seen, it is what it is and deserves to be recorded accurately for me as much as anyone else; no matter how devastating today has been, I pray it never leaves me, I pray you are devastated too.
The actual fields are quite beautiful really, before 1975 the site was an orchard and today the area is obviously preserved immaculately by the people who work there. It looks like an enchanted forest straight out of an Enid Blyton book. A narrow path winds its way through green and mossy shallow trenches, trees hundreds of years old cover the fields making the sunlight dappled on the floor, wildflowers have sprung up everywhere, the air is full of birdsong, butterflies and dragonflies dart around amongst the leaves, huge roots snake their way through the dry earth along the paths, and save for the few hushed whispers of tour guides it is near silent. Not enchanted, but haunted indeed, because of course the shallow trenches were graves for thousands of innocent people. Everyone over the age of 30 in this country is a survivor of genocide, everyone lost a loved one, nearly a quarter of the entire population was murdered. Imagine that in Britain? Everyone over the age of 30 having witnessed and lived through mass murder by the ruling political party. You, well I, can't imagine it, this country bears incomprehensible scars.
This has been a remarkable day which I could write about for pages and pages but won't. Instead know what seemed strangely important to me... every skull was the same. Despite a few fracture lines here and there, the odd bit of wear and tear and damage by cause of death, every skull was the same. One day that will be what's left of me, and you too, and if our skulls were placed in the memorial cabinet in Phnom Penh, no one would know the difference - because we're the same. Underneath it all, you could be me and I could be you and we could have been them.
In my old job I used to have a little mantra that I would repeat to myself on particularly stressful days at the hands of the 16-21 year olds I worked with. As a way of stopping myself from telling the lot of them to F-off I'd take a deep breath, and just think 'there but for the grace of God go I.' They were all care leavers, most had been abandoned, abused or neglected by the people who had conceived them (I find it difficult to refer to them as their 'parents' - they never earned the right for this name) and others had fallen in with the wrong crowds, gone off the rails and had families who handed them over to Social Services' care rather than provide them with a support network and discipline that might have saved them. What if they'd been born to my Mum and Dad and I to theirs?
I would have been the one swearing and shouting, kicking holes in the door, smoking weed in the waiting room, waving knives around, knocking the water cooler over, up-ending the furniture and making arson attempts. They would have been sat in my chair, quietly watching carnage ensue, waiting for me to calm down before gingerly coming out from behind the desk, putting an arm around my shoulder and asking me what on earth the matter was my darling? If I'd had their parents and they'd had mine I truly believe that we would still have been looking at each other through that protective glass barrier in front of my desk, just from different sides. This notion was an invaluable tool for me to have any chance of doing my job properly. I would have forgiven those teenagers anything, and although I was never a soft touch I found it impossible to judge their behaviour too harshly - arguments, abuse and idle death threats were always quickly forgotten - because if they could have, I'd like to think they would have done the same for me. If anyone in their young lives had loved and cherished them as I have always felt loved and cherished by my friends and family, things could have been so different for them.
This afternoon I started reading First They Killed My Father, Loung Ung's memoir of her family's experience through the Cambodian genocide when she was just 5 years old. Opening the book I was immediately dumbstruck by a sentence in the prologue which resonated with me, chance and empathy and old mantras having been so on my mind all day. "If you had been living in Cambodia during this period, this would be your story too.'' Nothing is more important than this to me right now. There but for the grace of God go I.
The actual fields are quite beautiful really, before 1975 the site was an orchard and today the area is obviously preserved immaculately by the people who work there. It looks like an enchanted forest straight out of an Enid Blyton book. A narrow path winds its way through green and mossy shallow trenches, trees hundreds of years old cover the fields making the sunlight dappled on the floor, wildflowers have sprung up everywhere, the air is full of birdsong, butterflies and dragonflies dart around amongst the leaves, huge roots snake their way through the dry earth along the paths, and save for the few hushed whispers of tour guides it is near silent. Not enchanted, but haunted indeed, because of course the shallow trenches were graves for thousands of innocent people. Everyone over the age of 30 in this country is a survivor of genocide, everyone lost a loved one, nearly a quarter of the entire population was murdered. Imagine that in Britain? Everyone over the age of 30 having witnessed and lived through mass murder by the ruling political party. You, well I, can't imagine it, this country bears incomprehensible scars.
This has been a remarkable day which I could write about for pages and pages but won't. Instead know what seemed strangely important to me... every skull was the same. Despite a few fracture lines here and there, the odd bit of wear and tear and damage by cause of death, every skull was the same. One day that will be what's left of me, and you too, and if our skulls were placed in the memorial cabinet in Phnom Penh, no one would know the difference - because we're the same. Underneath it all, you could be me and I could be you and we could have been them.
In my old job I used to have a little mantra that I would repeat to myself on particularly stressful days at the hands of the 16-21 year olds I worked with. As a way of stopping myself from telling the lot of them to F-off I'd take a deep breath, and just think 'there but for the grace of God go I.' They were all care leavers, most had been abandoned, abused or neglected by the people who had conceived them (I find it difficult to refer to them as their 'parents' - they never earned the right for this name) and others had fallen in with the wrong crowds, gone off the rails and had families who handed them over to Social Services' care rather than provide them with a support network and discipline that might have saved them. What if they'd been born to my Mum and Dad and I to theirs?
I would have been the one swearing and shouting, kicking holes in the door, smoking weed in the waiting room, waving knives around, knocking the water cooler over, up-ending the furniture and making arson attempts. They would have been sat in my chair, quietly watching carnage ensue, waiting for me to calm down before gingerly coming out from behind the desk, putting an arm around my shoulder and asking me what on earth the matter was my darling? If I'd had their parents and they'd had mine I truly believe that we would still have been looking at each other through that protective glass barrier in front of my desk, just from different sides. This notion was an invaluable tool for me to have any chance of doing my job properly. I would have forgiven those teenagers anything, and although I was never a soft touch I found it impossible to judge their behaviour too harshly - arguments, abuse and idle death threats were always quickly forgotten - because if they could have, I'd like to think they would have done the same for me. If anyone in their young lives had loved and cherished them as I have always felt loved and cherished by my friends and family, things could have been so different for them.
This afternoon I started reading First They Killed My Father, Loung Ung's memoir of her family's experience through the Cambodian genocide when she was just 5 years old. Opening the book I was immediately dumbstruck by a sentence in the prologue which resonated with me, chance and empathy and old mantras having been so on my mind all day. "If you had been living in Cambodia during this period, this would be your story too.'' Nothing is more important than this to me right now. There but for the grace of God go I.
Tuesday 15 December 2009
My Blood, One Man's Sweat, A Generation of Tears
Tuesday 15th December 2009, 4pm, Encore Hotel Swimming Pool Terrace - Siem Reap
I've never given blood before, I've had a blood test for health reasons but never been the type of person who regularly donates or even stops to investigate when the travelling donor vans park themselves outside local church halls at home. It had just never crossed my mind, other people will do it, why should I?
Today I gave blood for the first time, at the Angkor Children's Hospital in Siem Reap. The companion and I sat in the waiting room nervously giggling about my decision while I waited for the doctor - having never been a donor before I had chosen to do it for the first time in Cambodia, in a hospital full of HIV patients, where I couldn't speak the same language as the person sticking the drip in my arm. Sure, it doesn't sound wise on paper, but I'm confident there was no risk to my health, everything was clean and sterile and they took good care of me, I even got a free hospital t-shirt to say thank you and a can of Coca-Cola so that I didn't pass out! So what prompted this? Why today and here of all places did I suddenly decide to become a blood donor?
There is an exhibition and information office that we visited prior to the impromptu hospital stop-off called the Centre for Friends Without A Border (www.fwab.org). Friends Without a Border is a charity that was established in 1996 by a Japanese photographer who on a trip to Angkor to take pictures of the temples, was so moved by the plight of the millions of Cambodian children orphaned by the Khmer Rouge's genocide, that he not only saw the need for this hospital, but acted upon it. In the 1970's when Pol Pot's regime brutally murdered 2 million Cambodians it was the educated that were targeted first - of 4000 doctors in Cambodia before the atrocities, only 40 survived. Access to medication, education and vaccination was impossible, HIV and Aids rates soared and the country was left with the devastating statistics it still carries today: 50% of the population are under the age of 15 and 1 out of 7 children die before the age of 5 from largely preventable and treatable diseases.
This hospital, conceived, mobilised and fought for by the photographer Kenro Izu, has provided 600,000 free pediatric treatments and 12,000 surgeries since it's opening in 1999. It is passionately and actively committed to the training of new doctors and nurses, the education of it's rural communities, the development of hygiene and nutrition standards in the surrounding villages and to the prevention of HIV. The first sentence of it's mission statement reads, 'Every child has the right to a healthy and loving life.' If it will help, even in a very small and almost inconsequential way, I wanted any child in need who visits that hospital to have a right to my blood.
I'd go back every day this week and hold out my vein willingly if they'd let me. The doctor told me that it was policy to only fill one bag with blood from each donor, so despite my insistence that I was fine they wouldn't have taken more. So many people have put their sweat and tears into building and maintaining this godsend of an institute, my blood contribution felt meagre in comparison. It was fantastic to see the exhibition (where Izu's photography is displayed) and the hospital itself though; concrete manifestations of unbreakable human compassion and spirit in the face of unthinkable adversity - truly humbling.
After donating, the doctor did a couple of tests and told me that I am blood type O negative which is apparently the rarest variety, and that I also have very high levels of haemoglobin (11 points above average whatever that means) which is also a good thing so I'm told - all in all I'm an ideal donor. I was delighted by this news, and have taken it as a sign that I made a great decision. I will now be donating everywhere I go as frequently as I'm allowed - I'm converted. The hospital told me that they will send a letter to my home address letting me know that everything is OK (or not?!) with my health so I'll have to tell my designated post-opener and ever-worried Mother about this. I'm not looking forward to this conversation, it will inevitably result in panic station, heart palpitation central for her - she doesn't quite trust me to look after myself I think. The companion (who diligently and loyally sat with me despite feeling a bit queasy about the bag of blood hanging from my arm) took a photo of me on the hospital bed and then joked that we should take another photo of a dusty roadside shed, send it to my Mum and attach the caption... and this is where I let someone put a needle in my arm. I can hear the impending chat now: "Oh for goodness sake Grace! Why on earth did you do that?"
Yes, Mum. For Goodness' sake.
I've never given blood before, I've had a blood test for health reasons but never been the type of person who regularly donates or even stops to investigate when the travelling donor vans park themselves outside local church halls at home. It had just never crossed my mind, other people will do it, why should I?
Today I gave blood for the first time, at the Angkor Children's Hospital in Siem Reap. The companion and I sat in the waiting room nervously giggling about my decision while I waited for the doctor - having never been a donor before I had chosen to do it for the first time in Cambodia, in a hospital full of HIV patients, where I couldn't speak the same language as the person sticking the drip in my arm. Sure, it doesn't sound wise on paper, but I'm confident there was no risk to my health, everything was clean and sterile and they took good care of me, I even got a free hospital t-shirt to say thank you and a can of Coca-Cola so that I didn't pass out! So what prompted this? Why today and here of all places did I suddenly decide to become a blood donor?
There is an exhibition and information office that we visited prior to the impromptu hospital stop-off called the Centre for Friends Without A Border (www.fwab.org). Friends Without a Border is a charity that was established in 1996 by a Japanese photographer who on a trip to Angkor to take pictures of the temples, was so moved by the plight of the millions of Cambodian children orphaned by the Khmer Rouge's genocide, that he not only saw the need for this hospital, but acted upon it. In the 1970's when Pol Pot's regime brutally murdered 2 million Cambodians it was the educated that were targeted first - of 4000 doctors in Cambodia before the atrocities, only 40 survived. Access to medication, education and vaccination was impossible, HIV and Aids rates soared and the country was left with the devastating statistics it still carries today: 50% of the population are under the age of 15 and 1 out of 7 children die before the age of 5 from largely preventable and treatable diseases.
This hospital, conceived, mobilised and fought for by the photographer Kenro Izu, has provided 600,000 free pediatric treatments and 12,000 surgeries since it's opening in 1999. It is passionately and actively committed to the training of new doctors and nurses, the education of it's rural communities, the development of hygiene and nutrition standards in the surrounding villages and to the prevention of HIV. The first sentence of it's mission statement reads, 'Every child has the right to a healthy and loving life.' If it will help, even in a very small and almost inconsequential way, I wanted any child in need who visits that hospital to have a right to my blood.
I'd go back every day this week and hold out my vein willingly if they'd let me. The doctor told me that it was policy to only fill one bag with blood from each donor, so despite my insistence that I was fine they wouldn't have taken more. So many people have put their sweat and tears into building and maintaining this godsend of an institute, my blood contribution felt meagre in comparison. It was fantastic to see the exhibition (where Izu's photography is displayed) and the hospital itself though; concrete manifestations of unbreakable human compassion and spirit in the face of unthinkable adversity - truly humbling.
After donating, the doctor did a couple of tests and told me that I am blood type O negative which is apparently the rarest variety, and that I also have very high levels of haemoglobin (11 points above average whatever that means) which is also a good thing so I'm told - all in all I'm an ideal donor. I was delighted by this news, and have taken it as a sign that I made a great decision. I will now be donating everywhere I go as frequently as I'm allowed - I'm converted. The hospital told me that they will send a letter to my home address letting me know that everything is OK (or not?!) with my health so I'll have to tell my designated post-opener and ever-worried Mother about this. I'm not looking forward to this conversation, it will inevitably result in panic station, heart palpitation central for her - she doesn't quite trust me to look after myself I think. The companion (who diligently and loyally sat with me despite feeling a bit queasy about the bag of blood hanging from my arm) took a photo of me on the hospital bed and then joked that we should take another photo of a dusty roadside shed, send it to my Mum and attach the caption... and this is where I let someone put a needle in my arm. I can hear the impending chat now: "Oh for goodness sake Grace! Why on earth did you do that?"
Yes, Mum. For Goodness' sake.
Sunday 13 December 2009
Love At First Night
Saturday 12th December 2009, 11.20pm, Aroma Hostel - Siem Reap - Cambodia.
With a new schedule in our minds myself and the companion went back on the road today as the gruesome twosome we started off as - leaving our friends behind on Mak to enjoy the rest of their holiday. But life ain't no holiday for everyone, some of us had serious border crossing business to attend to. I am pleased to say that after a 10 and a half hour journey comprising the following modes of transport - speedboat, boot of a car (yep), air-conditioned Jeep, walking on foot, minibus, and tuk-tuk (for some of you at home, a tuk-tuk is basically a chair in an iron cart attached to the back of a motorbike), we safely arrived in Siem Reap, Cambodia, at 6.30pm this evening. The border crossing was more annoying than daunting, everyone on the Thai side was trying to scam us, we had to fill in what felt like 50 forms, walk through 4 or 5 passport control queues, find our minibus driver in the middle of a busy intersection after crossing the border on foot in 35 degree heat, and of course, pay for the privilege.
It is a privilege though. One evening here and I'm already falling hook, line and sinker for the place. The flat, open, untouched greenery and marshland of the countryside, the enthusiasm and pride the Cambodians have for their country, the doe-eyed and tan-coloured cows who walk owner-less down the roads, the bustling streets littered only with bars and restaurants, the company of other backpackers who want more from their travels than a pretty beach, the pristine treasure chest of Angkor night market where we spent the evening, the great food and even better cocktails, and of course, the price. Tonight and for the next few nights we imagine, we are staying in a spacious, clean, bright room right in the centre of town with a comfy bed, new sheets, a mega-power fan, tiled floors and it's own bathroom - all for the princely sum of 28,000 Reel, about £3.50 a night, between us. Hands down the best £1.75 I ever spent.
Tomorrow we meet our tuk-tuk driver at 8am for a day of trekking around the Angkor temples. Me and my 20,000 mozzie bites are itching with excitement. I know you shouldn't judge a book by its cover but first impressions do count don't they? Well in that case I'll just be brazen and say it - I LOVE Cambodia.
With a new schedule in our minds myself and the companion went back on the road today as the gruesome twosome we started off as - leaving our friends behind on Mak to enjoy the rest of their holiday. But life ain't no holiday for everyone, some of us had serious border crossing business to attend to. I am pleased to say that after a 10 and a half hour journey comprising the following modes of transport - speedboat, boot of a car (yep), air-conditioned Jeep, walking on foot, minibus, and tuk-tuk (for some of you at home, a tuk-tuk is basically a chair in an iron cart attached to the back of a motorbike), we safely arrived in Siem Reap, Cambodia, at 6.30pm this evening. The border crossing was more annoying than daunting, everyone on the Thai side was trying to scam us, we had to fill in what felt like 50 forms, walk through 4 or 5 passport control queues, find our minibus driver in the middle of a busy intersection after crossing the border on foot in 35 degree heat, and of course, pay for the privilege.
It is a privilege though. One evening here and I'm already falling hook, line and sinker for the place. The flat, open, untouched greenery and marshland of the countryside, the enthusiasm and pride the Cambodians have for their country, the doe-eyed and tan-coloured cows who walk owner-less down the roads, the bustling streets littered only with bars and restaurants, the company of other backpackers who want more from their travels than a pretty beach, the pristine treasure chest of Angkor night market where we spent the evening, the great food and even better cocktails, and of course, the price. Tonight and for the next few nights we imagine, we are staying in a spacious, clean, bright room right in the centre of town with a comfy bed, new sheets, a mega-power fan, tiled floors and it's own bathroom - all for the princely sum of 28,000 Reel, about £3.50 a night, between us. Hands down the best £1.75 I ever spent.
Tomorrow we meet our tuk-tuk driver at 8am for a day of trekking around the Angkor temples. Me and my 20,000 mozzie bites are itching with excitement. I know you shouldn't judge a book by its cover but first impressions do count don't they? Well in that case I'll just be brazen and say it - I LOVE Cambodia.
The Elephant and the Lagoon
Friday 11th December 2009, 7pm, the beach - Koh Mak.
There's one very important thing that I've not mentioned yet because I've not found the time to write about it and also because I barely have the words to tell you how utterly and inexplicably perfect an experience it was. I cannot make it sound better than it was with fancy vocabulary so I'll just say it plainly... on Wednesday morning I spent an hour sat on the back of an elephant while he waked through the Jurassic Park inner-island jungle of Koh Chang. At the end of that hour I stripped to my bikini, climbed back on my elephant, and the two of us went swimming in a lagoon.
He loved the water, and while I gripped on tightly round his neck he kept diving deeply under the water, paddling away a metre below the surface with me his passenger awe-stuck and delighted clambering over his back. He was so gentle, this giant 3 tonnes beast, that when after a too forceful dive I slipped off, he came to the surface and placed his tusk under my foot so that I could use it a step to climb back up. I thought chasing the sunset on a motorbike was good, but swimming underwater on the back of an elephant was, and always will be, one of the most amazing things I have ever done in my life.
Now, and even an hour after it was over, I can't believe it happened. Thankfully my friend took photos so that one day my disbelief at this encounter will be disproved by photographic evidence. But we obviously couldn't get photos of his powerful, majestic form gliding through the still blue lagoon underwater, like a disfigured manatee or an ungainly, over-sized mermaid. These memories aren't on camera, they're just mine, they belong only to me - and this is what I meant before about my material possessions being only 'things'. I've left the stuff at home, and each day become richer in everything else I own.
There's one very important thing that I've not mentioned yet because I've not found the time to write about it and also because I barely have the words to tell you how utterly and inexplicably perfect an experience it was. I cannot make it sound better than it was with fancy vocabulary so I'll just say it plainly... on Wednesday morning I spent an hour sat on the back of an elephant while he waked through the Jurassic Park inner-island jungle of Koh Chang. At the end of that hour I stripped to my bikini, climbed back on my elephant, and the two of us went swimming in a lagoon.
He loved the water, and while I gripped on tightly round his neck he kept diving deeply under the water, paddling away a metre below the surface with me his passenger awe-stuck and delighted clambering over his back. He was so gentle, this giant 3 tonnes beast, that when after a too forceful dive I slipped off, he came to the surface and placed his tusk under my foot so that I could use it a step to climb back up. I thought chasing the sunset on a motorbike was good, but swimming underwater on the back of an elephant was, and always will be, one of the most amazing things I have ever done in my life.
Now, and even an hour after it was over, I can't believe it happened. Thankfully my friend took photos so that one day my disbelief at this encounter will be disproved by photographic evidence. But we obviously couldn't get photos of his powerful, majestic form gliding through the still blue lagoon underwater, like a disfigured manatee or an ungainly, over-sized mermaid. These memories aren't on camera, they're just mine, they belong only to me - and this is what I meant before about my material possessions being only 'things'. I've left the stuff at home, and each day become richer in everything else I own.
Playing Lost
Friday 11th December 2009, 12pm, The Gulf of Thailand - somewhere or other.
After escaping the chaos of Bangkok for Koh Chang, our group of 5 have now escaped the hedonism of Koh Chang for the serenity of it's tiny neighbouring island, Koh Mak. With each journey I take I find myself somewhere more remote, a beach more beautiful than the last, an island less inhabited than the previous (Mak has 400 residents), a place more untouched by the backpacker trail and the tourist touts. This is where the Thais come on holiday, save for a few intrepid German holidaymakers we are the only Westerners on the island. I awoke from a beach doze yesterday afternoon and couldn't see another human being in either direction, this place is the definition of remote; as one of my friends said, 'I feel like I'm in Lost'.
Right now I'm sat on a speedboat moored 30 minutes from Mak's postcard coastline. We've spent the morning snorkeling round the coral reef which is teeming with fish and plant life of every shape, size and colour. I know that scuba divers sneer at snorkeling but I thought it was magical - like being a giant flying over an undiscovered alien city. I snorkeled in the Barrier Reef a few years ago and although I don't think anything can compete with that in terms of sheer vastness, this site per square metre (forgive the pun), blew it out the water - probably because this place is relatively unexplored and the coral remains unspoilt by human exploitation. My underwater travel writing is clearly even worse than my standard travel writing but basically (and forgive me again because this is my only available topical reference), it was pure Finding Nemo. Normally I'm a bit of a chicken about swimming in the sea as I spend my whole time in the water replaying the Jaws theme-tune in my head, but, you know, 'when in Rome...'. I refuse to miss out on these experiences just because I'm scared of becoming shark food.
Last night I felt the first niggling pangs of homesickness. It could be because I've been away for a couple of weeks now but I suspect it's more to do with the isolation of Koh Mak. The sense that I've never been further from home or those that love me, the void of man-made stimulation and the feeling that I'm Tom Hanks in Castaway, a contestant on Shipwrecked, a plane crash survivor stranded in a Bermuda triangle of space and time continuum. I am Lost.
I feel much more relaxed today though, it's hard not to in such a picturesque tropical paradise as this. I'm not an aficionado of the TV series (entirely due to my frustration, nae, ANGER, at the lack of explanation or concern over the presence of a Polar Bear in the first episode) but from talking to someone obsessed with the programme I gather that all the inhabitants of that island are drawn there for a reason, when they leave prematurely it disrupts the harmony and balance of the place because they are destined to be there. So I'm contentedly playing Lost today, believing that I'm where I'm meant to be, a pawn in destiny's chess game. Hey, last night I sat on the beach at dusk under a palm tree sipping milk from a fresh coconut... there are worse places the Universe could have marooned me.
After escaping the chaos of Bangkok for Koh Chang, our group of 5 have now escaped the hedonism of Koh Chang for the serenity of it's tiny neighbouring island, Koh Mak. With each journey I take I find myself somewhere more remote, a beach more beautiful than the last, an island less inhabited than the previous (Mak has 400 residents), a place more untouched by the backpacker trail and the tourist touts. This is where the Thais come on holiday, save for a few intrepid German holidaymakers we are the only Westerners on the island. I awoke from a beach doze yesterday afternoon and couldn't see another human being in either direction, this place is the definition of remote; as one of my friends said, 'I feel like I'm in Lost'.
Right now I'm sat on a speedboat moored 30 minutes from Mak's postcard coastline. We've spent the morning snorkeling round the coral reef which is teeming with fish and plant life of every shape, size and colour. I know that scuba divers sneer at snorkeling but I thought it was magical - like being a giant flying over an undiscovered alien city. I snorkeled in the Barrier Reef a few years ago and although I don't think anything can compete with that in terms of sheer vastness, this site per square metre (forgive the pun), blew it out the water - probably because this place is relatively unexplored and the coral remains unspoilt by human exploitation. My underwater travel writing is clearly even worse than my standard travel writing but basically (and forgive me again because this is my only available topical reference), it was pure Finding Nemo. Normally I'm a bit of a chicken about swimming in the sea as I spend my whole time in the water replaying the Jaws theme-tune in my head, but, you know, 'when in Rome...'. I refuse to miss out on these experiences just because I'm scared of becoming shark food.
Last night I felt the first niggling pangs of homesickness. It could be because I've been away for a couple of weeks now but I suspect it's more to do with the isolation of Koh Mak. The sense that I've never been further from home or those that love me, the void of man-made stimulation and the feeling that I'm Tom Hanks in Castaway, a contestant on Shipwrecked, a plane crash survivor stranded in a Bermuda triangle of space and time continuum. I am Lost.
I feel much more relaxed today though, it's hard not to in such a picturesque tropical paradise as this. I'm not an aficionado of the TV series (entirely due to my frustration, nae, ANGER, at the lack of explanation or concern over the presence of a Polar Bear in the first episode) but from talking to someone obsessed with the programme I gather that all the inhabitants of that island are drawn there for a reason, when they leave prematurely it disrupts the harmony and balance of the place because they are destined to be there. So I'm contentedly playing Lost today, believing that I'm where I'm meant to be, a pawn in destiny's chess game. Hey, last night I sat on the beach at dusk under a palm tree sipping milk from a fresh coconut... there are worse places the Universe could have marooned me.
One Side of the Scales
Thursday 10th December 2009, 4pm, the beach - Koh Mak
I have spent the past few days on the island of Koh Chang. Five hours drive and two hours ferry away from the madness of Bangkok myself and 3 others escaped to this lesser travelled island of palm trees, elephants and seriously chilled out guests. When docking at the pier on arrival my friend noted to me that 'this place looks so much like Jurassic Park it would be more surprising if dinosaurs didn't live here.' The island has a reputation in backpacker folklore as a hippy Mecca, on it's one stretch of idyllic sand - Lonely Beach - around 80% of the holidaymakers are dreadlocked, bamboo-tattooed, perma-tanned guitarists who sit around campfires at sunset and sing Bob Marley classics on their battered old Fenders. We met a 29 year old Geordie called Steven who had visited Koh Chang a few years back purely out of curiosity, on this visit he had the intention of staying for a week... 7 months later he was still there. He'd learnt the language, smoked a few too many ''herbal'' cigarettes and became a professional beach bum. Now he was back, for how long he doesn't know, and on Chang you get the impression that this backpacker testimony is no anomaly. There's a whole community of travellers who stopped travelling, because this is where they found that perfect red and lilac sunset they were looking for.
Two nights in a row for the first time since I've been away I was asleep before 11pm - the atmosphere there is just so conducive to rest and recuperation. On the second night myself and two others sat on our veranda and attempted to play cards; so spongy our brains had become by Koh Chang living however, none of us were quite able to recall all the rules of the game we were trying to teach the others and so we happily meandered our way through Crazy Eights, Rummy and Sevens not entirely sure of the purpose of the game or of how to win.
Don't get me wrong though, this place wasn't all early nights and boardgames. Apparently there's still very much something of the Woodstock generation running through these hippies veins - they love a party. More specifically they love a party in a swish beach resort decked out with wooden platforms, floor cushions and fountains, a party with a decent House DJ where the rum comes by the bucket, pink and green strobe lights flicker across bare, tanned skin, and the baccy is most definitely wacky. At around 3am this morning I was still at said party throwing some crazy shapes (read: over energetic, bad drunk dancing) with Victor and Tobin, a couple of friendly Swedish ravers, when I glanced around and realised that I'd merrily waved my little group goodbye and off to bed with my bungalow key some time before.
After making my apologies to the Swedes (who were of course devastated to be missing out on more of my stellar dancefloor groove busters) I wandered on the beach track home, only to be adopted by an Essex boy called Kenny (those friggin' Essex get everywhere don't they) and a Canadian boy called Rob, who were concerned that I was on my own. Kenny and Rob had only met each other the previous evening and had bonded late at night on the beach over a shared love of kayak theft. This hadn't quite worked out for them - on getting the stolen kayak out to sea having only their hands as oars they suddenly wondered why being in the ocean at night and drunk had seemed like such a good idea. They paddled frantically back to shore and then carried on their male bonding over their new common ground - near death experience by kayak misadventure. What genuinely lovely boys, very funny, self-deprecating, considerate, and just the kind of people you always hope you'll be fortunate enough to meet when walking home alone in the early hours. Rejecting sleep in favour of their company the three of us sat until 7.30am this morning drinking beer, playing with beach puppies and talking about home comforts, future plans and old flames. By 9am I was on a boat again, heading to my current destination. After too much alcohol, no sleep and no food, strapping a 14k bag to my weary back in the sweltering heat and getting on a rickety old boat meant that I felt decidedly sorry for myself this morning. I think though that the hangover price was more than paid for by such an unexpected encounter with kind strangers.
Three days on Koh Chang was enough for me, I had no intention of pitching a tent and throwing away my hairbrush. Very unusually for me I took a bit of an instant disliking to the Geordie and found it difficult to talk to him for too long. This was for a variety of reasons that don't need going in to, but I think it was mainly because I can't trust or respect someone who can find all the fulfillment they need for 7 months on one stretch of beach. This is where the gallivanting and goodness equation presents itself. Beach living with the hippies might be great fun, but for me it weighs the scales too heavily in one direction - equilibrium is the key, Cambodia may be the answer.
I have spent the past few days on the island of Koh Chang. Five hours drive and two hours ferry away from the madness of Bangkok myself and 3 others escaped to this lesser travelled island of palm trees, elephants and seriously chilled out guests. When docking at the pier on arrival my friend noted to me that 'this place looks so much like Jurassic Park it would be more surprising if dinosaurs didn't live here.' The island has a reputation in backpacker folklore as a hippy Mecca, on it's one stretch of idyllic sand - Lonely Beach - around 80% of the holidaymakers are dreadlocked, bamboo-tattooed, perma-tanned guitarists who sit around campfires at sunset and sing Bob Marley classics on their battered old Fenders. We met a 29 year old Geordie called Steven who had visited Koh Chang a few years back purely out of curiosity, on this visit he had the intention of staying for a week... 7 months later he was still there. He'd learnt the language, smoked a few too many ''herbal'' cigarettes and became a professional beach bum. Now he was back, for how long he doesn't know, and on Chang you get the impression that this backpacker testimony is no anomaly. There's a whole community of travellers who stopped travelling, because this is where they found that perfect red and lilac sunset they were looking for.
Two nights in a row for the first time since I've been away I was asleep before 11pm - the atmosphere there is just so conducive to rest and recuperation. On the second night myself and two others sat on our veranda and attempted to play cards; so spongy our brains had become by Koh Chang living however, none of us were quite able to recall all the rules of the game we were trying to teach the others and so we happily meandered our way through Crazy Eights, Rummy and Sevens not entirely sure of the purpose of the game or of how to win.
Don't get me wrong though, this place wasn't all early nights and boardgames. Apparently there's still very much something of the Woodstock generation running through these hippies veins - they love a party. More specifically they love a party in a swish beach resort decked out with wooden platforms, floor cushions and fountains, a party with a decent House DJ where the rum comes by the bucket, pink and green strobe lights flicker across bare, tanned skin, and the baccy is most definitely wacky. At around 3am this morning I was still at said party throwing some crazy shapes (read: over energetic, bad drunk dancing) with Victor and Tobin, a couple of friendly Swedish ravers, when I glanced around and realised that I'd merrily waved my little group goodbye and off to bed with my bungalow key some time before.
After making my apologies to the Swedes (who were of course devastated to be missing out on more of my stellar dancefloor groove busters) I wandered on the beach track home, only to be adopted by an Essex boy called Kenny (those friggin' Essex get everywhere don't they) and a Canadian boy called Rob, who were concerned that I was on my own. Kenny and Rob had only met each other the previous evening and had bonded late at night on the beach over a shared love of kayak theft. This hadn't quite worked out for them - on getting the stolen kayak out to sea having only their hands as oars they suddenly wondered why being in the ocean at night and drunk had seemed like such a good idea. They paddled frantically back to shore and then carried on their male bonding over their new common ground - near death experience by kayak misadventure. What genuinely lovely boys, very funny, self-deprecating, considerate, and just the kind of people you always hope you'll be fortunate enough to meet when walking home alone in the early hours. Rejecting sleep in favour of their company the three of us sat until 7.30am this morning drinking beer, playing with beach puppies and talking about home comforts, future plans and old flames. By 9am I was on a boat again, heading to my current destination. After too much alcohol, no sleep and no food, strapping a 14k bag to my weary back in the sweltering heat and getting on a rickety old boat meant that I felt decidedly sorry for myself this morning. I think though that the hangover price was more than paid for by such an unexpected encounter with kind strangers.
Three days on Koh Chang was enough for me, I had no intention of pitching a tent and throwing away my hairbrush. Very unusually for me I took a bit of an instant disliking to the Geordie and found it difficult to talk to him for too long. This was for a variety of reasons that don't need going in to, but I think it was mainly because I can't trust or respect someone who can find all the fulfillment they need for 7 months on one stretch of beach. This is where the gallivanting and goodness equation presents itself. Beach living with the hippies might be great fun, but for me it weighs the scales too heavily in one direction - equilibrium is the key, Cambodia may be the answer.
Wednesday 9 December 2009
Building Me a Ghost House
Tuesday 8th December 2009, 2.30pm, Lonely Beach - Koh Chang
In Thailand the majority of homes have Spirit Houses attached to them. Just outside the front door, or somewhere in the grounds of the property there are miniature wooden houses that resemble doll's houses. I have seen some decorated with shells, flowers and lights but I think that the grandeur of the property is reflected in the style of the Spirit House - our modest little beach bungalow has one in front of the veranda that looks like a bird house.
The point of these Spirit Houses is to rid ghosts and ghouls from the home residence by giving the spectres somewhere else to live outside the main house. As in, 'we're happy you're here, you're part of us, this is the house we have provided for you, please go live there and leave us be.' I like this quirky little piece of Thai culture, sure it's superstitious and a bit nonsense but it seems synonymous to me with the welcoming, accepting, peaceful nature of the Thai people. I'm also fond of this phenomenon because it is a practical solution to a problem - don't want ghosts in your house? Easy - build them their own place to stay.
I could do with a few more practical solutions myself. There have been many times when my own metaphorical little Spirit House, my practical solution, would have come in handy - attached not to my house, but to me. Maybe I'll develop one in time (I think it will look like a white wooden jewellery box I had as a child, it was lined with pink velvet and a motor spun a tiny ballerina and played a tune every time you opened the lid). Somewhere to put things about me that I don't like, things that scare or upset me, or people and times that are hard to remember but harder to forget - shove the hauntings in the Spirit House.
This sounds like repression doesn't it. I'm sure Freud would have much to say about my desire for a 'bad things box'. The Spirit House is still part of the main house though, it belongs to the home owner, you always know it's there - it just sits handily far enough away for it not to intrude. I'll try and find a Thai person who speaks enough English that I may ask them what they think of metaphorical person-attached Spirit Houses. Although I think I already know, much worse than superstitious nonsense... self-indulgent bullshit! I don't care, bullshit or not, Thai-influenced practical solutions are not to be sniffed at. 'I'm happy you're here, you're part of me, here is the white wooden jewellery box I have provided for you, please go live there and leave me be.'
In Thailand the majority of homes have Spirit Houses attached to them. Just outside the front door, or somewhere in the grounds of the property there are miniature wooden houses that resemble doll's houses. I have seen some decorated with shells, flowers and lights but I think that the grandeur of the property is reflected in the style of the Spirit House - our modest little beach bungalow has one in front of the veranda that looks like a bird house.
The point of these Spirit Houses is to rid ghosts and ghouls from the home residence by giving the spectres somewhere else to live outside the main house. As in, 'we're happy you're here, you're part of us, this is the house we have provided for you, please go live there and leave us be.' I like this quirky little piece of Thai culture, sure it's superstitious and a bit nonsense but it seems synonymous to me with the welcoming, accepting, peaceful nature of the Thai people. I'm also fond of this phenomenon because it is a practical solution to a problem - don't want ghosts in your house? Easy - build them their own place to stay.
I could do with a few more practical solutions myself. There have been many times when my own metaphorical little Spirit House, my practical solution, would have come in handy - attached not to my house, but to me. Maybe I'll develop one in time (I think it will look like a white wooden jewellery box I had as a child, it was lined with pink velvet and a motor spun a tiny ballerina and played a tune every time you opened the lid). Somewhere to put things about me that I don't like, things that scare or upset me, or people and times that are hard to remember but harder to forget - shove the hauntings in the Spirit House.
This sounds like repression doesn't it. I'm sure Freud would have much to say about my desire for a 'bad things box'. The Spirit House is still part of the main house though, it belongs to the home owner, you always know it's there - it just sits handily far enough away for it not to intrude. I'll try and find a Thai person who speaks enough English that I may ask them what they think of metaphorical person-attached Spirit Houses. Although I think I already know, much worse than superstitious nonsense... self-indulgent bullshit! I don't care, bullshit or not, Thai-influenced practical solutions are not to be sniffed at. 'I'm happy you're here, you're part of me, here is the white wooden jewellery box I have provided for you, please go live there and leave me be.'
One Night in Bangkok
Sunday 6th December 2009, 3am, Kohsaon Road Hostel - Bangkok
Tonight I chased the sunset on the back of a motorbike. Through the crowds and chaos and celebration on the King's birthday along the treacherous highways, roundabouts ands underpasses of Bangkok. I chased the sunset on a motorbike, and caught up with it from the 22nd floor rooftop garden of a condo apartment in the city. I chased the sunset on a motorbike.
I have yet to experience the mountain hikes, forest treks and wildlife walks that I know South East Asia has to offer but surely this, Bangkok, is the true jungle. A techni-colour metropolis that attacks the senses, a vibrant, living breathing sweating shouting organ of a city. If Koh Phangan was the heart, then Bangkok is the throbbing pulse - surging blood through the sewers so that the whole place rumbles and writhes beneath your feet. I have spent a lot of my life in cities; Belfast, Cardiff, Paris, Hong Kong, Sydney, Nairobi and of course my native London - but never before have I seen a city with such overwhelming character and exuberance as Bangkok. Food, music, traffic, tuk-tuks, lady boys, football, cooking, bartering, selling, shopping, fighting, flirting, drinking, carnage... the people do not live in the city, they are the city, and the city is it's people. This is when I wished I had any real talent for writing, travel writing in particular, because I know that my paltry attempts only do this place a complete injustice. Best not to take my inadequate words for it, come here and see it yourself.
Myself, the companion and a new friend arrived here after an uncomfortable overnight journey in the early hours of Saturday morning, purposefully on time for Bangkok's biggest public holiday and proudest cause for a party - the birthday of their beloved and decrepit King who it seems they adore whole-heartedly and for good reason. An insider and emigrant to the city informs me that the current 84 year old monarch has unified the banks and the military, brought stability to the economy and has been a force for peace amongst his people. Being woefully ignorant of Thai politics all I can say is this: if the party on the Kohsaon Road tonight is anything to go by then this man is doing a bloody good job.
After an afternoon revelling in this atmosphere - singing and dancing, carnival parades, the whole city adorned with banners, shrines and fairy lights and every local wearing a pink t-shirt (the King's favourite colour) - our group of six headed to the condo belonging to one of the party so that we could watch the sunset and the firework display from a good view. Good view Grace? No, BEST view. A firework display bigger than the Beijing Olympics and New Years' Eve in Sydney put together, twenty million people, all 22 floors below me rejoicing in the birth of a man they love in the most animated city in the world; I watched on with wonderful friends old and new, drowning my insides in Thai whiskey and probably happily weeping a bit actually. The King's birthday? I felt like it was mine.
I only got on the back of the motorbike because we were desperate to get to the roof garden in time for sunset. One of the group hailed a few Thai men riding motorbikes and asked them if for a small fee we could taxi on the back of them to avoid the congestion, so on I hopped with my new Thai friend and now, life-protector. I would usually avoid this kind of activity not because of fear but because I am well acquainted with my knack for falling off things/tripping up/banging my head - balancing on a motorbike at 90km/h through rush hour traffic seemed like taunting the Grim Reaper. I didn't die though, I lived, and lived better, more tangibly than I have in a long time. I'll be returning to Bangkok at the end of January, and plan to tease the Grim Reaper rotten with my new penchant for feeling the wind through my hair from the back of a motorbike taxi. What a truly incredible day, how undeservedly blessed I feel.
Tonight I chased the sunset on the back of a motorbike. Through the crowds and chaos and celebration on the King's birthday along the treacherous highways, roundabouts ands underpasses of Bangkok. I chased the sunset on a motorbike, and caught up with it from the 22nd floor rooftop garden of a condo apartment in the city. I chased the sunset on a motorbike.
I have yet to experience the mountain hikes, forest treks and wildlife walks that I know South East Asia has to offer but surely this, Bangkok, is the true jungle. A techni-colour metropolis that attacks the senses, a vibrant, living breathing sweating shouting organ of a city. If Koh Phangan was the heart, then Bangkok is the throbbing pulse - surging blood through the sewers so that the whole place rumbles and writhes beneath your feet. I have spent a lot of my life in cities; Belfast, Cardiff, Paris, Hong Kong, Sydney, Nairobi and of course my native London - but never before have I seen a city with such overwhelming character and exuberance as Bangkok. Food, music, traffic, tuk-tuks, lady boys, football, cooking, bartering, selling, shopping, fighting, flirting, drinking, carnage... the people do not live in the city, they are the city, and the city is it's people. This is when I wished I had any real talent for writing, travel writing in particular, because I know that my paltry attempts only do this place a complete injustice. Best not to take my inadequate words for it, come here and see it yourself.
Myself, the companion and a new friend arrived here after an uncomfortable overnight journey in the early hours of Saturday morning, purposefully on time for Bangkok's biggest public holiday and proudest cause for a party - the birthday of their beloved and decrepit King who it seems they adore whole-heartedly and for good reason. An insider and emigrant to the city informs me that the current 84 year old monarch has unified the banks and the military, brought stability to the economy and has been a force for peace amongst his people. Being woefully ignorant of Thai politics all I can say is this: if the party on the Kohsaon Road tonight is anything to go by then this man is doing a bloody good job.
After an afternoon revelling in this atmosphere - singing and dancing, carnival parades, the whole city adorned with banners, shrines and fairy lights and every local wearing a pink t-shirt (the King's favourite colour) - our group of six headed to the condo belonging to one of the party so that we could watch the sunset and the firework display from a good view. Good view Grace? No, BEST view. A firework display bigger than the Beijing Olympics and New Years' Eve in Sydney put together, twenty million people, all 22 floors below me rejoicing in the birth of a man they love in the most animated city in the world; I watched on with wonderful friends old and new, drowning my insides in Thai whiskey and probably happily weeping a bit actually. The King's birthday? I felt like it was mine.
I only got on the back of the motorbike because we were desperate to get to the roof garden in time for sunset. One of the group hailed a few Thai men riding motorbikes and asked them if for a small fee we could taxi on the back of them to avoid the congestion, so on I hopped with my new Thai friend and now, life-protector. I would usually avoid this kind of activity not because of fear but because I am well acquainted with my knack for falling off things/tripping up/banging my head - balancing on a motorbike at 90km/h through rush hour traffic seemed like taunting the Grim Reaper. I didn't die though, I lived, and lived better, more tangibly than I have in a long time. I'll be returning to Bangkok at the end of January, and plan to tease the Grim Reaper rotten with my new penchant for feeling the wind through my hair from the back of a motorbike taxi. What a truly incredible day, how undeservedly blessed I feel.
Thursday 3 December 2009
Carry It With You
Friday 4th December 2009, 6.30am, Haad Rin Beach - Koh Phangan
I am beginning to think that the hardest thing about travelling will be the need to leave each place in order to get to the new one. You can't have it all, you can only find new destinations, new experiences and new people that make you happy by leaving others behind. I am as yet ill-equipped for this necessary but painful string of impending goodbyes and imagine that days spent in transit, in traveller's purgatory, will be the most difficult. Essentially the sour part of the bittersweet forward journey.
Myself and the companion arrived in Koh Phangan 4 days ago, but if you told me I'd been here for 4 months I would probably just nod my silly head and say yes, that sounds about right, but have I not always been here? And where is this Romford you speak of? As planned we met up with my drinking partner of 2 months ago from that afternoon in the pub on Globe Road, he who holds partial responsibility for my quarter-life crisis and therefore, current location. We have spent 4 days of near bliss celebrating the Full Moon with him and a group of fantastic people he's with, along with about 10,000 other neon-painted, fire-dancing, bucket-drinking revellers. I've barely moved from the beach (which is of course, a beach the kind of which travel agents' dreams and bank balances are made - soft white sand, cobalt blue sea, palm trees, and during the day quiet desertion) and now I find myself here again, unable to sleep, nonplussed by mosquitoes, sand and rapidly approaching tide as our friends go already greatly missed on their way to Malaysia.
I head to Bangkok later today via boat and overnight coach and will be meeting one of my all time favourite people there who is, joyfully for me, spending a couple of weeks of her annual leave in my back-pocket, where she belongs. I am very excited to see her and spend time with her in Thailand, the last time we saw each other a week ago (or was it 2 months? 3 years?) was on a freezing cold, rainy street corner in Bethnal Green - it would be fair to say we're upgrading. Despite my anticipation to see her though, I am undoubtedly sad that I cannot take everything and everyone else with me.
This is probably why I departed London on Saturday laden with photo keyrings and bracelets and pendants and 'good luck' charms given to me by loved ones - they'll sit idly in my already overly heavy backpack for the next year not because they are useful - but because I have trouble letting go and saying goodbye. I'd like to think though that I'm not the only soppy sod in South East Asia, or beyond. As much as I take things along on my journey, I know that there are others who have with them photos, gifts given, letters written, dresses lent, useless bag-filling tat or just fond memories - that means they are carrying me. Surely everyone's backpack would feel lighter knowing that you yourself sit idly but treasured in the bottom of someone else's.
I am beginning to think that the hardest thing about travelling will be the need to leave each place in order to get to the new one. You can't have it all, you can only find new destinations, new experiences and new people that make you happy by leaving others behind. I am as yet ill-equipped for this necessary but painful string of impending goodbyes and imagine that days spent in transit, in traveller's purgatory, will be the most difficult. Essentially the sour part of the bittersweet forward journey.
Myself and the companion arrived in Koh Phangan 4 days ago, but if you told me I'd been here for 4 months I would probably just nod my silly head and say yes, that sounds about right, but have I not always been here? And where is this Romford you speak of? As planned we met up with my drinking partner of 2 months ago from that afternoon in the pub on Globe Road, he who holds partial responsibility for my quarter-life crisis and therefore, current location. We have spent 4 days of near bliss celebrating the Full Moon with him and a group of fantastic people he's with, along with about 10,000 other neon-painted, fire-dancing, bucket-drinking revellers. I've barely moved from the beach (which is of course, a beach the kind of which travel agents' dreams and bank balances are made - soft white sand, cobalt blue sea, palm trees, and during the day quiet desertion) and now I find myself here again, unable to sleep, nonplussed by mosquitoes, sand and rapidly approaching tide as our friends go already greatly missed on their way to Malaysia.
I head to Bangkok later today via boat and overnight coach and will be meeting one of my all time favourite people there who is, joyfully for me, spending a couple of weeks of her annual leave in my back-pocket, where she belongs. I am very excited to see her and spend time with her in Thailand, the last time we saw each other a week ago (or was it 2 months? 3 years?) was on a freezing cold, rainy street corner in Bethnal Green - it would be fair to say we're upgrading. Despite my anticipation to see her though, I am undoubtedly sad that I cannot take everything and everyone else with me.
This is probably why I departed London on Saturday laden with photo keyrings and bracelets and pendants and 'good luck' charms given to me by loved ones - they'll sit idly in my already overly heavy backpack for the next year not because they are useful - but because I have trouble letting go and saying goodbye. I'd like to think though that I'm not the only soppy sod in South East Asia, or beyond. As much as I take things along on my journey, I know that there are others who have with them photos, gifts given, letters written, dresses lent, useless bag-filling tat or just fond memories - that means they are carrying me. Surely everyone's backpack would feel lighter knowing that you yourself sit idly but treasured in the bottom of someone else's.
Every Cloud...
Wednesday 2nd December 2009, 5pm, Haad Rin Beach - Koh Phangan
I woke up this morning to discover that I had lost my debit card. Apparently, Grace, tucked into your strapless bikini top is not such a safe storage facility as first thought. In addition, getting drunk on Thai rum mixed with a variety of Red Bull not dissimilar to liquid amphetamine then dancing on the beach all night is not as tight a security measure as hoped. Who knew?
I woke up from 2 hours or so of sandy, tangled sleep on afore-mentioned beach only when the tide came in and soaked my bare, flip-flop missing feet, then later on I stumbled clumsily into town to complete the obligatory bank-phoning responsibilities. I wasn't overly concerned as I have another debit card/a different bank account/online access to transfer funds - sensible contingency plans that were painstakingly laid in place over the past couple of weeks; cancel one card, use other, simple. Or at least it would have been had the ATM not swiftly swallowed my contingency plan. This is more problematic.
Back home this kind of mishap would make me angry, upset, and panicked. Over here it would figure that these emotions might be heightened, given that travelling indefinitely can be difficult without access to funds. In my pre-travelling fears this is the kind of situation I imagined with horror. Lo and behold however, I couldn't care less. I won't bore you with the description of my new contingency plan - it did however involve credit cards, a useful Nationwide employee, half an hour on the internet and helpful Thai bank staff. But before this course of action was set upon I couldn't quite muster the expected sense of rising dread, I barely flinched, I was uncharacteristically unfazed and I knew everything would be OK. Because here, everything is OK, everything feels like an adventure, and I know this might be tempting fate to say it, but I feel as though there are very few things that could happen here which would truly unsettle or distress me. They must be lacing the air with sedatives.
Another frequently re-occuring concern of mine before coming away was 'what will I do if my backpack is stolen from a dormitory?!!' Those of you who know about my shopping habits and wardrobe volume might want to sit yourselves down for this next statement, but... it's only things. Things that don't initiate or inspire or sustain my happiness, things that are replaceable, and things which have never saved me from misery before.
I'm not a sap and I'm not naive, I don't have a tendancy to over-sentimentalise or an inclination towards optimism. It's just that here it's the whole cloud, and not just the lining, that seems silver.
I woke up this morning to discover that I had lost my debit card. Apparently, Grace, tucked into your strapless bikini top is not such a safe storage facility as first thought. In addition, getting drunk on Thai rum mixed with a variety of Red Bull not dissimilar to liquid amphetamine then dancing on the beach all night is not as tight a security measure as hoped. Who knew?
I woke up from 2 hours or so of sandy, tangled sleep on afore-mentioned beach only when the tide came in and soaked my bare, flip-flop missing feet, then later on I stumbled clumsily into town to complete the obligatory bank-phoning responsibilities. I wasn't overly concerned as I have another debit card/a different bank account/online access to transfer funds - sensible contingency plans that were painstakingly laid in place over the past couple of weeks; cancel one card, use other, simple. Or at least it would have been had the ATM not swiftly swallowed my contingency plan. This is more problematic.
Back home this kind of mishap would make me angry, upset, and panicked. Over here it would figure that these emotions might be heightened, given that travelling indefinitely can be difficult without access to funds. In my pre-travelling fears this is the kind of situation I imagined with horror. Lo and behold however, I couldn't care less. I won't bore you with the description of my new contingency plan - it did however involve credit cards, a useful Nationwide employee, half an hour on the internet and helpful Thai bank staff. But before this course of action was set upon I couldn't quite muster the expected sense of rising dread, I barely flinched, I was uncharacteristically unfazed and I knew everything would be OK. Because here, everything is OK, everything feels like an adventure, and I know this might be tempting fate to say it, but I feel as though there are very few things that could happen here which would truly unsettle or distress me. They must be lacing the air with sedatives.
Another frequently re-occuring concern of mine before coming away was 'what will I do if my backpack is stolen from a dormitory?!!' Those of you who know about my shopping habits and wardrobe volume might want to sit yourselves down for this next statement, but... it's only things. Things that don't initiate or inspire or sustain my happiness, things that are replaceable, and things which have never saved me from misery before.
I'm not a sap and I'm not naive, I don't have a tendancy to over-sentimentalise or an inclination towards optimism. It's just that here it's the whole cloud, and not just the lining, that seems silver.
Monday 30 November 2009
Administration Issues
Sunday 29th November 2009, 10pm, Koh Samui.
You'll have to forgive the mismatched dates and times of these posts. Inevitably whenever I want to write I am nowhere near a computer and so will have to type up these 'live feeds' when possible. As long as I remember to include the actual date and time of writing it hopefully shouldn't become too confusing.
Now, for example, I am sat on a bench in the foyer of Koh Samui airport waiting for my travelling companion to arrive. I much prefer to write things in my notebook as and when it's happening - it feels as though I am including you in my experience; carrying you around with me in my backpack and talking to you about it then and there. Much more favourable than a somewhat detached, ill-remembered retelling, I hope you agree.
The notebook in question is a travel journal bought for me by a friend and given to me on my birthday last year. Her inscription in the front cover reads, ''Happy 22nd Beautiful! Now there's no excuse... Love Always.' I am 23 years and 5 months old, and am very glad on this balmy, peaceful evening on Koh Samui to have finally put this notebook to the use for which it was lovingly intended.
You'll have to forgive the mismatched dates and times of these posts. Inevitably whenever I want to write I am nowhere near a computer and so will have to type up these 'live feeds' when possible. As long as I remember to include the actual date and time of writing it hopefully shouldn't become too confusing.
Now, for example, I am sat on a bench in the foyer of Koh Samui airport waiting for my travelling companion to arrive. I much prefer to write things in my notebook as and when it's happening - it feels as though I am including you in my experience; carrying you around with me in my backpack and talking to you about it then and there. Much more favourable than a somewhat detached, ill-remembered retelling, I hope you agree.
The notebook in question is a travel journal bought for me by a friend and given to me on my birthday last year. Her inscription in the front cover reads, ''Happy 22nd Beautiful! Now there's no excuse... Love Always.' I am 23 years and 5 months old, and am very glad on this balmy, peaceful evening on Koh Samui to have finally put this notebook to the use for which it was lovingly intended.
L.O.L.
Sunday 29th November 2009, 7pm, Bangkok.
I had 11 hours to kill on the flight to Bangkok, so decided to watch Sacha Baron Cohen's Bruno. I'd loved Borat but never got round to seeing the next one in the cinema. I have friends who won't watch a comedy at the cinema with me because I laugh too loudly and Í've always thought their embarassment misplaced and maybe unfair! However, I'm starting to think they may have a point.
Man that film was funny. I laughed like I was on my own, I flinched, I covered my face in my hands, I squealed, and I prayed that no one in the seats adjacent to mine was peering across at my screen during the numerous gay sex scenes or gratuitous close-up penis shots. Thankfully for my modesty though, most other passengers were fast asleep whilst I flew over Kabul, cackling at bondage incidents and Mexican furniture people.
Not everyone was asleep though. A male air steward on the night shift was quite visibly delighted by my own animated display - so much so that he spent the duration of the film and indeed the remainder of the flight after that sneaking me exclusive and delicious treats from the 1st class kitchen without any request or need for hinting from myself. So while I chewed away on Green & Black's dark chocolate and Parma ham salad and pineapple pudding, he told me that it was nice to see someone enjoy themself, and he liked that I'm 'not afraid to laugh out loud'.
Far more scary, I told him, to never find anything to laugh about, to be able to contain yourself - that is something to be really afraid of. Then he went away and brought me back some ice cream and a big mug of coffee - a kindred spirit I think.
I had 11 hours to kill on the flight to Bangkok, so decided to watch Sacha Baron Cohen's Bruno. I'd loved Borat but never got round to seeing the next one in the cinema. I have friends who won't watch a comedy at the cinema with me because I laugh too loudly and Í've always thought their embarassment misplaced and maybe unfair! However, I'm starting to think they may have a point.
Man that film was funny. I laughed like I was on my own, I flinched, I covered my face in my hands, I squealed, and I prayed that no one in the seats adjacent to mine was peering across at my screen during the numerous gay sex scenes or gratuitous close-up penis shots. Thankfully for my modesty though, most other passengers were fast asleep whilst I flew over Kabul, cackling at bondage incidents and Mexican furniture people.
Not everyone was asleep though. A male air steward on the night shift was quite visibly delighted by my own animated display - so much so that he spent the duration of the film and indeed the remainder of the flight after that sneaking me exclusive and delicious treats from the 1st class kitchen without any request or need for hinting from myself. So while I chewed away on Green & Black's dark chocolate and Parma ham salad and pineapple pudding, he told me that it was nice to see someone enjoy themself, and he liked that I'm 'not afraid to laugh out loud'.
Far more scary, I told him, to never find anything to laugh about, to be able to contain yourself - that is something to be really afraid of. Then he went away and brought me back some ice cream and a big mug of coffee - a kindred spirit I think.
Sunday 29 November 2009
Destiny and The Wizard of Oz
Sunday 29th November 2009, 2am, trans-atlantic.
On Saturday morning I went for coffee (medio, Americano, black, no sugar - it was all I could stomach but it made me shake) with a friend (primo, Hot Chocolate, whipped cream, sugar, chocolate croissant - made of stronger stomach and faster metabolism than me) and she asked me if i believe if anything is ever meant to be. If the things we had planned for ourselves today don't work out will the universe conspire with fate and re-align itself to offer us the same opportunity in a month, a year, a decade from now? Will everything that is meant to happen to us happen, despite our own decisions and diversions?
I would like to believe that I am being steered, that something or someone wiser than me is keeping me on a path, a Yellow Brick Road, placing my feet firmly one in front of the other as I blindly stumble forwards. Que sera sera, whatever will be will be, the future's not ours to see... so I'll just carry on moving and trust that I'm being pointed in the right direction.
Right now though, as I sit scribbling this in my notebook from my Economy seat on flight QF2 to Bangkok; I feel as though I have abandoned my luggage, skipped off the path, spat on the Keep Off The Grass sign and cheerily waved all manner of Scarecrows and Tin Men and Lions goodbye (which incidentally encapsulates quite succinctly all 3 categories of the majority of my previous dating partners - either no brain, no heart or no courage). I'm hoping that despite my drastic and unexpected change of course, everything that is meant to happen to me will happen, and maybe already is. Hell, if this is a misjudged foray off the the path then I know there will be people to pull me back, and possibly some stronger force than people to keep laying yellow bricks in front of my feet - in whichever direction I wander.
I told my friend that I didn't know. That I am a cynic, an amateur star gazer, a half-hearted philosopher, a failed Christian and a really appalling physicist - no authority on destiny. What I should have said is, have faith my darling, and hope that the pain you are currently feeling is only a precursor to the relief and the joy you will feel when you have walked far enough to get everything you deserve and want. Have faith that something or someone can see where you're walking, and knows better than you.
As for me, today: not quite at the Emerald City and definitely no longer in Kansas. Just rolling about getting drunk on poppy fumes (actually, inexhaustible supplies of Qantas' complimentary sparkling wine) wondering if I'm doing the right thing. Soon to discover I imagine, that for better or worse, there's no place like home.
On Saturday morning I went for coffee (medio, Americano, black, no sugar - it was all I could stomach but it made me shake) with a friend (primo, Hot Chocolate, whipped cream, sugar, chocolate croissant - made of stronger stomach and faster metabolism than me) and she asked me if i believe if anything is ever meant to be. If the things we had planned for ourselves today don't work out will the universe conspire with fate and re-align itself to offer us the same opportunity in a month, a year, a decade from now? Will everything that is meant to happen to us happen, despite our own decisions and diversions?
I would like to believe that I am being steered, that something or someone wiser than me is keeping me on a path, a Yellow Brick Road, placing my feet firmly one in front of the other as I blindly stumble forwards. Que sera sera, whatever will be will be, the future's not ours to see... so I'll just carry on moving and trust that I'm being pointed in the right direction.
Right now though, as I sit scribbling this in my notebook from my Economy seat on flight QF2 to Bangkok; I feel as though I have abandoned my luggage, skipped off the path, spat on the Keep Off The Grass sign and cheerily waved all manner of Scarecrows and Tin Men and Lions goodbye (which incidentally encapsulates quite succinctly all 3 categories of the majority of my previous dating partners - either no brain, no heart or no courage). I'm hoping that despite my drastic and unexpected change of course, everything that is meant to happen to me will happen, and maybe already is. Hell, if this is a misjudged foray off the the path then I know there will be people to pull me back, and possibly some stronger force than people to keep laying yellow bricks in front of my feet - in whichever direction I wander.
I told my friend that I didn't know. That I am a cynic, an amateur star gazer, a half-hearted philosopher, a failed Christian and a really appalling physicist - no authority on destiny. What I should have said is, have faith my darling, and hope that the pain you are currently feeling is only a precursor to the relief and the joy you will feel when you have walked far enough to get everything you deserve and want. Have faith that something or someone can see where you're walking, and knows better than you.
As for me, today: not quite at the Emerald City and definitely no longer in Kansas. Just rolling about getting drunk on poppy fumes (actually, inexhaustible supplies of Qantas' complimentary sparkling wine) wondering if I'm doing the right thing. Soon to discover I imagine, that for better or worse, there's no place like home.
Friday 27 November 2009
An Attempt at Explanation
Tomorrow evening I will be getting on a plane to Bangkok and I do not know when I will next touch down on English soil. I have a return ticket booked, for the 18th June next year, but I also have a Visa that means I do not need to leave Australia on this day or indeed for many days after that, if it doesn't suit me. I would say "I'll definitely be back, sure, I'll miss everyone too much to stay away longer". However, nothing seems that sure anymore.
Just 8 weeks ago I was employed in a job that I loved, devoting all my time to my friends and family, planning short-break holidays to the Maldives, viewing flats off Brick Lane and weekending with loved ones in Canterbury, attempting to resuscitate long dead romantic relationships and making a list of hobbies that I thought I should master in the next 12 months; just merrily going about the life that had grown and bloomed around me. Then I spent an inconspicuous inebriated Sunday afternoon in a favourite pub on the Globe Road with a friend who was soon to travel around Asia, and decided that I too felt like stepping out of the soil, right onto runway tarmac.
I partly blame his enthusiasm and restless anticipation about his own adventure for my sudden decision to 'up and leave'. But I know that's not really the reason I made such a spontaneous dash to the travel agent the next day. I have a passion for Gallivanting and a yearning for Goodness. I have mastered the art of enjoying myself - travel, parties, drinking, dancing, irresponsibility and occasional debauchery. I also know that there's more than this, and set off tomorrow to find it. So, you see my friends this is why I can only call this an attempt to explain. I hope it becomes clearer to me and you both while I travel and write and write about travel. At least it finally got me blogging. xxx
Just 8 weeks ago I was employed in a job that I loved, devoting all my time to my friends and family, planning short-break holidays to the Maldives, viewing flats off Brick Lane and weekending with loved ones in Canterbury, attempting to resuscitate long dead romantic relationships and making a list of hobbies that I thought I should master in the next 12 months; just merrily going about the life that had grown and bloomed around me. Then I spent an inconspicuous inebriated Sunday afternoon in a favourite pub on the Globe Road with a friend who was soon to travel around Asia, and decided that I too felt like stepping out of the soil, right onto runway tarmac.
I partly blame his enthusiasm and restless anticipation about his own adventure for my sudden decision to 'up and leave'. But I know that's not really the reason I made such a spontaneous dash to the travel agent the next day. I have a passion for Gallivanting and a yearning for Goodness. I have mastered the art of enjoying myself - travel, parties, drinking, dancing, irresponsibility and occasional debauchery. I also know that there's more than this, and set off tomorrow to find it. So, you see my friends this is why I can only call this an attempt to explain. I hope it becomes clearer to me and you both while I travel and write and write about travel. At least it finally got me blogging. xxx
'Goodness but not greatness. How can she go on living her life knowing what she knows, that women are excluded from greatness, and most of the bloody time they choose to be excluded? Going on their little tiny trips instead of striking out on voyages.... The voyage out, yes.'
Unless, Carol Shields.
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