Tuesday 16th March 2010, 7.10pm, Frienz Guesthouse, Christchurch, South Island - New Zealand
When you tell people at home that you plan to spend 3 and a half months of your life in South East Asia and Indonesia it tends to raise a few eyebrows, especially from the older generation. Amongst warning me to keep an eye on my wallet and not to wander off anywhere with strange men, the thing that most people over a certain age were keen to tell me is that I should prepare myself for a culture shock. But I was never shocked. I went to those countries because I craved difference, I yearned for things I had never seen, unfamiliar customs, strange languages, untasted food and foreign weather. That's what I was searching for. The real surprise, the jolting shock to my system, has been to return to a culture of familiarity, to come back to the world that used to be real to me, here in Christchurch, on New Zealand's South island.
Christchurch is a picture perfect town. Georgian style whitewashed terracing, neatly trimmed public parks, galleries and museums, river side wine bars, bus stops and cathedrals, charity shops and Irish pubs, picket-fenced, wooden-slatted properties with private mailboxes and smoke billowing chimney stacks. I feel like I'm in Bath, or Leamington, it's your classic British spa town in bright but crisply cold Spring weather - and I was not prepared for this bump back to reality. So shaken were we by this unexpected return to the developed world, Ella and I spent all day yesterday sleeping in coma-like states in our dorm room to recover from the surprise. Having spent 7 hours that morning between 11pm and 6am attempting sleep on the floor of Christchurch airport whilst we waited for the shuttle bus, we were entirely nonplussed and guilt-free about our desire for satisfactory slumber.
Feeling slightly more able to cope today we braced ourselves against the cold and the exorbitant (but still cheaper than London) prices of everything and took a tram ride around the town to bravely explore this strange new land. The thing that has struck me so far is how new everything is. New Zealand is a modern world country but with very few years of human history behind it. The first settlers, the Maoris, arrived only 600 years ago, which in terms of the existence of the human race is a mere blip in the framework of time. As we were snuggled up in fleece and hats and scarves and wool on our quaint little tram today, the driver kept us entertained with rambling, informative commentary. I was particularly entertained when he thought it noteworthy to point out that, 'this fence on the left hand side here folks, it's 80 years old.' Eighty. Years. "Old". What of it mate? So is my Nan. It's quite endearing though, this unassuming celebration of anything, even a very ordinary fence, that might be nearing it's century birthday. It conveys national pride, and an innocently optimistic approach to life; I think I'm going to like the Kiwis.
Only once when in Asia did I feel genuine homesickness, and this is when I had food poisoning in Krabi and wanted my Mum to sit by my bed, stroke my hair and offer sympathetic condolences. When I was there, everything was so wonderfully alien that nothing reminded me of home for me to miss it. Here though, if you squint a bit and ignore the jauntily clipped cadences of the Antipodean accents, you could probably convince yourself that you are wandering around Canterbury, or Bristol. I worry that the similarities to home will render comparisons, and that these comparisons will make me ache for streets even more familiar.
I'm steeling myself against the shock though. The considered and rational minority of my brain tells me that this is a new phase in the Great Adventure, one to be embraced and treasured as much as any other day since I've been away. Asia - my new one true love - isn't going anywhere, and I've already promised it I'll be back soon. London has been my life's constant, we will have the majority of our middling years together. Africa and India and South America wait with baited breath for my arrival, I refuse to die without having seen and known them all intimately. My friends and family should know that my life without them, no matter in what environment it is played out, lacks all meaning and reason - they will be the reason for my return. Right now though, I couldn't get physically further away from home, I am 12 hours and half a world ahead of you, and I will endeavor to relish this time in these chilly recognisable streets, knowing that other things can wait. New Start, New Zealand.
Tuesday 30 March 2010
Monday 29 March 2010
What Celebrities Have Been Doing In My Absence
Sunday 14th March 2010, 3.30pm, Melbourne Airport - Australia
It's a transit day. Ella and I are on our way to New Zealand after one last heavy night out in Kuta on Friday. Dean and Katie joined us for our Indonesian farewell and I remember just about enough of it to say that it was a very enjoyable evening. Due to a game that involved seeing who could swig the most straight vodka without heaving, I have vague recollections of myself and Dean, the Vodka Competitors, ending the night by performing Elton John's Crocodile Rock on karaoke (despite neither of us knowing any of the words apart from something about remembering when rock was young and Suzy having so much fun) to an audience of mostly confused and silent Balinese people who were undoubtedly desperate to remove the microphones from our clumsy grasps. I believe that Katie and Ella, more sober and sensible with no Essex-born predisposition to karaoke when abroad, caught some of the action on film; I'm hoping it never sees the light of day.
So here we are in Australia! Well, sort of. In fact we are stuck for 11 hours at Melbourne Airport, nursing hangovers that have lasted a good 36 hours and feeling terribly sorry for ourselves at the injustice of bad flight timing. To ease the burden of this injustice we have indulged in a pastime which has evaded our clutches since coming away at the end of November. We have purchased some glossy magazines! When I say "some", I am referring to 40 dollars worth of celebrity and fashion centred gossip and nonsense, oh, bliss.
Asia had untimely cut me off from the world of celebrity with which I am usually so well acquainted. Only 4 months ago you could have named for me any famous face on the planet and I would have been able to give you a rundown of their relationship history, their daily calorie intake, the names of their children, and their stance on global warming (Mel Gibson doesn't give a shit). But lo and behold, my "knowledge" has been sapped, I am out of the loop and seriously ill-informed, and so today I have been studying. Here is what I have learnt with additional notes voicing my thoughts on these topics affecting our world today:
1. You can be really, really good at golf, but this does not make you immune to public humiliation.
2. Emma Bunton is the new judge on Dancing on Ice. Why? I was an avid Spice Girls follower back in the 90's and I am pretty sure that not once did I see them with skates on.
3. Jordan has remarried. She has married someone by the name of Alex, who has obviously previously suffered some kind of nasty face-on collision with a heavy duty vehicle.
4. Lady Gaga can only be approximately 4 months away from a full schizophrenic breakdown.
5. Simon Cowell is engaged, surely proving that eventually, the benefits of bachelorhood always become boring.
6. Cheryl Cole found her backbone (but unfortunately not her mouth, that's where you put the food pet!).
7. Vernon Kay should be ashamed of himself.
8. Stealing other people's husbands only gets you bad press, which gets you bad movies. So do a Sienna and go back to the successful scoundrel who cheated on you with the Nanny and made you famous in the first place.
9. Gerard Butler is the least attractive film star to ever get lucky with so many women out of his league. Stop it Jen, it's embarrassing, and Brad doesn't care.
10. Sandra Bullock is a really nice lady who should have married Keanu Reeves, they were so perfect together in Speed.
11. I am missing new series of Skins and Shameless, two of my all time favourite reasons to put the telly on. But it's alright, I'm sure someone is taping and saving them for me...
12. Kristen Stewart should smile more. Especially seeing as she has a 6ft 2", tousle haired, unshaven, pallid skinned, haunting eyed, bloodsucking reason to do so. It should be illegal for her to look that miserable.
13. The world has been robbed of the beauties that would have been Reese Witherspoon and Jake Gyllenhaal's children. Selfish.
14. A woman won the Oscar for best director, the times they are a changin'.
15. Megan Fox. Lovely to look at, painful to listen to. Shouldn't there be a publicist somewhere who stops her from talking?
16. If you have so many children that you are incapable of taking them all out at the same time and instead operate on some kind of shift pattern/rota system for your interaction time with them, then you have TOO MANY CHILDREN Angelina.
17. Orlando Bloom is making the biggest mistake of his life and marrying that fugly troll of a Victoria Secrets supermodel Miranda Kerr. He's not even trying to give Us a chance.
18. In between my current travelling and writing commitments I am considering starting up some kind of Save Lindsay Lohan From Herself charitable foundation.
19. If I were Madonna's child, and my Mother was still wearing leather, and dancing around in her pants, and dating a 23 year old boy by the name of 'Jesus', I would stow myself on the first flight back to Malawi.
20. Mark Owen, previously the nicest married man in showbiz and father of two, is in a clinic for drug and sex addiction. I never heard anything more depressing. Mankind is doomed.
It's a transit day. Ella and I are on our way to New Zealand after one last heavy night out in Kuta on Friday. Dean and Katie joined us for our Indonesian farewell and I remember just about enough of it to say that it was a very enjoyable evening. Due to a game that involved seeing who could swig the most straight vodka without heaving, I have vague recollections of myself and Dean, the Vodka Competitors, ending the night by performing Elton John's Crocodile Rock on karaoke (despite neither of us knowing any of the words apart from something about remembering when rock was young and Suzy having so much fun) to an audience of mostly confused and silent Balinese people who were undoubtedly desperate to remove the microphones from our clumsy grasps. I believe that Katie and Ella, more sober and sensible with no Essex-born predisposition to karaoke when abroad, caught some of the action on film; I'm hoping it never sees the light of day.
So here we are in Australia! Well, sort of. In fact we are stuck for 11 hours at Melbourne Airport, nursing hangovers that have lasted a good 36 hours and feeling terribly sorry for ourselves at the injustice of bad flight timing. To ease the burden of this injustice we have indulged in a pastime which has evaded our clutches since coming away at the end of November. We have purchased some glossy magazines! When I say "some", I am referring to 40 dollars worth of celebrity and fashion centred gossip and nonsense, oh, bliss.
Asia had untimely cut me off from the world of celebrity with which I am usually so well acquainted. Only 4 months ago you could have named for me any famous face on the planet and I would have been able to give you a rundown of their relationship history, their daily calorie intake, the names of their children, and their stance on global warming (Mel Gibson doesn't give a shit). But lo and behold, my "knowledge" has been sapped, I am out of the loop and seriously ill-informed, and so today I have been studying. Here is what I have learnt with additional notes voicing my thoughts on these topics affecting our world today:
1. You can be really, really good at golf, but this does not make you immune to public humiliation.
2. Emma Bunton is the new judge on Dancing on Ice. Why? I was an avid Spice Girls follower back in the 90's and I am pretty sure that not once did I see them with skates on.
3. Jordan has remarried. She has married someone by the name of Alex, who has obviously previously suffered some kind of nasty face-on collision with a heavy duty vehicle.
4. Lady Gaga can only be approximately 4 months away from a full schizophrenic breakdown.
5. Simon Cowell is engaged, surely proving that eventually, the benefits of bachelorhood always become boring.
6. Cheryl Cole found her backbone (but unfortunately not her mouth, that's where you put the food pet!).
7. Vernon Kay should be ashamed of himself.
8. Stealing other people's husbands only gets you bad press, which gets you bad movies. So do a Sienna and go back to the successful scoundrel who cheated on you with the Nanny and made you famous in the first place.
9. Gerard Butler is the least attractive film star to ever get lucky with so many women out of his league. Stop it Jen, it's embarrassing, and Brad doesn't care.
10. Sandra Bullock is a really nice lady who should have married Keanu Reeves, they were so perfect together in Speed.
11. I am missing new series of Skins and Shameless, two of my all time favourite reasons to put the telly on. But it's alright, I'm sure someone is taping and saving them for me...
12. Kristen Stewart should smile more. Especially seeing as she has a 6ft 2", tousle haired, unshaven, pallid skinned, haunting eyed, bloodsucking reason to do so. It should be illegal for her to look that miserable.
13. The world has been robbed of the beauties that would have been Reese Witherspoon and Jake Gyllenhaal's children. Selfish.
14. A woman won the Oscar for best director, the times they are a changin'.
15. Megan Fox. Lovely to look at, painful to listen to. Shouldn't there be a publicist somewhere who stops her from talking?
16. If you have so many children that you are incapable of taking them all out at the same time and instead operate on some kind of shift pattern/rota system for your interaction time with them, then you have TOO MANY CHILDREN Angelina.
17. Orlando Bloom is making the biggest mistake of his life and marrying that fugly troll of a Victoria Secrets supermodel Miranda Kerr. He's not even trying to give Us a chance.
18. In between my current travelling and writing commitments I am considering starting up some kind of Save Lindsay Lohan From Herself charitable foundation.
19. If I were Madonna's child, and my Mother was still wearing leather, and dancing around in her pants, and dating a 23 year old boy by the name of 'Jesus', I would stow myself on the first flight back to Malawi.
20. Mark Owen, previously the nicest married man in showbiz and father of two, is in a clinic for drug and sex addiction. I never heard anything more depressing. Mankind is doomed.
Sunday 28 March 2010
Herons and Swallows
Friday 11th March 2010, 11.35pm, Merthayasa Bungalows - Ubud
Every evening at 6pm, as the sun makes it's descent, about 20 minutes away from the centre of Ubud town in a rural little sub-district called Petulu, a flock of hundreds of herons descend upon the trees by the river. And no one knows why. They first began roosting here in 1966 and village elders will tell you that the birds are in fact reincarnations of the men and women who died throughout Bali in the civil unrest of the same year, many of those who died were laid to rest in burial grounds near the trees that the herons now call home. Isn't this enchanting? Well I think it is. So enchanting in fact that when a motorbike taxi driver told me about this unexplained phenomenon yesterday, I decided I needed to see it for myself.
At about 5pm this evening I hired a bicycle and precariously (I'm very much out of cycling practice) pedalled my way through farmland and countryside to Petulu. It was utterly unreal to behold. These gargantuan white winged creatures fly in tandem from the North of the river, and as you sit on the bank and wait expectantly for their arrival you can make out their soaring silhouettes becoming larger and larger as they approach on time as promised, the sound of their vast wings beating the windless horizon. They perch in the trees noiselessly, without fuss or commotion, as though each bird had his own preordained, designated branch on which to rest. I sat there enthralled with them for some time, as bemused as all the locals have been by this mysterious scene. Time passed - as it has a horrible habit of doing - and before I realised it, it was dark. Aware of my lack (nae, deficit) of cross-country biking experience, I was forced to hastily and reluctantly find me and the bike a way back in to town. Lucky that I took my hand-held torch, less lucky that I have trouble staying on the bike with only one hand on the handlebar.
Sleepy and sweating from the evening heat and the exertion I returned home and slipped into the swimming pool for a nighttime dip. A word on my accommodation here... it is, Luxurious. When hunting for a room the other day, the owner of Merthayasa Bungalows saw me grumpily hauling the backpack up another hill and encouraged me to come in here and take a look, cleverly refusing to tell me the price before I'd had the tour. There are only 8 bungalows here and mine is huge, bright and clean, with a double bed, en suite bathroom, power shower, dressing table and ample room for which to throw my clothes all over the floor. My veranda - where I am served a breakfast of my choice - is arched with wooden trellis smothered in tiny, perfume-wafting pink flowers, and looks out on to a small but perfectly formed aquamarine infinity pool, bordered by fountains and marble statues. Once I'd fallen head over heels in love with the place he offered it to me for 150,000 rupiah a night, which I dejectedly conceded that I could not afford. He changed his price to 100,000 rupiah, which is 7 and a half Great British pounds, and I practically threw my wallet at him.
The pool is lit with underwater lamps at night, and unlike some bigger, miserly hotels in Kuta, there is no restriction on how late you are permitted to swim. So I spent a blissful hour between 10 and 11pm tonight completely on my own in the pool, floating on my back, looking up at the stars. Being away from the city with no pollution or industry even close to the jungles of Ubud, those glittery planets really do have a chance to shine. It was cloudless and undisturbed, and there were thousands of them twinkling above my watery bed.
When I was in the pool I got to thinking about why the herons in Petulu had moved me so much, what was it about them that I found so wonderful? Down a small road about 2 minutes from where I live at home, there are a collection of Oak trees at one end which play host every summer to a flock of migrating swallows. They have been to Africa, these birds. When the British weather turns they fly across continents to the heat of the Equator, and yet every Summer they unfailingly and loyally return to exactly the same 4 or 5 trees, in Elm Avenue, in little old Upminster. This idea delighted me as a child growing up around those streets and it still delights me now, warming my heart at the beginning of every May when I hear their familiar cries in my home town. The herons in Petulu, well they delighted me for precisely the same reason. No one can tell where they have been or what they have seen, what landscape they have flown across or why they have picked this destination as their home. But it is their home, and they always return, the swallows in May, the herons at 6pm. I find it startling in its simplicity, and with my swallows, always strangely humbling that they would choose to come back to me over the plains of Africa. Of course I know it's just an evolutionary habit, old birds die and new birds are added to the flock each year, but I like to imagine it is exactly the same group of swallows that I have welcomed back to those trees every year of my life, that they look out for me as I for them - separated for half the year then familiar fixtures in each others' lives once again.
It is no accident that I have a swallow tattooed on my skin, flying with me wherever I go. And although I may not hold weight with the reincarnation argument, I can understand why the herons have come to symbolise the lost dead for those that live in Petulu - they want to believe that the people they loved have returned to them. We all go home in the end, whether that be to a place or to a person. No matter how far away we may travel, there will always be a tree somewhere on this planet that we can keep on returning to roost in.
Every evening at 6pm, as the sun makes it's descent, about 20 minutes away from the centre of Ubud town in a rural little sub-district called Petulu, a flock of hundreds of herons descend upon the trees by the river. And no one knows why. They first began roosting here in 1966 and village elders will tell you that the birds are in fact reincarnations of the men and women who died throughout Bali in the civil unrest of the same year, many of those who died were laid to rest in burial grounds near the trees that the herons now call home. Isn't this enchanting? Well I think it is. So enchanting in fact that when a motorbike taxi driver told me about this unexplained phenomenon yesterday, I decided I needed to see it for myself.
At about 5pm this evening I hired a bicycle and precariously (I'm very much out of cycling practice) pedalled my way through farmland and countryside to Petulu. It was utterly unreal to behold. These gargantuan white winged creatures fly in tandem from the North of the river, and as you sit on the bank and wait expectantly for their arrival you can make out their soaring silhouettes becoming larger and larger as they approach on time as promised, the sound of their vast wings beating the windless horizon. They perch in the trees noiselessly, without fuss or commotion, as though each bird had his own preordained, designated branch on which to rest. I sat there enthralled with them for some time, as bemused as all the locals have been by this mysterious scene. Time passed - as it has a horrible habit of doing - and before I realised it, it was dark. Aware of my lack (nae, deficit) of cross-country biking experience, I was forced to hastily and reluctantly find me and the bike a way back in to town. Lucky that I took my hand-held torch, less lucky that I have trouble staying on the bike with only one hand on the handlebar.
Sleepy and sweating from the evening heat and the exertion I returned home and slipped into the swimming pool for a nighttime dip. A word on my accommodation here... it is, Luxurious. When hunting for a room the other day, the owner of Merthayasa Bungalows saw me grumpily hauling the backpack up another hill and encouraged me to come in here and take a look, cleverly refusing to tell me the price before I'd had the tour. There are only 8 bungalows here and mine is huge, bright and clean, with a double bed, en suite bathroom, power shower, dressing table and ample room for which to throw my clothes all over the floor. My veranda - where I am served a breakfast of my choice - is arched with wooden trellis smothered in tiny, perfume-wafting pink flowers, and looks out on to a small but perfectly formed aquamarine infinity pool, bordered by fountains and marble statues. Once I'd fallen head over heels in love with the place he offered it to me for 150,000 rupiah a night, which I dejectedly conceded that I could not afford. He changed his price to 100,000 rupiah, which is 7 and a half Great British pounds, and I practically threw my wallet at him.
The pool is lit with underwater lamps at night, and unlike some bigger, miserly hotels in Kuta, there is no restriction on how late you are permitted to swim. So I spent a blissful hour between 10 and 11pm tonight completely on my own in the pool, floating on my back, looking up at the stars. Being away from the city with no pollution or industry even close to the jungles of Ubud, those glittery planets really do have a chance to shine. It was cloudless and undisturbed, and there were thousands of them twinkling above my watery bed.
When I was in the pool I got to thinking about why the herons in Petulu had moved me so much, what was it about them that I found so wonderful? Down a small road about 2 minutes from where I live at home, there are a collection of Oak trees at one end which play host every summer to a flock of migrating swallows. They have been to Africa, these birds. When the British weather turns they fly across continents to the heat of the Equator, and yet every Summer they unfailingly and loyally return to exactly the same 4 or 5 trees, in Elm Avenue, in little old Upminster. This idea delighted me as a child growing up around those streets and it still delights me now, warming my heart at the beginning of every May when I hear their familiar cries in my home town. The herons in Petulu, well they delighted me for precisely the same reason. No one can tell where they have been or what they have seen, what landscape they have flown across or why they have picked this destination as their home. But it is their home, and they always return, the swallows in May, the herons at 6pm. I find it startling in its simplicity, and with my swallows, always strangely humbling that they would choose to come back to me over the plains of Africa. Of course I know it's just an evolutionary habit, old birds die and new birds are added to the flock each year, but I like to imagine it is exactly the same group of swallows that I have welcomed back to those trees every year of my life, that they look out for me as I for them - separated for half the year then familiar fixtures in each others' lives once again.
It is no accident that I have a swallow tattooed on my skin, flying with me wherever I go. And although I may not hold weight with the reincarnation argument, I can understand why the herons have come to symbolise the lost dead for those that live in Petulu - they want to believe that the people they loved have returned to them. We all go home in the end, whether that be to a place or to a person. No matter how far away we may travel, there will always be a tree somewhere on this planet that we can keep on returning to roost in.
The Play's The Thing
Thursday 10th March 2010, 10.20pm, Luna Cafe, Ubud - Bali
You may remember that the last time I was in Bangkok I was reading a book that I raved about called 'Eat Pray Love'. The third portion of that book is set in Bali, when the author spent 4 months living in the central town of Ubud. Now, I quite like playing at other people, this is probably one of the reasons I ended up studying Theatre and Performance. As a child I never contemplated growing up to be just an older version of myself, but always wanted to be James Herriot, Belle from Beauty and the Beast, David Attenborough, Jo March from Little Women or Nancy from Oliver Twist (although clearly I would have told Bill Sykes where to get off long before he had a chance to take a crowbar to my head). Today I've been playing Elizabeth Gilbert, autobiographical writer and central character of afore mentioned novel. I've come to Ubud to be quiet, to think, to hike, to eat and to pray; I'll leave the 'love' part to Ella, Lizzie and Kirst, who have gone for a day trip on the East Coast to surf - and to show their love and appreciation for the surfers.
Ubud is everything my Elizabeth promised it would be. A hilly little town where the sun sets late in a burnt red sky over acres of lush green rice paddies and school children grazing their knees playing football on the village field. The air smells like cinnamon and cloves from the local, widely-smoked herbal tobacco, the shops and eateries are plentiful yet the town is hushed below the singing of crickets in long grasses, the only tourists are older couples and so I am left in peace to wander narrow streets set in the midst of thick jungle crawling with monkeys. You know that supposed fact about London living which states you're never more than 4 metres away from a rat? Well I think Ubud is the same with apes.
I came out of my bungalow this morning to find a hairy old Macaque sat cross-legged on a chair on my veranda. I stood, still yet startled, and he looked at me impatiently like he'd been waiting for me to come and serve him some tea. Breakfasting with monkeys, nothing will seem strange anymore. They can sometimes be vicious though so you do have to be on your guard if you're not prepared to share your toast and fruit with them. This morning I went for a trek around Monkey Forest Sanctuary, a huge reserve of untouched jungle containing three beautiful, crumbling stone temples. Whilst negotiating my way up the path and through the undergrowth I almost jumped out my skin when an older female tourist came pelting and screaming out of the bush on my right hand side and darted across the track back into the foliage on my left. Above her head she was grabbing an inconspicuous bottle of water, and hot on her heels was a screeching baboon with his eyes on the thirst quenching prize.
Besides being more populated with primates than it is with people, Ubud is renowned as the cultural and creative capital of the country. It is strewn with homegrown art galleries, stone mason's yards, carpenter's workshops, jewellery handicrafts, bars offering poetry recitals and live folk bands for entertainment. The real highlight though, the thing that Ubud particularly excels in, is its performing arts. There are daily traditional dance performances at Ubud Palace and I managed to catch the end of one today. This succeeded in wetting my appetite for a little more theatre, and so tonight I went to see a Balinese opera entitled Kecak Srikandhi by the Ubud Tengah Community company.
The whole thing was truly, mind-bogglingly astounding. I am at a complete loss for words other than to tell you it was literally jaw-droppingly fantastic. I've seen a lot of theatre in my time, given my allegiance to the medium from such a young age. I've been to countless plays, dances, installation pieces, community projects, rehabilitation workshops, recitals, student writings and amateur dramatics, I've even spent some time being paid to teach and devise the stuff myself. But never, in all these years of committed audience membership, have I ever been witness to a performance of such raw intensity, such tangible atmosphere and air borne passion as this. Just entering the venue left me gobsmacked. It had been raining tonight; thick, heavy, tropical, open your mouth tilt your head back and get a good drink kind of rain. I arrived at my destination at 8pm, soaked like I'd just stepped out of the shower, to be directed through massive stone gates under dripping palm canopies into the outdoor courtyard of a temple. Tea-light candles had been lit to illuminate the square, the flickering flames the only light in this ancient and eroding sanctuary of worship, throwing short, darting shadows across the eerie soon-to-be stage. At one end of the space the candles ran up a huge stone staircase which was covered with plucked orchids and hand-embroidered banners. The air was hot and close and damp, twenty or so whispering audience members sat on plastic chairs in front of the old temple steps, and a cast of 80 Balinese performers (all but 3 of them women) descended the stairs dressed in elaborate traditional costume, carrying flaming torches, and began to howl their mesmerising cries.
The story was true fairytale fodder of legend, a princess is kidnapped by a neighbouring evil King, from a banquet in which her father presents his 3 daughters to would-be suitors. Amba, the princess, begs to be set free to be returned to her true love, and the evil King Bhisma takes pity on her, understanding what love is himself, and lets her go. But on returning to her love she is rejected, her young prince considering her tarnished. She heads back to Bhisma who will not take her back, Amba having wounded his pride by leaving him and breaking his heart. She refuses to leave and so to scare her away he aims his bow and arrow at her. But the arrow slips, and pierces her heart. As she is dying she promises that she will return to reek her revenge. Return she does, as a transvestite war warrior, who years later when the country is experiencing civil unrest, returns and kills Bhisma in battle with his own bow and arrow. Not one word of it was in English, but it could not have been clearer (plus the brochure helped).
It was in parts terrifying, graphic, tense, and in others filled with humour and slapstick and carnival-esque jubilation. A hypnotised Dionysiac party of fierce, powerful chanting women, the whole spectacle seemed like a glimpse for me in to a long forgotten cult; it vibrated with religious fervour, pagan worship and devilish ritualism. I've been known to have a bit of a sing song before, and no, I don't just mean in the shower. I've sung at a few functions, the odd competition here and there, warbled away on a theatre stage or two, helped a friend's band out at University when they needed a vocalist who knew her way around a Blues chord. So despite being no expert, and definitely no Edith Piaf, I have sung enough to know how difficult, how physically challenging it would be to sing continuously, without pause, for a whole hour. Yet this is what these women did, and did exceptionally well. You wouldn't have needed to be a singer yourself to acknowledge the stamina, the precision timing, the breathing control, the breadth of their tonal range, the depth of their vocal power and the consummate professionalism of this ensemble choir.
Stunning, unbelievable, that such remarkable ability and creativity lies under the cover of darkness and candlelight, amongst temple ruins in a jungle, in a town that most people will never bother to leave the beaches of Bali to visit. Well, lucky old me. The world is full of secret treasures, of unknown gifts, talented, uncelebrated people and little spoken of wonders, and it always feels like such a blessing to stumble across one when you are not expecting it. If I had come to Ubud on the first day of my two weeks in Bali, I would not have gone anywhere else.
You may remember that the last time I was in Bangkok I was reading a book that I raved about called 'Eat Pray Love'. The third portion of that book is set in Bali, when the author spent 4 months living in the central town of Ubud. Now, I quite like playing at other people, this is probably one of the reasons I ended up studying Theatre and Performance. As a child I never contemplated growing up to be just an older version of myself, but always wanted to be James Herriot, Belle from Beauty and the Beast, David Attenborough, Jo March from Little Women or Nancy from Oliver Twist (although clearly I would have told Bill Sykes where to get off long before he had a chance to take a crowbar to my head). Today I've been playing Elizabeth Gilbert, autobiographical writer and central character of afore mentioned novel. I've come to Ubud to be quiet, to think, to hike, to eat and to pray; I'll leave the 'love' part to Ella, Lizzie and Kirst, who have gone for a day trip on the East Coast to surf - and to show their love and appreciation for the surfers.
Ubud is everything my Elizabeth promised it would be. A hilly little town where the sun sets late in a burnt red sky over acres of lush green rice paddies and school children grazing their knees playing football on the village field. The air smells like cinnamon and cloves from the local, widely-smoked herbal tobacco, the shops and eateries are plentiful yet the town is hushed below the singing of crickets in long grasses, the only tourists are older couples and so I am left in peace to wander narrow streets set in the midst of thick jungle crawling with monkeys. You know that supposed fact about London living which states you're never more than 4 metres away from a rat? Well I think Ubud is the same with apes.
I came out of my bungalow this morning to find a hairy old Macaque sat cross-legged on a chair on my veranda. I stood, still yet startled, and he looked at me impatiently like he'd been waiting for me to come and serve him some tea. Breakfasting with monkeys, nothing will seem strange anymore. They can sometimes be vicious though so you do have to be on your guard if you're not prepared to share your toast and fruit with them. This morning I went for a trek around Monkey Forest Sanctuary, a huge reserve of untouched jungle containing three beautiful, crumbling stone temples. Whilst negotiating my way up the path and through the undergrowth I almost jumped out my skin when an older female tourist came pelting and screaming out of the bush on my right hand side and darted across the track back into the foliage on my left. Above her head she was grabbing an inconspicuous bottle of water, and hot on her heels was a screeching baboon with his eyes on the thirst quenching prize.
Besides being more populated with primates than it is with people, Ubud is renowned as the cultural and creative capital of the country. It is strewn with homegrown art galleries, stone mason's yards, carpenter's workshops, jewellery handicrafts, bars offering poetry recitals and live folk bands for entertainment. The real highlight though, the thing that Ubud particularly excels in, is its performing arts. There are daily traditional dance performances at Ubud Palace and I managed to catch the end of one today. This succeeded in wetting my appetite for a little more theatre, and so tonight I went to see a Balinese opera entitled Kecak Srikandhi by the Ubud Tengah Community company.
The whole thing was truly, mind-bogglingly astounding. I am at a complete loss for words other than to tell you it was literally jaw-droppingly fantastic. I've seen a lot of theatre in my time, given my allegiance to the medium from such a young age. I've been to countless plays, dances, installation pieces, community projects, rehabilitation workshops, recitals, student writings and amateur dramatics, I've even spent some time being paid to teach and devise the stuff myself. But never, in all these years of committed audience membership, have I ever been witness to a performance of such raw intensity, such tangible atmosphere and air borne passion as this. Just entering the venue left me gobsmacked. It had been raining tonight; thick, heavy, tropical, open your mouth tilt your head back and get a good drink kind of rain. I arrived at my destination at 8pm, soaked like I'd just stepped out of the shower, to be directed through massive stone gates under dripping palm canopies into the outdoor courtyard of a temple. Tea-light candles had been lit to illuminate the square, the flickering flames the only light in this ancient and eroding sanctuary of worship, throwing short, darting shadows across the eerie soon-to-be stage. At one end of the space the candles ran up a huge stone staircase which was covered with plucked orchids and hand-embroidered banners. The air was hot and close and damp, twenty or so whispering audience members sat on plastic chairs in front of the old temple steps, and a cast of 80 Balinese performers (all but 3 of them women) descended the stairs dressed in elaborate traditional costume, carrying flaming torches, and began to howl their mesmerising cries.
The story was true fairytale fodder of legend, a princess is kidnapped by a neighbouring evil King, from a banquet in which her father presents his 3 daughters to would-be suitors. Amba, the princess, begs to be set free to be returned to her true love, and the evil King Bhisma takes pity on her, understanding what love is himself, and lets her go. But on returning to her love she is rejected, her young prince considering her tarnished. She heads back to Bhisma who will not take her back, Amba having wounded his pride by leaving him and breaking his heart. She refuses to leave and so to scare her away he aims his bow and arrow at her. But the arrow slips, and pierces her heart. As she is dying she promises that she will return to reek her revenge. Return she does, as a transvestite war warrior, who years later when the country is experiencing civil unrest, returns and kills Bhisma in battle with his own bow and arrow. Not one word of it was in English, but it could not have been clearer (plus the brochure helped).
It was in parts terrifying, graphic, tense, and in others filled with humour and slapstick and carnival-esque jubilation. A hypnotised Dionysiac party of fierce, powerful chanting women, the whole spectacle seemed like a glimpse for me in to a long forgotten cult; it vibrated with religious fervour, pagan worship and devilish ritualism. I've been known to have a bit of a sing song before, and no, I don't just mean in the shower. I've sung at a few functions, the odd competition here and there, warbled away on a theatre stage or two, helped a friend's band out at University when they needed a vocalist who knew her way around a Blues chord. So despite being no expert, and definitely no Edith Piaf, I have sung enough to know how difficult, how physically challenging it would be to sing continuously, without pause, for a whole hour. Yet this is what these women did, and did exceptionally well. You wouldn't have needed to be a singer yourself to acknowledge the stamina, the precision timing, the breathing control, the breadth of their tonal range, the depth of their vocal power and the consummate professionalism of this ensemble choir.
Stunning, unbelievable, that such remarkable ability and creativity lies under the cover of darkness and candlelight, amongst temple ruins in a jungle, in a town that most people will never bother to leave the beaches of Bali to visit. Well, lucky old me. The world is full of secret treasures, of unknown gifts, talented, uncelebrated people and little spoken of wonders, and it always feels like such a blessing to stumble across one when you are not expecting it. If I had come to Ubud on the first day of my two weeks in Bali, I would not have gone anywhere else.
Saturday 27 March 2010
Glee
Tuesday 9th March 2010, 12.45pm, Boat from Gili Trewangen to Kuta - Lombok/Bali
Besides people, there's hardly anything from home that I miss. I've discovered that I need very few of the habits and constructs, routines and objects that we put in place around us and call a life. I do not need a wardrobe full of clothes, or my ipod, or red lipstick. I do not need a hairdryer or Cornflakes for breakfast or the swimming pool at my gym. I do not need my bookcase or Sunday mornings in Costa Coffee or the view of Tower Bridge from the Southbank, and I do not need to sing Billie Holiday classics in the shower. I do not need my laptop, or the exercise bike, or Ricky Gervais podcasts, or nights out in Shoreditch, or faux fur coats or my pet hamster. I do not need cheese on toast or walks through Hyde Park or Sylvia Plath anthologies or red wine or patent high heels or Wednesday nights at the cinema. These things helped fill in the gaps of my life, I like them, but I do not need them.
This is why, when Will and I visited a dodgy DVD shop in Kuala Lumpur, I was reluctant to spend money on cheap, knocked-off films, because among the other things that used to be part of my life, I do not miss television, and I definitely do not need it. With Will's insistence however that I would be a fool not to buy into such bargains, I picked up the first series box set of an American television programme that I had never seen, but had gathered from friends' reports was something I might enjoy. Dean, Katie and myself opted for a lazy evening yesterday night. We sat on some cushions outside a beach bar in front of a TV screen, munched our way through a pack of chocolate biscuits, and I put my new DVD on.
Never has an hour of television filled me with such sheer abject rapture, it was enchanting, I felt warm right through. Such talent and originality, quick, polished writing, singing, dancing, perfectly chosen soundtrack, eye candy, reasons to laugh and to cry, characters to care about, a cause to celebrate, joyful portrayals of youth next to sardonic affirmations of female wit, morality and ethics questioned and championed, storylines just beyond believability to offer the right amount of guilty escapism.
I really like this programme. I really, really like it. And now we've been introduced, I may even need it. It's left me feeling Gleeful.
Besides people, there's hardly anything from home that I miss. I've discovered that I need very few of the habits and constructs, routines and objects that we put in place around us and call a life. I do not need a wardrobe full of clothes, or my ipod, or red lipstick. I do not need a hairdryer or Cornflakes for breakfast or the swimming pool at my gym. I do not need my bookcase or Sunday mornings in Costa Coffee or the view of Tower Bridge from the Southbank, and I do not need to sing Billie Holiday classics in the shower. I do not need my laptop, or the exercise bike, or Ricky Gervais podcasts, or nights out in Shoreditch, or faux fur coats or my pet hamster. I do not need cheese on toast or walks through Hyde Park or Sylvia Plath anthologies or red wine or patent high heels or Wednesday nights at the cinema. These things helped fill in the gaps of my life, I like them, but I do not need them.
This is why, when Will and I visited a dodgy DVD shop in Kuala Lumpur, I was reluctant to spend money on cheap, knocked-off films, because among the other things that used to be part of my life, I do not miss television, and I definitely do not need it. With Will's insistence however that I would be a fool not to buy into such bargains, I picked up the first series box set of an American television programme that I had never seen, but had gathered from friends' reports was something I might enjoy. Dean, Katie and myself opted for a lazy evening yesterday night. We sat on some cushions outside a beach bar in front of a TV screen, munched our way through a pack of chocolate biscuits, and I put my new DVD on.
Never has an hour of television filled me with such sheer abject rapture, it was enchanting, I felt warm right through. Such talent and originality, quick, polished writing, singing, dancing, perfectly chosen soundtrack, eye candy, reasons to laugh and to cry, characters to care about, a cause to celebrate, joyful portrayals of youth next to sardonic affirmations of female wit, morality and ethics questioned and championed, storylines just beyond believability to offer the right amount of guilty escapism.
I really like this programme. I really, really like it. And now we've been introduced, I may even need it. It's left me feeling Gleeful.
What Time Forgets
Monday 7th March 2010, 1.10am, Corner Cottages - Gili Air - Lombok
'The past beats in my chest like a second heart.'
For the months that I've been travelling I've been aware that an old school friend has always been one step ahead of me on the backpacking trail. He and his girlfriend have been away for 5 months now, and I've kept in regular contact with him just in case we should happily find ourselves in the same place at the same time. That has now happened, but not entirely by accident. We realised we would be in or around Bali at the same time, and a week or so ago he let me know that he is living on Gili Air for 5 weeks whilst he completes his Dive Master course here. Gili Air is a tiny island belonging to Bali's neighbouring Indonesian country, Lombok. I always intended to come to the Gili Islands having heard so many superfluously glowing reports of them from other people I've talked to along the way, and knowing an old friendly face was here was just another reason to take leave of Kuta and jump on the boat over. So this is what I did on Friday morning.
Gili Air is the island that time forgot. There are no cars or motorbikes here, if you don't want to get around by foot or bicycle then your only other option is pony and trap. Woodworm ravaged rowing boats line the deserted shore, moth eaten lace parasols sit propped in wooden lamp posts like abandoned remnants of ghost guests. The few local Indonesians who man their beach-side restaurants sit languidly under palm trees strumming buffeted old guitars, weather beaten shacks stuffed with carbonated drinks and chocolate biscuits for the few stranded homesick tourists hide amongst inner island greenery whilst the odd lonely, untethered cow grazes through the thick forest floor. The tide is high, the crystal sea is deep and crowded with schools of hazel-eyed, marble-shelled turtles tranquilly coasting in the ripping currents. I have spent an inordinate amount of time in a hammock.
The Indonesians here are similarly at peace. They are so welcoming, so pleased to be in your company, and incredibly trustworthy of the backpackers that have chosen to visit. I have been asked 3 times at 2 different bars and at my guesthouse if I would like to set up a tab and 'pay before you leave Miss Grace, or just whenever you can'. It's like living in an age when people trusted each other and had reason to. This is what Thailand must have been like 50 years ago before the tourists descended. The pace is slow, practically at stop. Even Toby, the island's one resident beach mongrel, has very little time for chasing cats or for marking his territory (why bother I guess, he's the only dog here), he's too busy having a little paddle, or reclining in the afternoon sun.
For the first time in a while I have had the time to finish the book I've been reading*, this is because, if you are not a diver as I am not - having so far been too nervous regarding my imperfect deep-sea swimming attributes of occasional asthma/contact lenses/intense and paralysingly irrational shark phobia - there is blissfully nothing to do here. I originally intended to spend 2 days on Gili Air as I knew this would be enough time to see the whole island, but it turns out, seeing it just isn't enough. I needed to soak it up a while longer. One of the main reasons I've extended my stay though, is that it has been really wonderful to see my old school friend, Dean, after such a long time, and especially wonderful to meet his stunning girlfriend, Katie - the boy done good.
The three of us have spent a few gentle and easy few days here together, and Katie has been very patient with mine and Dean's need to reminisce and laugh about our school days. We talked about Mick Lavers, our gregarious and lovable GCSE English teacher who would ask us to take turns at reading aloud from the set text before becoming frustrated at our lack of animation, and so would, in mock agitation, pick up the book and read it to us himself - doing all the required character voices and having the time of his life. We remembered the time that Spencer thought it would be funny to see what would happen if he didn't take his Ritalin and ate loads of Skittles instead (it ended with him pulling a fire extinguisher off the wall and jumping in to the swimming pool), or the drugs scandal that plagued our year group when a few disagreeable characters were expelled at the end of Year 11 for dealing to 12 year olds, or when Richard locked Mr Appleby in the stationery cupboard, or the infamous 'manky locker'.
We laughed about our drama classes - both of us having been committed thespians at school - and recalled with a mixture of horror and delight our brilliant, talented and eccentric Theatre Studies guru, James French, daintily describing to a group of 16 year olds why one character (from a scene in The Changeling) would be able to tell that his supposed virgin bride was not actually a virgin, 'You see guys, when a woman has sex for the first time....'. Or that day when Daryl forgot to bring a change of clothes for our practical class and as a forfeit had to perform a pole dance with a mop in the middle of Coborn Court, whilst the rest of us, Mr French included, hid behind bushes and wet ourselves laughing. Or when we all came to class offering reviews of plays we'd seen at the weekend, and Amy talked about how Finding Nemo was good, but that it was 'just fish really'.
There were things we'd both forgotten that we reminded each other of, Dean writing off two cars within 72 hours of passing his driving test, singing I Believe In A Thing Called Love at the tops of our voices with Luke, Sarah and Emma, in his car on the way to rehearsals for a play we were all in, the dramas and tensions surrounding who everyone was pairing up with for our Year 11 Leavers Party. We've talked about the people we're still in touch with, the friendships that lasted, the ones that didn't, the people who are doing well for themselves and living up to their potential, the ones who let it all slip away from them, the ones who have surprised us with their choices, or in other ways, not surprised us in the slightest. I'm sure these people couldn't give two hoots what I think of them. Whether or not I agree with their life choices or lament the way some have changed beyond recognition, no longer the people I once loved. I'm in no position to judge anyone but myself, and thankfully today, having been drawn back down memory lane on this island out of time, the judgement isn't falling too harshly.
Some things we can never forget. My past sits more heavily in me than my present or my future, it has the weight of permanence. It is very easy to have regrets, to think back on what has been with sadness and a desire for a second chance. To say the things we should have said, to have stayed silent when silence was needed, to have held back or acted more quickly, to have realised our worth at an age when everyone feels worthless, to have been kinder, happier, less angry, more patient, more forgiving. I write to you now from an island that I had never even heard of 6 years ago. I'm trying to surprise the 18 year old girl inside me, to show her who should have hoped for more the things she didn't know existed, to let her know it's OK that there's no second chance, because look where you are you silly girl, you can't have done too bad in the first place! Parts of me, like this island, will always be cemented in the past, but that's alright, because our foundations are there for us to move upwards from. I'm learning from the stone I'm clad in and trying to build the wall better in future, and I shan't expect more from myself than that.
*Regarding this book I've finished. It is an incredibly moving and intricately researched, painstakingly architected novel by Siri Hustvedt, 'What I Loved'. I am at a loss to explain why this book has never been nominated or indeed bestowed a literary prize, I happened upon it by chance in a bookshop in Kuta and it has been a rewarding find. It is wise, brutally honest, acutely intelligent and emotionally comprehensive. If my words of advice and recommendation bear any weight with you... well then go and read it.
'The past beats in my chest like a second heart.'
- 'The Sea', John Banville
For the months that I've been travelling I've been aware that an old school friend has always been one step ahead of me on the backpacking trail. He and his girlfriend have been away for 5 months now, and I've kept in regular contact with him just in case we should happily find ourselves in the same place at the same time. That has now happened, but not entirely by accident. We realised we would be in or around Bali at the same time, and a week or so ago he let me know that he is living on Gili Air for 5 weeks whilst he completes his Dive Master course here. Gili Air is a tiny island belonging to Bali's neighbouring Indonesian country, Lombok. I always intended to come to the Gili Islands having heard so many superfluously glowing reports of them from other people I've talked to along the way, and knowing an old friendly face was here was just another reason to take leave of Kuta and jump on the boat over. So this is what I did on Friday morning.
Gili Air is the island that time forgot. There are no cars or motorbikes here, if you don't want to get around by foot or bicycle then your only other option is pony and trap. Woodworm ravaged rowing boats line the deserted shore, moth eaten lace parasols sit propped in wooden lamp posts like abandoned remnants of ghost guests. The few local Indonesians who man their beach-side restaurants sit languidly under palm trees strumming buffeted old guitars, weather beaten shacks stuffed with carbonated drinks and chocolate biscuits for the few stranded homesick tourists hide amongst inner island greenery whilst the odd lonely, untethered cow grazes through the thick forest floor. The tide is high, the crystal sea is deep and crowded with schools of hazel-eyed, marble-shelled turtles tranquilly coasting in the ripping currents. I have spent an inordinate amount of time in a hammock.
The Indonesians here are similarly at peace. They are so welcoming, so pleased to be in your company, and incredibly trustworthy of the backpackers that have chosen to visit. I have been asked 3 times at 2 different bars and at my guesthouse if I would like to set up a tab and 'pay before you leave Miss Grace, or just whenever you can'. It's like living in an age when people trusted each other and had reason to. This is what Thailand must have been like 50 years ago before the tourists descended. The pace is slow, practically at stop. Even Toby, the island's one resident beach mongrel, has very little time for chasing cats or for marking his territory (why bother I guess, he's the only dog here), he's too busy having a little paddle, or reclining in the afternoon sun.
For the first time in a while I have had the time to finish the book I've been reading*, this is because, if you are not a diver as I am not - having so far been too nervous regarding my imperfect deep-sea swimming attributes of occasional asthma/contact lenses/intense and paralysingly irrational shark phobia - there is blissfully nothing to do here. I originally intended to spend 2 days on Gili Air as I knew this would be enough time to see the whole island, but it turns out, seeing it just isn't enough. I needed to soak it up a while longer. One of the main reasons I've extended my stay though, is that it has been really wonderful to see my old school friend, Dean, after such a long time, and especially wonderful to meet his stunning girlfriend, Katie - the boy done good.
The three of us have spent a few gentle and easy few days here together, and Katie has been very patient with mine and Dean's need to reminisce and laugh about our school days. We talked about Mick Lavers, our gregarious and lovable GCSE English teacher who would ask us to take turns at reading aloud from the set text before becoming frustrated at our lack of animation, and so would, in mock agitation, pick up the book and read it to us himself - doing all the required character voices and having the time of his life. We remembered the time that Spencer thought it would be funny to see what would happen if he didn't take his Ritalin and ate loads of Skittles instead (it ended with him pulling a fire extinguisher off the wall and jumping in to the swimming pool), or the drugs scandal that plagued our year group when a few disagreeable characters were expelled at the end of Year 11 for dealing to 12 year olds, or when Richard locked Mr Appleby in the stationery cupboard, or the infamous 'manky locker'.
We laughed about our drama classes - both of us having been committed thespians at school - and recalled with a mixture of horror and delight our brilliant, talented and eccentric Theatre Studies guru, James French, daintily describing to a group of 16 year olds why one character (from a scene in The Changeling) would be able to tell that his supposed virgin bride was not actually a virgin, 'You see guys, when a woman has sex for the first time....'. Or that day when Daryl forgot to bring a change of clothes for our practical class and as a forfeit had to perform a pole dance with a mop in the middle of Coborn Court, whilst the rest of us, Mr French included, hid behind bushes and wet ourselves laughing. Or when we all came to class offering reviews of plays we'd seen at the weekend, and Amy talked about how Finding Nemo was good, but that it was 'just fish really'.
There were things we'd both forgotten that we reminded each other of, Dean writing off two cars within 72 hours of passing his driving test, singing I Believe In A Thing Called Love at the tops of our voices with Luke, Sarah and Emma, in his car on the way to rehearsals for a play we were all in, the dramas and tensions surrounding who everyone was pairing up with for our Year 11 Leavers Party. We've talked about the people we're still in touch with, the friendships that lasted, the ones that didn't, the people who are doing well for themselves and living up to their potential, the ones who let it all slip away from them, the ones who have surprised us with their choices, or in other ways, not surprised us in the slightest. I'm sure these people couldn't give two hoots what I think of them. Whether or not I agree with their life choices or lament the way some have changed beyond recognition, no longer the people I once loved. I'm in no position to judge anyone but myself, and thankfully today, having been drawn back down memory lane on this island out of time, the judgement isn't falling too harshly.
Some things we can never forget. My past sits more heavily in me than my present or my future, it has the weight of permanence. It is very easy to have regrets, to think back on what has been with sadness and a desire for a second chance. To say the things we should have said, to have stayed silent when silence was needed, to have held back or acted more quickly, to have realised our worth at an age when everyone feels worthless, to have been kinder, happier, less angry, more patient, more forgiving. I write to you now from an island that I had never even heard of 6 years ago. I'm trying to surprise the 18 year old girl inside me, to show her who should have hoped for more the things she didn't know existed, to let her know it's OK that there's no second chance, because look where you are you silly girl, you can't have done too bad in the first place! Parts of me, like this island, will always be cemented in the past, but that's alright, because our foundations are there for us to move upwards from. I'm learning from the stone I'm clad in and trying to build the wall better in future, and I shan't expect more from myself than that.
*Regarding this book I've finished. It is an incredibly moving and intricately researched, painstakingly architected novel by Siri Hustvedt, 'What I Loved'. I am at a loss to explain why this book has never been nominated or indeed bestowed a literary prize, I happened upon it by chance in a bookshop in Kuta and it has been a rewarding find. It is wise, brutally honest, acutely intelligent and emotionally comprehensive. If my words of advice and recommendation bear any weight with you... well then go and read it.
Thursday 11 March 2010
The Package Deal
Thursday4th March 2010, 2.25pm, Tunjung Swimming Pool - Kuta
Last night as we were coming out of a club to go on to another, an Australian man approached Ella on the street. I was unfortunately not there to witness this but she told me about it only minutes later when I had caught up with her. 'Hey love' he said, 'do you know what a Wolfpack is?'. Neither Ella or I are ashamed to say that no, other than the obvious - a pack of wolves - we do not know what he was referring to, but I have no doubt in my mind that it was either the beginnings of a joke or something with sexual connotations. To avoid further conversation and so ruining his punchline or his come-on she answered 'Yes', to which he responded, 'Stuck-up Pommie bitch' and stormed off. This upset her, of course it did. She was out with friends, having a good time, a little merry from Rum and Coke, and clearly did not expect to be unduly insulted.
Making our way in to the next venue she saw this charming gent standing at the bar and pointed him out to me. Now, I'm a tolerant person, and very accepting of people's foibles and eccentricities, their outlandish opinions or their regretted mistakes - we are all only human. If he'd said it to me I would have let it go, but he didn't, he upset my friend, and he was unnecessarily rude, and this is where my tolerance ends. Insult me all you want, I have thicker skin than you have words to hurt me, and there is no one who could be a harsher critic of me, than me. But please do not upset the people I love, because I will stride over to that bar and call you on it every time.
I did not shout, I did not swear, I was not angry or unkind, I did not create a scene, I'm not in the habit of starting fights, I didn't even have to start the conversation. When I perched next to him and ordered myself a drink, he turned towards me and asked if he could buy it for me? Excellent. I told him I was sorry, that usually I would be more than happy to chat to him, but only 20 minutes ago he'd been insulting towards a friend of mine, and it was this, not my unadulterated desire for him, that had brought me over. He looked at me in disbelief, so I recalled for him his conversation with Ella, for a minute or so he feigned forgetting it but then I think he realised that I was not going to accept 'I'm drunk, I can't remember' as an excuse. He was 35 years old, this man, and I suggested to him that this was too old to still be talking to women like they owe him something. I also mentioned that just because the word 'bitch' has pervaded our society as some kind of mock-friendly, teenage America term of faux sophisticated familiarity, it does not mean that it is not offensive, especially when venomously spat at you by a stranger on the street.
To give him his due, he seemed genuinely sorry when the facts of the matter were delicately pointed out for him, and he looked reasonably shocked and amused that I had decided to quietly challenge his behaviour. He apologised to me, but it wasn't me he had upset, and so I said 'I'm afraid I'm only here on the lovely Ella's behalf, because she shouldn't have to defend herself and because she's far too polite to do so. I think if you mean it, she would very much appreciate an apology in person.' And sure enough, he did. I led him in her direction, she glared at me with 'What Have You Done' eyes, and he told her that he was sorry, he hadn't meant it. She graciously thanked him, everyone shook hands and made up, all's well that ends well.
So why do I share this little anecdote with you? Well, because it helps me to illustrate what kind of a place Kuta is. Everyone is here to have fun. Australians on holiday are to Bali what Brits are for a few weeks in the Summer to Magaluf, Zante, Tenerife, Faliraki. Occasionally they make a show of themselves. Too much alcohol, too much sun, too much sexual energy, and not enough morals has it's benefits, but it also inevitably creates an atmosphere of unbridled, frenzied impulsiveness. Most people get along with this just fine, and manage to take the place for what it is - a multi-national holiday resort. But there is also something unsavoury about it, tensions bubbling beneath the surface which sometimes boil over in to uncalled for remarks or too forceful advances. One night out was great fun, the second night had it's ups (dancing to Dizzee Rascal) and it's downs (fending off drunk Aussies), the prospect of Night Out Number Three this evening, well, it's making me feel old and tired and in need of intelligent conversation.
As you've probably realised, my go-to-girl for intelligent conversation, Ella, is back. We were reunited on Tuesday morning after her adventures in Sumatra. Not only did she bring new stories and tales of West Indonesia for me, she also brought Lizzie and Kirst, two 18 year old travelling companions that she picked up on her way. Their wide-eyed, first days of real life and independence expressions have contributed to my feeling that I've just finished my A Levels and have come on a package holiday with the girlies to 'tear it up abroad'. The only thing missing is matching t-shirts with the slogan 'Bali 2010' and suggestive nicknames on the back. Am I so aged, with only 6 years on these beautiful girls, that I already feel like I'm past this? This is clearly what happens when you've been sneaking into pubs since the age of 15 - "fun" gets boring.
But I'm doing my best to hang on to the last remnants of my turbulent teenage and University years. I like drinking, I like dancing, and most of the time - when they're not calling my friends bitches or trying to grind against me in clubs - I like boys too. The sun is shining, I'm about to have a dip in the pool, and later on we're going to try on each others' clothes and put glitter on our faces. Faliraki, eat your heart out.
Last night as we were coming out of a club to go on to another, an Australian man approached Ella on the street. I was unfortunately not there to witness this but she told me about it only minutes later when I had caught up with her. 'Hey love' he said, 'do you know what a Wolfpack is?'. Neither Ella or I are ashamed to say that no, other than the obvious - a pack of wolves - we do not know what he was referring to, but I have no doubt in my mind that it was either the beginnings of a joke or something with sexual connotations. To avoid further conversation and so ruining his punchline or his come-on she answered 'Yes', to which he responded, 'Stuck-up Pommie bitch' and stormed off. This upset her, of course it did. She was out with friends, having a good time, a little merry from Rum and Coke, and clearly did not expect to be unduly insulted.
Making our way in to the next venue she saw this charming gent standing at the bar and pointed him out to me. Now, I'm a tolerant person, and very accepting of people's foibles and eccentricities, their outlandish opinions or their regretted mistakes - we are all only human. If he'd said it to me I would have let it go, but he didn't, he upset my friend, and he was unnecessarily rude, and this is where my tolerance ends. Insult me all you want, I have thicker skin than you have words to hurt me, and there is no one who could be a harsher critic of me, than me. But please do not upset the people I love, because I will stride over to that bar and call you on it every time.
I did not shout, I did not swear, I was not angry or unkind, I did not create a scene, I'm not in the habit of starting fights, I didn't even have to start the conversation. When I perched next to him and ordered myself a drink, he turned towards me and asked if he could buy it for me? Excellent. I told him I was sorry, that usually I would be more than happy to chat to him, but only 20 minutes ago he'd been insulting towards a friend of mine, and it was this, not my unadulterated desire for him, that had brought me over. He looked at me in disbelief, so I recalled for him his conversation with Ella, for a minute or so he feigned forgetting it but then I think he realised that I was not going to accept 'I'm drunk, I can't remember' as an excuse. He was 35 years old, this man, and I suggested to him that this was too old to still be talking to women like they owe him something. I also mentioned that just because the word 'bitch' has pervaded our society as some kind of mock-friendly, teenage America term of faux sophisticated familiarity, it does not mean that it is not offensive, especially when venomously spat at you by a stranger on the street.
To give him his due, he seemed genuinely sorry when the facts of the matter were delicately pointed out for him, and he looked reasonably shocked and amused that I had decided to quietly challenge his behaviour. He apologised to me, but it wasn't me he had upset, and so I said 'I'm afraid I'm only here on the lovely Ella's behalf, because she shouldn't have to defend herself and because she's far too polite to do so. I think if you mean it, she would very much appreciate an apology in person.' And sure enough, he did. I led him in her direction, she glared at me with 'What Have You Done' eyes, and he told her that he was sorry, he hadn't meant it. She graciously thanked him, everyone shook hands and made up, all's well that ends well.
So why do I share this little anecdote with you? Well, because it helps me to illustrate what kind of a place Kuta is. Everyone is here to have fun. Australians on holiday are to Bali what Brits are for a few weeks in the Summer to Magaluf, Zante, Tenerife, Faliraki. Occasionally they make a show of themselves. Too much alcohol, too much sun, too much sexual energy, and not enough morals has it's benefits, but it also inevitably creates an atmosphere of unbridled, frenzied impulsiveness. Most people get along with this just fine, and manage to take the place for what it is - a multi-national holiday resort. But there is also something unsavoury about it, tensions bubbling beneath the surface which sometimes boil over in to uncalled for remarks or too forceful advances. One night out was great fun, the second night had it's ups (dancing to Dizzee Rascal) and it's downs (fending off drunk Aussies), the prospect of Night Out Number Three this evening, well, it's making me feel old and tired and in need of intelligent conversation.
As you've probably realised, my go-to-girl for intelligent conversation, Ella, is back. We were reunited on Tuesday morning after her adventures in Sumatra. Not only did she bring new stories and tales of West Indonesia for me, she also brought Lizzie and Kirst, two 18 year old travelling companions that she picked up on her way. Their wide-eyed, first days of real life and independence expressions have contributed to my feeling that I've just finished my A Levels and have come on a package holiday with the girlies to 'tear it up abroad'. The only thing missing is matching t-shirts with the slogan 'Bali 2010' and suggestive nicknames on the back. Am I so aged, with only 6 years on these beautiful girls, that I already feel like I'm past this? This is clearly what happens when you've been sneaking into pubs since the age of 15 - "fun" gets boring.
But I'm doing my best to hang on to the last remnants of my turbulent teenage and University years. I like drinking, I like dancing, and most of the time - when they're not calling my friends bitches or trying to grind against me in clubs - I like boys too. The sun is shining, I'm about to have a dip in the pool, and later on we're going to try on each others' clothes and put glitter on our faces. Faliraki, eat your heart out.
An Era Ends
Monday 1st March 2010, 11.45pm, Tunjung Inn - Kuta - Bali
And just like that I'm sat on a 3rd floor balcony overlooking a swimming pool in Bali. I'll never get over the wonder that is aviation.
It struck me as I was flying here earlier this evening that I have "done" South East Asia. Back in late September when I was seated in the Covent Garden branch of STA travel agency, nervously handing over my hard earned cash, I remember thinking that 3 months was an awfully long time. I naively supposed that in a mere 12 weeks or so I would be able to see and do everything that this part of the world had which was worth my time and money, and that I would probably be relieved come the 1st of March to be embarking upon a different stage of my travels. How wrong I was. I feel like I have only scratched the surface of everything these countries have to offer, this is only the beginning. It's a big, wide world out there, and this corner of it feels bigger and wider to me than I ever could have imagined.
I won't be so apathetically cliche to say that I have "found myself" in South East Asia, because I haven't. I barely know what this too bandied about, pseudo psychological, mumbo jumbo term even means. I do know though, that I found things there which made me happy. Views that took my breath away, histories which drew me to tears, landscapes of indescribable natural beauty, experiences that will sit forever on the first pages of my memory, cultures of richness and diversity, cities of bright lights and hedonistic nights, endless reasons to laugh, conversations to treasure, people who awakened and inspired parts of me I never knew existed, who made me fall in love with human beings all over again, and who now reside in my heart.
Maybe this is all that "finding yourself" really means then - finding other places and people who let you be the best version of yourself you can be. Here's to South East Asia, my deepest of regrets to have left you so soon, my sincerest of thanks for the Gallivanting, and for the Goodness. Not goodbye, just, so long for now.
And just like that I'm sat on a 3rd floor balcony overlooking a swimming pool in Bali. I'll never get over the wonder that is aviation.
It struck me as I was flying here earlier this evening that I have "done" South East Asia. Back in late September when I was seated in the Covent Garden branch of STA travel agency, nervously handing over my hard earned cash, I remember thinking that 3 months was an awfully long time. I naively supposed that in a mere 12 weeks or so I would be able to see and do everything that this part of the world had which was worth my time and money, and that I would probably be relieved come the 1st of March to be embarking upon a different stage of my travels. How wrong I was. I feel like I have only scratched the surface of everything these countries have to offer, this is only the beginning. It's a big, wide world out there, and this corner of it feels bigger and wider to me than I ever could have imagined.
I won't be so apathetically cliche to say that I have "found myself" in South East Asia, because I haven't. I barely know what this too bandied about, pseudo psychological, mumbo jumbo term even means. I do know though, that I found things there which made me happy. Views that took my breath away, histories which drew me to tears, landscapes of indescribable natural beauty, experiences that will sit forever on the first pages of my memory, cultures of richness and diversity, cities of bright lights and hedonistic nights, endless reasons to laugh, conversations to treasure, people who awakened and inspired parts of me I never knew existed, who made me fall in love with human beings all over again, and who now reside in my heart.
Maybe this is all that "finding yourself" really means then - finding other places and people who let you be the best version of yourself you can be. Here's to South East Asia, my deepest of regrets to have left you so soon, my sincerest of thanks for the Gallivanting, and for the Goodness. Not goodbye, just, so long for now.
The Singapore Sprint
Monday 1st March, 5.10pm, The Inncrowd Backpackers Hostel - Singapore
Oh the magic of air travel. Less than 48 hours ago I was writing to you from Kuala Lumpur, but having flown from that city early on Sunday morning I have now spent almost 2 days and a night running around the sights of Singapore, my current destination. I never meant to leave myself so rushed and short of meandering time. The problem you see is that before I came away I pre-booked a flight from Singapore to Bali for this evening, the 1st of March. Then two things happened. The first was that I spent 11 days on Koh Phi Phi - very naughty. The second is that I forgot there are only 28 days in February - very stupid. So possessed as I am with this winning combination of laziness and sheer idiocy, I have left myself an unsatisfactory amount of time with which to sprint around Singapore. But sprint I have.
When I changed my status on facebook yesterday morning to let the nearest and dearest know where I am, I was instantly inundated with suggested itineraries. How have all these beloveds of mine been to Singapore without me knowing about it?! Note to self: pay more attention to friends. So armed with a lengthy list of recommendations, a sturdy pair of trainers, a large bottle of water, a Metro ticket and a map (I would like to pretend at this point that I also had a compass and a pair of binoculars - but I'm not that proficient a navigator just yet), I took to the streets to do as I was told.
In the space of 31 hours I have visited the Merlion, a gargantuan, white stone statue, half lion and half fish, that shoots a spray of water from it's mouth into the Marina and is Singapore's national symbol - don't ask me why, I didn't have the time to find out, I have been to the memorial site of Sir Stamford Raffles' landing, I have taken in the Botanical Gardens and I have walked around the Concert Hall, not sure if I was allowed to do this, but nobody stopped me. I have sipped (OK, I gulped it, but I'm on a tight schedule you know) a Singapore Sling in Raffles Hotel Bar, I have perused the various shopping malls along the wealthy consumer's dream street that is Orchard Road, I have made a wish at the Fountain of Wealth and walked around it 3 times with my hands in the water so that it comes true, I have been on a scooter tour of the city - and by scooter I mean those aluminium skateboards with handlebars which you propel yourself along on with one foot on the pavement (new bruises = 3), and I have joyfully travelled North, South, East and West across the various underground lines of Singapore's Metro network. Wow, now that I write it down like that I'm quite proud of my achievements, amazing what you can accomplish when you show some commitment to the cause. I forget to note that within this time frame I also managed to get lost, ooh, about 8 times. Got to get a compass.
A word on the underground system here, it cannot go unmentioned because even without the obvious comparisons to London's tube, it really is remarkable. Trains come on time, to the second. There are enough trains that platforms never get crowded and once you are on you don't have to jostle for breathing room or fight for a seat because they have wide, spacious carriages that are competently designed and air conditioned. Passengers let other people off before getting on, without having to be shouted at over the tannoy to do so. There is no rubbish or graffiti anywhere, no drunk yuppies on their way home from the office asking if you want to share their seat, no one sat next to you eating a tuna and garlic sandwich, no delays due to "signal failures", no one vomiting on the platform. The tickets are cheap, the journeys are smooth, some tunnels are lined with video screens showing commercials so that when you pull in to a station and wait for new passengers to climb aboard you are bombarded with the subliminal strands of advertising that flicker through the train windows.
As Kuala Lumpur was categorised for me by it's abundance of Starbucks and tall buildings, so Singapore is classified by it's Metro. Kuala Lumpur was modern, and of it's era, but Singapore; Singapore is the future. Travelling on that underground train network I genuinely felt like I was an extra in a science fiction film, these people are years ahead! It's not just like this below street level either, this city is so forward thinking and rigorously planned that you walk around half expecting to see people travelling by jet pack, or robots emptying bins. To be honest, as pretty and organised as it is here, I find it all slightly disconcerting. It's got the touch of George Orwell's 1984 about it. Cities aren't supposed to be this clean, the air shouldn't smell this fresh, highways aren't meant to be so de-congested, people don't usually do as they're told. I spent 2 hours yesterday walking round with a dirty tissue in my hand hoping for a bin because I was convinced that a police officer would leap from a well-pruned shrub and shoot me in the head if I dared to drop it on the floor. You know that chewing gum is illegal here? ILLEGAL. These people don't know what Wrigley's Juicy Fruit is for god's sake, this isn't normal!
However, despite my concerns that I've actually flown in to some extra-terrestrial universe where human-resembling aliens conscribe to the all encompassing law that cleanliness is next to godliness, I do very much like Singapore, and can see why so many other people like it too. It's just that I prefer my cities a little grimier, a little more down and dirty, slightly more tampered by character flaws and stained with the evidence of palpable human life. This is why, I suspect, that my preferred part of Singapore is where I have chosen to stay, Little India, which feels a lot less like Singapore and a lot more like, well, India actually. My favourite hours spent in this city have been the ones wandering around this rebellious and imperfect district. Whilst here, being the impressionable person that I am, I have bought a Bindi (doesn't suit me), got a Henna, eaten Chicken Tikka Masala, learnt how to make Roti bread (already forgotten) and spent last night and the early hours of this morning pretending I was in Slumdog Millionaire, showcasing my best Indian dance moves in a Bollywood club along with 10 other recruits from my uber sociable hostel.
So I've been busy, but it's been worth it. I am now sitting slumped in a bean bag at the hostel, awaiting my bus transfer to the airport - which I have no doubt will arrive precisely on the minute it was booked for. I feel I've made up somewhat for my lethargic Phi Phi days and my forgetting of the yearly calendar, '...all the rest have 31 EXCEPT February alone...'. I hopefully enquired of someone earlier if 2010 is a Leap Year. But no, I'm informed it is not, so no 29th for me, no more time in science fiction future, back to the present, on to Indonesia.
Oh the magic of air travel. Less than 48 hours ago I was writing to you from Kuala Lumpur, but having flown from that city early on Sunday morning I have now spent almost 2 days and a night running around the sights of Singapore, my current destination. I never meant to leave myself so rushed and short of meandering time. The problem you see is that before I came away I pre-booked a flight from Singapore to Bali for this evening, the 1st of March. Then two things happened. The first was that I spent 11 days on Koh Phi Phi - very naughty. The second is that I forgot there are only 28 days in February - very stupid. So possessed as I am with this winning combination of laziness and sheer idiocy, I have left myself an unsatisfactory amount of time with which to sprint around Singapore. But sprint I have.
When I changed my status on facebook yesterday morning to let the nearest and dearest know where I am, I was instantly inundated with suggested itineraries. How have all these beloveds of mine been to Singapore without me knowing about it?! Note to self: pay more attention to friends. So armed with a lengthy list of recommendations, a sturdy pair of trainers, a large bottle of water, a Metro ticket and a map (I would like to pretend at this point that I also had a compass and a pair of binoculars - but I'm not that proficient a navigator just yet), I took to the streets to do as I was told.
In the space of 31 hours I have visited the Merlion, a gargantuan, white stone statue, half lion and half fish, that shoots a spray of water from it's mouth into the Marina and is Singapore's national symbol - don't ask me why, I didn't have the time to find out, I have been to the memorial site of Sir Stamford Raffles' landing, I have taken in the Botanical Gardens and I have walked around the Concert Hall, not sure if I was allowed to do this, but nobody stopped me. I have sipped (OK, I gulped it, but I'm on a tight schedule you know) a Singapore Sling in Raffles Hotel Bar, I have perused the various shopping malls along the wealthy consumer's dream street that is Orchard Road, I have made a wish at the Fountain of Wealth and walked around it 3 times with my hands in the water so that it comes true, I have been on a scooter tour of the city - and by scooter I mean those aluminium skateboards with handlebars which you propel yourself along on with one foot on the pavement (new bruises = 3), and I have joyfully travelled North, South, East and West across the various underground lines of Singapore's Metro network. Wow, now that I write it down like that I'm quite proud of my achievements, amazing what you can accomplish when you show some commitment to the cause. I forget to note that within this time frame I also managed to get lost, ooh, about 8 times. Got to get a compass.
A word on the underground system here, it cannot go unmentioned because even without the obvious comparisons to London's tube, it really is remarkable. Trains come on time, to the second. There are enough trains that platforms never get crowded and once you are on you don't have to jostle for breathing room or fight for a seat because they have wide, spacious carriages that are competently designed and air conditioned. Passengers let other people off before getting on, without having to be shouted at over the tannoy to do so. There is no rubbish or graffiti anywhere, no drunk yuppies on their way home from the office asking if you want to share their seat, no one sat next to you eating a tuna and garlic sandwich, no delays due to "signal failures", no one vomiting on the platform. The tickets are cheap, the journeys are smooth, some tunnels are lined with video screens showing commercials so that when you pull in to a station and wait for new passengers to climb aboard you are bombarded with the subliminal strands of advertising that flicker through the train windows.
As Kuala Lumpur was categorised for me by it's abundance of Starbucks and tall buildings, so Singapore is classified by it's Metro. Kuala Lumpur was modern, and of it's era, but Singapore; Singapore is the future. Travelling on that underground train network I genuinely felt like I was an extra in a science fiction film, these people are years ahead! It's not just like this below street level either, this city is so forward thinking and rigorously planned that you walk around half expecting to see people travelling by jet pack, or robots emptying bins. To be honest, as pretty and organised as it is here, I find it all slightly disconcerting. It's got the touch of George Orwell's 1984 about it. Cities aren't supposed to be this clean, the air shouldn't smell this fresh, highways aren't meant to be so de-congested, people don't usually do as they're told. I spent 2 hours yesterday walking round with a dirty tissue in my hand hoping for a bin because I was convinced that a police officer would leap from a well-pruned shrub and shoot me in the head if I dared to drop it on the floor. You know that chewing gum is illegal here? ILLEGAL. These people don't know what Wrigley's Juicy Fruit is for god's sake, this isn't normal!
However, despite my concerns that I've actually flown in to some extra-terrestrial universe where human-resembling aliens conscribe to the all encompassing law that cleanliness is next to godliness, I do very much like Singapore, and can see why so many other people like it too. It's just that I prefer my cities a little grimier, a little more down and dirty, slightly more tampered by character flaws and stained with the evidence of palpable human life. This is why, I suspect, that my preferred part of Singapore is where I have chosen to stay, Little India, which feels a lot less like Singapore and a lot more like, well, India actually. My favourite hours spent in this city have been the ones wandering around this rebellious and imperfect district. Whilst here, being the impressionable person that I am, I have bought a Bindi (doesn't suit me), got a Henna, eaten Chicken Tikka Masala, learnt how to make Roti bread (already forgotten) and spent last night and the early hours of this morning pretending I was in Slumdog Millionaire, showcasing my best Indian dance moves in a Bollywood club along with 10 other recruits from my uber sociable hostel.
So I've been busy, but it's been worth it. I am now sitting slumped in a bean bag at the hostel, awaiting my bus transfer to the airport - which I have no doubt will arrive precisely on the minute it was booked for. I feel I've made up somewhat for my lethargic Phi Phi days and my forgetting of the yearly calendar, '...all the rest have 31 EXCEPT February alone...'. I hopefully enquired of someone earlier if 2010 is a Leap Year. But no, I'm informed it is not, so no 29th for me, no more time in science fiction future, back to the present, on to Indonesia.
Wednesday 10 March 2010
Kuala Lumpur's Hand
Saturday 27th February 2010, 7.30pm, Starbucks, Bukit Bintang - Kuala Lumpur
I was right. It's not a frequent occurrence but it does happen occasionally, I was right - I just needed someone to talk to. "Someone" came in the warm faced, joke cracking, intrepid adventurer form of Will, my Kuala Lumpur cohort. At breakfast in the hostel on Friday morning I was feeling mildly less angst ridden already, daylight and sunshine seem to blind eyes with which we saw night terrors so clearly only a few hours previous. Over toast and coffee I idly chatted away with some girls from the Phillipines who have been here for a few days, and asked them for their opinions as to what I should occupy myself with here.
Ear-wigging our conversation was Will, a native Bristolian who emigrated to Australia 3 years ago and is now a fully fledged Melbourne resident. He plonked himself down next to me and exclaimed, 'I just got here today, I'm on my own too. So Will and Grace, what are we gonna do?!'. The perfect mixture of West Country charm and Antipodean brashness, this one's a keeper I thought. This thought was confirmed only seconds later when he said, 'Let's not rush ourselves though. There's time for more coffee, a gossip and a fag on the roof, yeah?'. Someone saw me wide awake and panicked this morning, and someone sent me Will. Piecing together our limited knowledge of Kuala Lumpur we headed out on foot to explore this towering city of glass and steel, of skyscrapers and commerce - it's a high definition city on a cinema scope plasma screen.
You may have noticed from my dating and timing of this entry that I'm sat in a Starbucks as I write this. Avid blog followers will be well acquainted by now with my penchant for holing up in coffee shops, but I accept little blame for this misdemeanour this evening as it's pretty hard to avoid them here. I think I've counted about 7 Starbucks on my wanderings so far. My willpower may have walked me past 1, maybe even 3, but not 7; I took it as a sign. These 7 Starbucks quite accurately portray what kind of a city Kuala Lumpur is; it's London, just taller and hotter and with more "massage" parlours. It's unlike any place I've seen on my travels so far in that it's so current, so familiar, so bang up-to-date and on trend with everything you would expect from a modern Western city. It has the most ethnically diverse demographic of any city I've seen so far, largely due to the number of ex-pats living and working here. You can hardly blame them either, they have all the amenities of the developed world at their fingertips, food and drink are still a third of the price they are at home, and you're only a one hour plane journey away from the beaches of Thailand; beats an hour's drive from London to Southend doesn't it.
So what have we been doing in this modern metropolis? Well, pretty much what you would do in any Capital city I guess; shopping, eating, going to the top of tall buildings to look at the view, drinking beer on the street. (OK, maybe you wouldn't do that last one in London, but it would be defnitely be de rigueur in say, Swansea?). I must not detract from the splendour of the views though, this afternoon we went to the top of the KL Tower, some 335 metres in the sky, and saw below us a landscape of soaring concrete and industrialism. There are lots of facts and figures at the information centre in the Tower, proudly showing how it favourably compares in height to other world towers. You don't need the statistics when you're up there though, this tower looks down on buildings that when you were next to them on the ground gave you whiplash from staring up at them.
You know how when you're on a plane and about to land, everything looks like a Lego village, cars like motorised toys and people the invisible ants which operate them? Well that's how Kuala Lumpur makes you feel when you're standing in it, like a tiny little insect dwarfed by over-sized buildings. Everything here is on a giant scale (even my coffee looks a little bigger than a Grande at home), Will and I have been two little Lego people craning our necks to get our bearings. On our way to take photos of the illuminated Petronus Towers last night I suggested we consult a map. Will thought this hilarious and unnecessarily cautious given that 'it's not very likely we're going to lose them is it, we'll just look up and walk in a straight line towards those massive glowing blocks in the sky.' Point well made.
We've had a fun-filled, action-packed two days here together. We've been to a city zoo (where they fed a live chicken to a boa constrictor - probably not standard Animal Rights zoo practice), we've eaten spicy noodles in local kitchens that nearly blew our heads off, we've shopped for, as Will puts it, 'tacky Asian shit' in the Central Market, we've played arcade video games - turns out I'm much handier in a Formula One simulator than I am in an actual car, we've haggled our way through the stolen goods of Chinatown, and we've given hungry fish our aching feet to nibble on. I've done this before so was prepared, Will giggled like a schoolgirl. Two days here was enough though, enough time spent minimised like a Lego person drowning in commercialism, enough time to make a new friend.
When I was in Siem Reap in Cambodia, way back in mid-December, I bought myself a long silver chain. Since then I have purchased one pendant in every country I have visited and have been systematically adding them to my necklace and wearing it all the time as a talisman of my travelling experiences. It's gradually getting heavier, I'll probably look like Mr T. by the time I get to Australia, weighed down with bling from 11 countries. Each charm has been carefully chosen to carry symbolic reference for me with regards to where it represents - an elephant for Thailand, a star from Vietnam's Communist flag, a silver hoop, a 'tube' for Laos, and for Cambodia, a pendant in the shape of a teardrop filled with vines and flowers. I bought that one the day after I had spent an afternoon in the gardens of the Killing Fields. So what, I wondered, should I add to succinctly say 'Malaysia' to me in the future?
I searched a few jewellery shops and street stalls earlier this evening for a charm that would pass for a tower, Kuala Lumpur being a city so recognisable by it's high rise feats of engineering. But then I came across the pendant that now hangs rightfully from my neck, as soon as I saw it I knew it had to be this one. A small silver hand. Because this hand, Will's hand, has, more than anything, been what Kuala Lumpur has meant to me. No amount of sight-seeing, market dwelling, rooftop views or any other Asian city delights can compete with the fact that here, it was important for me to have a friend. Sometimes you know, where we are is insignificant, as long as there's another person's hand to hold when you need it.
I was right. It's not a frequent occurrence but it does happen occasionally, I was right - I just needed someone to talk to. "Someone" came in the warm faced, joke cracking, intrepid adventurer form of Will, my Kuala Lumpur cohort. At breakfast in the hostel on Friday morning I was feeling mildly less angst ridden already, daylight and sunshine seem to blind eyes with which we saw night terrors so clearly only a few hours previous. Over toast and coffee I idly chatted away with some girls from the Phillipines who have been here for a few days, and asked them for their opinions as to what I should occupy myself with here.
Ear-wigging our conversation was Will, a native Bristolian who emigrated to Australia 3 years ago and is now a fully fledged Melbourne resident. He plonked himself down next to me and exclaimed, 'I just got here today, I'm on my own too. So Will and Grace, what are we gonna do?!'. The perfect mixture of West Country charm and Antipodean brashness, this one's a keeper I thought. This thought was confirmed only seconds later when he said, 'Let's not rush ourselves though. There's time for more coffee, a gossip and a fag on the roof, yeah?'. Someone saw me wide awake and panicked this morning, and someone sent me Will. Piecing together our limited knowledge of Kuala Lumpur we headed out on foot to explore this towering city of glass and steel, of skyscrapers and commerce - it's a high definition city on a cinema scope plasma screen.
You may have noticed from my dating and timing of this entry that I'm sat in a Starbucks as I write this. Avid blog followers will be well acquainted by now with my penchant for holing up in coffee shops, but I accept little blame for this misdemeanour this evening as it's pretty hard to avoid them here. I think I've counted about 7 Starbucks on my wanderings so far. My willpower may have walked me past 1, maybe even 3, but not 7; I took it as a sign. These 7 Starbucks quite accurately portray what kind of a city Kuala Lumpur is; it's London, just taller and hotter and with more "massage" parlours. It's unlike any place I've seen on my travels so far in that it's so current, so familiar, so bang up-to-date and on trend with everything you would expect from a modern Western city. It has the most ethnically diverse demographic of any city I've seen so far, largely due to the number of ex-pats living and working here. You can hardly blame them either, they have all the amenities of the developed world at their fingertips, food and drink are still a third of the price they are at home, and you're only a one hour plane journey away from the beaches of Thailand; beats an hour's drive from London to Southend doesn't it.
So what have we been doing in this modern metropolis? Well, pretty much what you would do in any Capital city I guess; shopping, eating, going to the top of tall buildings to look at the view, drinking beer on the street. (OK, maybe you wouldn't do that last one in London, but it would be defnitely be de rigueur in say, Swansea?). I must not detract from the splendour of the views though, this afternoon we went to the top of the KL Tower, some 335 metres in the sky, and saw below us a landscape of soaring concrete and industrialism. There are lots of facts and figures at the information centre in the Tower, proudly showing how it favourably compares in height to other world towers. You don't need the statistics when you're up there though, this tower looks down on buildings that when you were next to them on the ground gave you whiplash from staring up at them.
You know how when you're on a plane and about to land, everything looks like a Lego village, cars like motorised toys and people the invisible ants which operate them? Well that's how Kuala Lumpur makes you feel when you're standing in it, like a tiny little insect dwarfed by over-sized buildings. Everything here is on a giant scale (even my coffee looks a little bigger than a Grande at home), Will and I have been two little Lego people craning our necks to get our bearings. On our way to take photos of the illuminated Petronus Towers last night I suggested we consult a map. Will thought this hilarious and unnecessarily cautious given that 'it's not very likely we're going to lose them is it, we'll just look up and walk in a straight line towards those massive glowing blocks in the sky.' Point well made.
We've had a fun-filled, action-packed two days here together. We've been to a city zoo (where they fed a live chicken to a boa constrictor - probably not standard Animal Rights zoo practice), we've eaten spicy noodles in local kitchens that nearly blew our heads off, we've shopped for, as Will puts it, 'tacky Asian shit' in the Central Market, we've played arcade video games - turns out I'm much handier in a Formula One simulator than I am in an actual car, we've haggled our way through the stolen goods of Chinatown, and we've given hungry fish our aching feet to nibble on. I've done this before so was prepared, Will giggled like a schoolgirl. Two days here was enough though, enough time spent minimised like a Lego person drowning in commercialism, enough time to make a new friend.
When I was in Siem Reap in Cambodia, way back in mid-December, I bought myself a long silver chain. Since then I have purchased one pendant in every country I have visited and have been systematically adding them to my necklace and wearing it all the time as a talisman of my travelling experiences. It's gradually getting heavier, I'll probably look like Mr T. by the time I get to Australia, weighed down with bling from 11 countries. Each charm has been carefully chosen to carry symbolic reference for me with regards to where it represents - an elephant for Thailand, a star from Vietnam's Communist flag, a silver hoop, a 'tube' for Laos, and for Cambodia, a pendant in the shape of a teardrop filled with vines and flowers. I bought that one the day after I had spent an afternoon in the gardens of the Killing Fields. So what, I wondered, should I add to succinctly say 'Malaysia' to me in the future?
I searched a few jewellery shops and street stalls earlier this evening for a charm that would pass for a tower, Kuala Lumpur being a city so recognisable by it's high rise feats of engineering. But then I came across the pendant that now hangs rightfully from my neck, as soon as I saw it I knew it had to be this one. A small silver hand. Because this hand, Will's hand, has, more than anything, been what Kuala Lumpur has meant to me. No amount of sight-seeing, market dwelling, rooftop views or any other Asian city delights can compete with the fact that here, it was important for me to have a friend. Sometimes you know, where we are is insignificant, as long as there's another person's hand to hold when you need it.
That 3am Thing
Friday 26th February 2010, 3am, Paradiso Hostel - Kuala Lumpur - Malaysia
Insomnia has never been something I've suffered from. If anything it's quite the extreme opposite, I'm normally veering more towards narcolepsy than I am to any kind of sleep deprivation. If I am tired, there is little or nothing I can do about it, and much to Ella's annoyance have been known to pass out on many a journey by boat or plane, bus or train, before the vehicle in question has even fired up the engine, and then need to be shoved out of my temporary coma by a droopy-eyed, yawning Ms Pritchard informing me, 'We're here. You slept the whole way.' I've been like it since I was a small child apparently. There was a violent and devastating storm one night that hit the South East of England, in early 1988, I think it was. My Mother, commenting on my ability to sleep like the dead, has told me she rushed to my room that night to find me (who was still 6 months shy of 2 years at the time) far away and dreaming peacefully while the racket of the rain and wind, uprooted trees and flying roof tiles raged on outside my window.
As with my resistance to insomnia, neither am I inclined towards panic attacks. I worry about things like everyone else, but I am more disposed to sadness than I am to anxiety. There have been times in my life when I've been in periods of "upset", but this never provokes in me any particular moments of panic, no instinctual, uncontainable reactions towards stress. I've always taken the long, slow, quiet, despondent road away from trouble, not the short, fast, jittery one. I can always cry and then I can always sleep, lying awake and twitching just ain't my style.
Until tonight. I had a pretty awful 13 hour bus journey from Krabi today. By no means the longest bus ride I've taken, but very nearly the most uncomfortable. The seats were fixed at odd angles, the air conditioning either turned off or too cold, I was the only English-speaking person on the bus, there were numerous unexplained stops and starts at the roadside, a 40 minute Visa queue at the border, a lunch stop where all the food smelt like rotting pig flesh, the scar tissue from an old ballet injury in my hamstring throbbed away, and a jobsworth at passport control who didn't believe that me (mahogany skinned, glasses on, lion-haired) and the photo in my passport (straightening ironed locks, fuller faced, contact lenses in, English Winter complexion) were the same person. With a line of hundreds tutting behind me I had to put my glasses on the desk, pull down on my unruly hair and say 'Now imagine me as a fatter White person.' This did the trick.
When I arrived in Kuala Lumpur this evening it would be fair to say that I was already a bit hacked off. The bus did as they always do: drop you wherever they feel like parking, pretend not to understand English when you ask for directions, point you towards crooked taxi rank. My very own crooked cabbie, armed with the precise address of my pre-booked room, drove me around for 10 minutes before bringing me back to exactly the same spot where we had started - turns out I'd unknowingly been a minute away from the hostel. Sure he only charged me 2 quid, but out here that buys dinner. My spirits lifted slightly when I plodded through the door of my accommodation. The owner, a camp and kitsch, excitable little fellow who reminded me a little bit of Willy Wonka bellowed 'Aha! You must be our Grace Kelly!'. It's a great hostel; big communal areas, TV lounge, rooftop terrace, comfy, cool dorm rooms, and yet...
It was late when I got here, well 11ish, so not that late, and everyone else was tucked up in bed drifting off to sleep, no one wanted to talk to me. The owner bounded through the door of my bedroom followed by his army of Oompa Loompas (OK, not really, I made that bit up) and enthusiastically announced my arrival to the other 3 girls in bunk beds before introducing them like a Saturday night TV compere as 'Olivia Newton-John, Pamela Anderson, and Alexandra the Great!'. But Liv, Pam and Alex weren't so friendly and barely afforded me a polite nod as I entered, the Charlie of the Chocolate Factory, grinning and eager for company and conversation. Would it be xenophobic of me to mention at this point that all 3 girls are German? Not that I'm insinuating anything of course... joyless, hard-nosed bores.
So now, well actually about 3 hours ago now, I went to bed too. I tried walking around on my own for a while but the humidity is unbearable, there are Malaysian hoodlums everywhere calling me 'baby' and asking if I will be their wife, and I haven't got a map yet, so I was bound to get lost. I should be tired, but I can't sleep. I'm painfully wide awake and indulging in one of those early morning torture sessions where you allow your brain to spend time dwelling on everything in the recent past, present and future which make your stomach feel like it's taken residency in your throat. I've never had a panic attack before so am no authority on the diagnosing, maybe someone can clear it up for me: sweaty palms, dry mouth, heart feels like it's going to beat right out of my chest, brain ticking and sending off alarm bells like a cuckoo clock on Speed, shaking hands, beginnings of a headache, shortness of breath, and the almost uncontrollable urge to run away, anywhere, very fast.
What's wrong with me? I can't sleep and I'm fraught with nervous energy despite having no real reason to be, normally I would have just cried myself in to slumber land by now! Maybe I just need someone to talk to. Or some chocolate.
Insomnia has never been something I've suffered from. If anything it's quite the extreme opposite, I'm normally veering more towards narcolepsy than I am to any kind of sleep deprivation. If I am tired, there is little or nothing I can do about it, and much to Ella's annoyance have been known to pass out on many a journey by boat or plane, bus or train, before the vehicle in question has even fired up the engine, and then need to be shoved out of my temporary coma by a droopy-eyed, yawning Ms Pritchard informing me, 'We're here. You slept the whole way.' I've been like it since I was a small child apparently. There was a violent and devastating storm one night that hit the South East of England, in early 1988, I think it was. My Mother, commenting on my ability to sleep like the dead, has told me she rushed to my room that night to find me (who was still 6 months shy of 2 years at the time) far away and dreaming peacefully while the racket of the rain and wind, uprooted trees and flying roof tiles raged on outside my window.
As with my resistance to insomnia, neither am I inclined towards panic attacks. I worry about things like everyone else, but I am more disposed to sadness than I am to anxiety. There have been times in my life when I've been in periods of "upset", but this never provokes in me any particular moments of panic, no instinctual, uncontainable reactions towards stress. I've always taken the long, slow, quiet, despondent road away from trouble, not the short, fast, jittery one. I can always cry and then I can always sleep, lying awake and twitching just ain't my style.
Until tonight. I had a pretty awful 13 hour bus journey from Krabi today. By no means the longest bus ride I've taken, but very nearly the most uncomfortable. The seats were fixed at odd angles, the air conditioning either turned off or too cold, I was the only English-speaking person on the bus, there were numerous unexplained stops and starts at the roadside, a 40 minute Visa queue at the border, a lunch stop where all the food smelt like rotting pig flesh, the scar tissue from an old ballet injury in my hamstring throbbed away, and a jobsworth at passport control who didn't believe that me (mahogany skinned, glasses on, lion-haired) and the photo in my passport (straightening ironed locks, fuller faced, contact lenses in, English Winter complexion) were the same person. With a line of hundreds tutting behind me I had to put my glasses on the desk, pull down on my unruly hair and say 'Now imagine me as a fatter White person.' This did the trick.
When I arrived in Kuala Lumpur this evening it would be fair to say that I was already a bit hacked off. The bus did as they always do: drop you wherever they feel like parking, pretend not to understand English when you ask for directions, point you towards crooked taxi rank. My very own crooked cabbie, armed with the precise address of my pre-booked room, drove me around for 10 minutes before bringing me back to exactly the same spot where we had started - turns out I'd unknowingly been a minute away from the hostel. Sure he only charged me 2 quid, but out here that buys dinner. My spirits lifted slightly when I plodded through the door of my accommodation. The owner, a camp and kitsch, excitable little fellow who reminded me a little bit of Willy Wonka bellowed 'Aha! You must be our Grace Kelly!'. It's a great hostel; big communal areas, TV lounge, rooftop terrace, comfy, cool dorm rooms, and yet...
It was late when I got here, well 11ish, so not that late, and everyone else was tucked up in bed drifting off to sleep, no one wanted to talk to me. The owner bounded through the door of my bedroom followed by his army of Oompa Loompas (OK, not really, I made that bit up) and enthusiastically announced my arrival to the other 3 girls in bunk beds before introducing them like a Saturday night TV compere as 'Olivia Newton-John, Pamela Anderson, and Alexandra the Great!'. But Liv, Pam and Alex weren't so friendly and barely afforded me a polite nod as I entered, the Charlie of the Chocolate Factory, grinning and eager for company and conversation. Would it be xenophobic of me to mention at this point that all 3 girls are German? Not that I'm insinuating anything of course... joyless, hard-nosed bores.
So now, well actually about 3 hours ago now, I went to bed too. I tried walking around on my own for a while but the humidity is unbearable, there are Malaysian hoodlums everywhere calling me 'baby' and asking if I will be their wife, and I haven't got a map yet, so I was bound to get lost. I should be tired, but I can't sleep. I'm painfully wide awake and indulging in one of those early morning torture sessions where you allow your brain to spend time dwelling on everything in the recent past, present and future which make your stomach feel like it's taken residency in your throat. I've never had a panic attack before so am no authority on the diagnosing, maybe someone can clear it up for me: sweaty palms, dry mouth, heart feels like it's going to beat right out of my chest, brain ticking and sending off alarm bells like a cuckoo clock on Speed, shaking hands, beginnings of a headache, shortness of breath, and the almost uncontrollable urge to run away, anywhere, very fast.
What's wrong with me? I can't sleep and I'm fraught with nervous energy despite having no real reason to be, normally I would have just cried myself in to slumber land by now! Maybe I just need someone to talk to. Or some chocolate.
The Roots and The Source
Wednesday 24th February 2010, 7.55pm, Up2U Bar - Krabi
The mysterious rainbow-coloured tablets are working! Goodness knows what's in them but whatever it is it's doing the job. Eating is still beyond me, but I'm no longer in agony, it's such a relief to be able to get up and walk about without worrying that I'm going to make involuntary yelping noises at the pain. I sent Daniel away earlier this evening, feeling now capable of caring for myself and deciding that it was unfair of me to keep him here purely to fetch me things, I ordered him back to the islands. He really has been a trooper these past few days, and an excellent if not financially reckless travelling companion for the past 2 weeks. I'm hoping our paths will cross yet again, or that I'll at least be able to someday take advantage of his flat in Stockholm.
Being confined as I have been for the past few days in the rooms of my guest house, my inspiration for writing has obviously been limited, but as it turns out, not entirely devoid of stimuli. The reception of the guest house is a very neat, professional little outfit. Tiled floors, whitewashed walls, air conditioned, information pamphlets lining the walls, and fish tanks and vases of bamboo for decoration. Behind their computers the two staff sit suited and booted, cocooned in this tidy tourist haven and completely oblivious to the one anomaly, the red herring in the room who is completely incompatible with his ordered surroundings.
Sprawled out on a tattered and holey old mattress in the corner, lies an old man, pushing 80 I would guess, fast asleep in his underpants, a fan blowing on his face, and a bowl of fruit next to his makeshift bed. From the tender way I have witnessed one of the suited staff members tuck him in, move the fan closer and bring him food, I imagine they are Father and Son. Everything carries on in the office around him, it's business as usual whilst he lies sleeping, stretched out like a greying, hairy old ape who occasionally stirs to scratch himself or gobble down a plum. No one other than me seems to find this in the slightest bit strange, and other than the seeing to of his basic needs, he is paid little or no attention - and he appears to be quite happy with this arrangement.
Back in January, when I was walking round a war museum just outside of Hue in Vietnam, I saw a line of prose engraved into a wall plaque that at the time, I deemed noteworthy enough to take down... 'Only trees with roots can grow well. Only waters with source can create vast oceans, deep rivers.' Above the quotation was a title that read 'In Praise of Ancestors'. This old man in his underpants, in the foyer of my guest house, has got me thinking about the way South East Asians view and treat their elderly. They are a venerated generation over here, living within the family home when their children have married and borne offspring of their own, a place is always found for them amongst the new family they have ascended. There's no such thing as a Nursing Home, no Community Care, no respite charities, no state pension, no NHS, no Social Workers - the ageing generation rely entirely on their families to house, feed and care for them in their twilight years, and their families take on this responsibility not begrudgingly, but with acceptance and compassion. It is a matter of fact situation, the young are loyally bound to the old.
Would I, sat in an office at work, some 20 years from now, want my Father to be sleeping on a bed in the corner in his boxer shorts, interrupting me from my daily tasks to go and make him a cup of tea or rustle up a bacon sarnie? The answer is no, as much as I love him, no I would definitely not. Yet here, in this part of Asia, in these countries that are apparently so far behind our Western ideals that they occupy a 3rd World dimension, they are doing just this. Without compromising their work or their professionalism, or the harmony of their home lives and young families, they unquestioningly provide for those that brought them into the world. In the absence of the health services and corporate support systems we in the West have created for our own convenience, these people remain able to lead normal lives of work and play, whilst acquiescing to their simple duty of care, looking after those who once looked after them.
Now I'm not saying that I have any plans to introduce such stringent ethics to my own life back home. My Nan would have been somewhat of a hindrance in my Social Services office, being the countermeasure to political correctness that she is, and I'm sure my lovely parents would much rather spend their retirement years birdwatching, or gardening, or eating scones in Dorset teashops than they would living with me in a London flat, receiving inadequate attention and poorly cooked dinners. Nonetheless, I will endeavour to remember these men with their successful hotel and tourism business, their enviable language skills, their travel experience, their smart, modern office, and their old Dad, asleep and content in the corner. Holding on to their roots, protecting that water source from whence they came, well it certainly hasn't done them any harm.
The mysterious rainbow-coloured tablets are working! Goodness knows what's in them but whatever it is it's doing the job. Eating is still beyond me, but I'm no longer in agony, it's such a relief to be able to get up and walk about without worrying that I'm going to make involuntary yelping noises at the pain. I sent Daniel away earlier this evening, feeling now capable of caring for myself and deciding that it was unfair of me to keep him here purely to fetch me things, I ordered him back to the islands. He really has been a trooper these past few days, and an excellent if not financially reckless travelling companion for the past 2 weeks. I'm hoping our paths will cross yet again, or that I'll at least be able to someday take advantage of his flat in Stockholm.
Being confined as I have been for the past few days in the rooms of my guest house, my inspiration for writing has obviously been limited, but as it turns out, not entirely devoid of stimuli. The reception of the guest house is a very neat, professional little outfit. Tiled floors, whitewashed walls, air conditioned, information pamphlets lining the walls, and fish tanks and vases of bamboo for decoration. Behind their computers the two staff sit suited and booted, cocooned in this tidy tourist haven and completely oblivious to the one anomaly, the red herring in the room who is completely incompatible with his ordered surroundings.
Sprawled out on a tattered and holey old mattress in the corner, lies an old man, pushing 80 I would guess, fast asleep in his underpants, a fan blowing on his face, and a bowl of fruit next to his makeshift bed. From the tender way I have witnessed one of the suited staff members tuck him in, move the fan closer and bring him food, I imagine they are Father and Son. Everything carries on in the office around him, it's business as usual whilst he lies sleeping, stretched out like a greying, hairy old ape who occasionally stirs to scratch himself or gobble down a plum. No one other than me seems to find this in the slightest bit strange, and other than the seeing to of his basic needs, he is paid little or no attention - and he appears to be quite happy with this arrangement.
Back in January, when I was walking round a war museum just outside of Hue in Vietnam, I saw a line of prose engraved into a wall plaque that at the time, I deemed noteworthy enough to take down... 'Only trees with roots can grow well. Only waters with source can create vast oceans, deep rivers.' Above the quotation was a title that read 'In Praise of Ancestors'. This old man in his underpants, in the foyer of my guest house, has got me thinking about the way South East Asians view and treat their elderly. They are a venerated generation over here, living within the family home when their children have married and borne offspring of their own, a place is always found for them amongst the new family they have ascended. There's no such thing as a Nursing Home, no Community Care, no respite charities, no state pension, no NHS, no Social Workers - the ageing generation rely entirely on their families to house, feed and care for them in their twilight years, and their families take on this responsibility not begrudgingly, but with acceptance and compassion. It is a matter of fact situation, the young are loyally bound to the old.
Would I, sat in an office at work, some 20 years from now, want my Father to be sleeping on a bed in the corner in his boxer shorts, interrupting me from my daily tasks to go and make him a cup of tea or rustle up a bacon sarnie? The answer is no, as much as I love him, no I would definitely not. Yet here, in this part of Asia, in these countries that are apparently so far behind our Western ideals that they occupy a 3rd World dimension, they are doing just this. Without compromising their work or their professionalism, or the harmony of their home lives and young families, they unquestioningly provide for those that brought them into the world. In the absence of the health services and corporate support systems we in the West have created for our own convenience, these people remain able to lead normal lives of work and play, whilst acquiescing to their simple duty of care, looking after those who once looked after them.
Now I'm not saying that I have any plans to introduce such stringent ethics to my own life back home. My Nan would have been somewhat of a hindrance in my Social Services office, being the countermeasure to political correctness that she is, and I'm sure my lovely parents would much rather spend their retirement years birdwatching, or gardening, or eating scones in Dorset teashops than they would living with me in a London flat, receiving inadequate attention and poorly cooked dinners. Nonetheless, I will endeavour to remember these men with their successful hotel and tourism business, their enviable language skills, their travel experience, their smart, modern office, and their old Dad, asleep and content in the corner. Holding on to their roots, protecting that water source from whence they came, well it certainly hasn't done them any harm.
Feeling Crabby
Tuesday 23rd February 2010, 9.45pm, B&B Guest House - Krabi
The magic of Bamboo Island came and left us all too quickly. With Bad Patrick departed for Jakarta and our bank balances buckling under the strain of our Phi Phi extravagance, Daniel and I departed our holiday island yesterday afternoon and arrived here in Krabi. With it's cheap, basic accommodation, immigration office, and easy transport links to the rest of Thailand as well as Malaysia, Krabi is your classic one night stop-off town. You wouldn't stay here any longer, once administration and planning issues have been sorted you would quickly depart from it's characterless streets for somewhere with better views or actual things to do. That is, of course, unless you have food poisoning.
So it turns out that the barbecue we scoffed on the beach on Sunday night may not have been as wholesome and hearty as it tasted. I'm in agony, real writhing, thrashing on the bed, grit your teeth kind of pain. I have new sympathy for anyone who has previously had food poisoning, because I really didn't know it could be so bad. Unable to move myself any greater distance than between bathroom and bed, travel onwards is out of the question. I have no choice but to do the unthinkable and become probably the first traveller in the history of backpacking to stay in mundane, ugly old Krabi for 3 nights. Daniel will be the second traveller to ever do this, a true friend and loyal ally of mine now, he refuses to leave me whilst I am so ill, and so we shall both depart from this godawful town on Thursday morning - him back to the Thai islands with his extended Visa, and myself, on to Malaysia.
I was being stubbornly brave about it all until earlier this evening. Skeptical of Thai medicine, unwilling to pay a Doctor to tell me things I already know and resolutely convinced that with rest and recuperation illness always cures itself in 48 hours, I, much to Daniel's aggravation, point blank refused to seek medical help. That was until the pain became so intense and crippling earlier on that I felt like something inside me might be dieing. I honestly can't believe that labour pains would be worse than this. I flailed about in the sheets yelling at Daniel that 'it feels like I'm having contractions' and 'wouldn't that be a fine way to ruin February', and 'don't tell me I'm overreacting, you don't have a womb, you know nothing' and 'what if it's my Appendix? If it explodes I'll die and you'll have to ring my parents.' I eventually had to quit being a stubborn old mule, for the sake of Daniel's tolerance levels and ear drums, as well as out of fear for my own mystery ailment, I relinquished to the necessary, 'Excuse me Daniel, I give in, I'm sorry. Can you carry me to the Doctor now please?'.
The Doctor was very reassuring and diagnosed me, as already revealed, with a bad case of food poisoning. He also laughed heartily along with Daniel when I voiced my very serious concern that I thought something might be eating my ovaries. Humph, what do they know, these men with their easy lives and their ridiculous organs on the outside of their bodies. Anyway, I have 5 different kinds of nameless, label-free pills to take 3 times a day, but I'm placing my skepticism about Thai medicine aside for now. The way I'm feeling, I'll give anything a shot. If he'd told me I needed to eat a cockroach to feel better I probably would have just asked whether I should wash it first?
That's me until Thursday morning then (by which point I've categorically decided Not To Be Ill Anymore), curled up in bed, watching made-for-TV movies, having my Swedish nurse wait on me, and full of so many pills that if you picked me up and shook me I'd rattle. Can't be helped, only endured, this too shall pass...
The magic of Bamboo Island came and left us all too quickly. With Bad Patrick departed for Jakarta and our bank balances buckling under the strain of our Phi Phi extravagance, Daniel and I departed our holiday island yesterday afternoon and arrived here in Krabi. With it's cheap, basic accommodation, immigration office, and easy transport links to the rest of Thailand as well as Malaysia, Krabi is your classic one night stop-off town. You wouldn't stay here any longer, once administration and planning issues have been sorted you would quickly depart from it's characterless streets for somewhere with better views or actual things to do. That is, of course, unless you have food poisoning.
So it turns out that the barbecue we scoffed on the beach on Sunday night may not have been as wholesome and hearty as it tasted. I'm in agony, real writhing, thrashing on the bed, grit your teeth kind of pain. I have new sympathy for anyone who has previously had food poisoning, because I really didn't know it could be so bad. Unable to move myself any greater distance than between bathroom and bed, travel onwards is out of the question. I have no choice but to do the unthinkable and become probably the first traveller in the history of backpacking to stay in mundane, ugly old Krabi for 3 nights. Daniel will be the second traveller to ever do this, a true friend and loyal ally of mine now, he refuses to leave me whilst I am so ill, and so we shall both depart from this godawful town on Thursday morning - him back to the Thai islands with his extended Visa, and myself, on to Malaysia.
I was being stubbornly brave about it all until earlier this evening. Skeptical of Thai medicine, unwilling to pay a Doctor to tell me things I already know and resolutely convinced that with rest and recuperation illness always cures itself in 48 hours, I, much to Daniel's aggravation, point blank refused to seek medical help. That was until the pain became so intense and crippling earlier on that I felt like something inside me might be dieing. I honestly can't believe that labour pains would be worse than this. I flailed about in the sheets yelling at Daniel that 'it feels like I'm having contractions' and 'wouldn't that be a fine way to ruin February', and 'don't tell me I'm overreacting, you don't have a womb, you know nothing' and 'what if it's my Appendix? If it explodes I'll die and you'll have to ring my parents.' I eventually had to quit being a stubborn old mule, for the sake of Daniel's tolerance levels and ear drums, as well as out of fear for my own mystery ailment, I relinquished to the necessary, 'Excuse me Daniel, I give in, I'm sorry. Can you carry me to the Doctor now please?'.
The Doctor was very reassuring and diagnosed me, as already revealed, with a bad case of food poisoning. He also laughed heartily along with Daniel when I voiced my very serious concern that I thought something might be eating my ovaries. Humph, what do they know, these men with their easy lives and their ridiculous organs on the outside of their bodies. Anyway, I have 5 different kinds of nameless, label-free pills to take 3 times a day, but I'm placing my skepticism about Thai medicine aside for now. The way I'm feeling, I'll give anything a shot. If he'd told me I needed to eat a cockroach to feel better I probably would have just asked whether I should wash it first?
That's me until Thursday morning then (by which point I've categorically decided Not To Be Ill Anymore), curled up in bed, watching made-for-TV movies, having my Swedish nurse wait on me, and full of so many pills that if you picked me up and shook me I'd rattle. Can't be helped, only endured, this too shall pass...
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