I don't know where to begin on Bagan so I think the photos should do the talking...
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Yangon Days
I don’t know how the Lonely Planet manage to do it. Actually, I think I have an idea: They plough a lot of resources – these being money and patience - into other resources – these being the human capital of travel journalists – who in turn ply their trade by visiting and living in countries for a number of years and therefore, in the kind of shorthand you would use when interviewing a slick tongued politician, manage to encapsulate a country in a book. I’m not implying that this is at all entirely possible, but in a broad-based manner they do a pretty good job with their travel guidebooks.
I wish those resources were available to me, instead I have in my possession, a lot of torn and tacky hotel brochures and business cards, a weathered, Vietnamese $5 copy of Lonely Planet: Myanmar, a lot of photos, a few souvenirs – some with more meaning than others but all with their own distinct story attached - a couple of Ironcross CDs, an “I-am-a-tourist-for-damn-sure” Mandalay Hill t-shirt, a Moustache Brothers T-shirt and DVD and a scattered head full of memories of dust and temples, blood-red stained teeth and smiling children. So I’ll have to make due with what Sarah and I have but I wouldn’t swop it for anything.
I still don’t know where to kick off this story so lets begin at the start. Yangon. There will be no space in this post for Bagan or Mandalay which will have to wait until tomorrow or Tuesday.
Yangon, or Rangoon, as it was known in the Burmese days (the actually colonial time in history, not George Orwell’s 1934 novel) is way past post-colonial, and a long way short of developed infrastructure. Mildewed, gothic architecture holds hands with shantied establishments, all sporting the upside-down, iron umbrella haircut which comes with thousands of satellite dishes beaming in BBC and HBO even though the government urges the people, by means of large billboards and newspaper entries to “oppose those relying on external elements, acting as stooges, holding negative views” and “crush all internal and external destructive elements as the common enemy” (propoganda of which we made signs only to be nearly dispossessed of them, but that's for another day). These colonial façades bake gloriously in the wide-laned main roads and the ramshackled, burned shell of empty buildings throw cool shadows across the beehived alleyways where longyi-wearing men and women squat in the shade, sipping on tea, chew on betel nuts or smoke cheroots.
The motorbikeless roads (another government decree) are badly tarred hobbled affairs – except the one to the international airport which is immaculate –lined by large tropical trees and canalled sidewalks bustling with the trade and furor of the everyday: street markets, food stalls, hawkers, the inevitable tea-shops and betel-nut stalls, all vying for your attention as you traverse the various obstacles that follow in the wake of a people forgotten and oppressed and a city lost despairingly in disrepair: shopkeepers digging the grey, sludgy gunk out of the blocked canals crossing their shopfronts, uneven blocks of cracked concrete haphazardly laid down as if by an ancient, drunk stonemason, decaying litter and stray dogs lazing in the sun.
Yangon has a certain, distinct smell – not unlike Saigon. It is one of those smells you don’t recognise until you leave and return, which is when your olfactory senses light the spark in your neurons. By no means pleasant, it is still reassuring, like home baking or, the comforting sights and sounds of everyday activities that you are used to. It would be audacious and highly ignorant of me to say it’s the smell of hope, but it is intertwined with life of the common Yangon residents. Figuratively, there’s the sharp, sour smell of fear brought about by years of oppression; it mingles with short gasps and jerky, nervous body language and flickering eyes as a troupe of confident police officers straddle through the market. There’s the religious smell of austerity and age-old tradition in the form of musky, incense drifting from shrines and payas (pagodas) blown across the city to settle with the haze of dust and pollution like a smoky, tortoiseshell blanket across Yangon. There’s the smell of business, the musty smell of new and old money exchanging hands for similarly new and used clothes and bolts of cloth accompanied by the constant chatter of merchants and children laughing and crying. Everything in Yangon belies the history of the country and none more so then the people and food. Amidst the noonday bustle Indian faces melt in with lighter, smoother Chinese looks and rounder Burmese faces, and street-stalls selling hin (Burmese curry), noodles, chapattis and Indian curries, whilst a musallee call Muslims to prayer and Buddhist monks in maroon robes trail piously through the streets, creating a smorgasbord of sensory overload.
Yet, despite the melting pot of sights and sounds, the underlying religious principles of Buddhism rule not only the spiritual but also the common, working day lives of the people of Myanmar and Yangon. Perhaps it is partly due to the ever-present payas, with their intricately designed statues, steps and shrines that stand as sentinels and watch solemnly as the golden hue of their roof reflects brilliantly in the midday sun for all to see and is lit up magnificently at night. None more so then the massive and noble, jewel and gold encrusted Shwe Dagon Paya that stands as out of place as a magnificently polished, antique centrepiece would stand on an unvarnished, weathered table that has only three legs. Perhaps the ever presence of the omnipotent is what causes the Burmese to practise their religion so devoutly and live life with such simple austerity and sincerity, perhaps it is tradition suffused in this sea of mental well-being and future freedom from suffering, that is one of the primary practises of Therevada Buddhism, that causes the Burmese to have what seems to be such ease and acceptance with their situation.
Ironically, it is perhaps partly these principles of Therevada which allow the government to maintain such power and domination over the country – besides the everpresent fear of being thrown in prison for a unforeseeable amount of time or, worse, lugged off to a forced labour camp in the northern rural provinces of a country for no reason other than having the entrepreneurial spirit to show a tourist around town, that is. This actually happened to the brother of Kin Se Be, a young girl we met. At age 14 he was taken to prison and three years later he is still in prison while she now took up the reigns where he left off to make some extra money after to school to buy food and necessities to take to her brother.
I wish those resources were available to me, instead I have in my possession, a lot of torn and tacky hotel brochures and business cards, a weathered, Vietnamese $5 copy of Lonely Planet: Myanmar, a lot of photos, a few souvenirs – some with more meaning than others but all with their own distinct story attached - a couple of Ironcross CDs, an “I-am-a-tourist-for-damn-sure” Mandalay Hill t-shirt, a Moustache Brothers T-shirt and DVD and a scattered head full of memories of dust and temples, blood-red stained teeth and smiling children. So I’ll have to make due with what Sarah and I have but I wouldn’t swop it for anything.
I still don’t know where to kick off this story so lets begin at the start. Yangon. There will be no space in this post for Bagan or Mandalay which will have to wait until tomorrow or Tuesday.
Yangon, or Rangoon, as it was known in the Burmese days (the actually colonial time in history, not George Orwell’s 1934 novel) is way past post-colonial, and a long way short of developed infrastructure. Mildewed, gothic architecture holds hands with shantied establishments, all sporting the upside-down, iron umbrella haircut which comes with thousands of satellite dishes beaming in BBC and HBO even though the government urges the people, by means of large billboards and newspaper entries to “oppose those relying on external elements, acting as stooges, holding negative views” and “crush all internal and external destructive elements as the common enemy” (propoganda of which we made signs only to be nearly dispossessed of them, but that's for another day). These colonial façades bake gloriously in the wide-laned main roads and the ramshackled, burned shell of empty buildings throw cool shadows across the beehived alleyways where longyi-wearing men and women squat in the shade, sipping on tea, chew on betel nuts or smoke cheroots.
The motorbikeless roads (another government decree) are badly tarred hobbled affairs – except the one to the international airport which is immaculate –lined by large tropical trees and canalled sidewalks bustling with the trade and furor of the everyday: street markets, food stalls, hawkers, the inevitable tea-shops and betel-nut stalls, all vying for your attention as you traverse the various obstacles that follow in the wake of a people forgotten and oppressed and a city lost despairingly in disrepair: shopkeepers digging the grey, sludgy gunk out of the blocked canals crossing their shopfronts, uneven blocks of cracked concrete haphazardly laid down as if by an ancient, drunk stonemason, decaying litter and stray dogs lazing in the sun.
Yangon has a certain, distinct smell – not unlike Saigon. It is one of those smells you don’t recognise until you leave and return, which is when your olfactory senses light the spark in your neurons. By no means pleasant, it is still reassuring, like home baking or, the comforting sights and sounds of everyday activities that you are used to. It would be audacious and highly ignorant of me to say it’s the smell of hope, but it is intertwined with life of the common Yangon residents. Figuratively, there’s the sharp, sour smell of fear brought about by years of oppression; it mingles with short gasps and jerky, nervous body language and flickering eyes as a troupe of confident police officers straddle through the market. There’s the religious smell of austerity and age-old tradition in the form of musky, incense drifting from shrines and payas (pagodas) blown across the city to settle with the haze of dust and pollution like a smoky, tortoiseshell blanket across Yangon. There’s the smell of business, the musty smell of new and old money exchanging hands for similarly new and used clothes and bolts of cloth accompanied by the constant chatter of merchants and children laughing and crying. Everything in Yangon belies the history of the country and none more so then the people and food. Amidst the noonday bustle Indian faces melt in with lighter, smoother Chinese looks and rounder Burmese faces, and street-stalls selling hin (Burmese curry), noodles, chapattis and Indian curries, whilst a musallee call Muslims to prayer and Buddhist monks in maroon robes trail piously through the streets, creating a smorgasbord of sensory overload.
Yet, despite the melting pot of sights and sounds, the underlying religious principles of Buddhism rule not only the spiritual but also the common, working day lives of the people of Myanmar and Yangon. Perhaps it is partly due to the ever-present payas, with their intricately designed statues, steps and shrines that stand as sentinels and watch solemnly as the golden hue of their roof reflects brilliantly in the midday sun for all to see and is lit up magnificently at night. None more so then the massive and noble, jewel and gold encrusted Shwe Dagon Paya that stands as out of place as a magnificently polished, antique centrepiece would stand on an unvarnished, weathered table that has only three legs. Perhaps the ever presence of the omnipotent is what causes the Burmese to practise their religion so devoutly and live life with such simple austerity and sincerity, perhaps it is tradition suffused in this sea of mental well-being and future freedom from suffering, that is one of the primary practises of Therevada Buddhism, that causes the Burmese to have what seems to be such ease and acceptance with their situation.
Ironically, it is perhaps partly these principles of Therevada which allow the government to maintain such power and domination over the country – besides the everpresent fear of being thrown in prison for a unforeseeable amount of time or, worse, lugged off to a forced labour camp in the northern rural provinces of a country for no reason other than having the entrepreneurial spirit to show a tourist around town, that is. This actually happened to the brother of Kin Se Be, a young girl we met. At age 14 he was taken to prison and three years later he is still in prison while she now took up the reigns where he left off to make some extra money after to school to buy food and necessities to take to her brother.
I’ll harp on about this point often but this country truly is one of contradictions. It is baffling to think how such beauty and serenity which can be found everywhere in a city and people that is so stifled by the white-knuckled grip of a government that knows no other way than to force their autocratic, tyrannical priniciples upon those beneath them to the point of strangling. The contradiction of a broad-faced face split in half with a smile, showing a mouthful of betel-nut-stained teeth and a cheerful “Mingalaba!” (Hello!), only to recognise the trepidation and well-hidden panic in the eyes behind. This is truly a country where serenity and beauty can sit hand in hand at the same table as fear and hopelessness.
Friday, February 09, 2007
I've packed my bags...
Everything's sorted; the couriered visas arrived today, dong has been changed to dollars, valiums have been purchased and still don't have a clue where or what we're going to do in Myanmar. We're flying in about an hour so have a good Tet holiday everyone and I'll post again in about 2 weeks! Chuc Mung Nam Moi! (Happy New Year)!
PS: If you don't hear from me again, phone your nearest Amnesty International office and set up a petition to put pressure on the Burmese government for the release of the two young political prisoners from SA and Oz who, suprisingly, have been detained due to inciting riot and propoganda against the Burmese biter monkeys in north Mandalay. Much obliged.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Raspberry
This post is for the faithless flock who never believed a word I said when I mentioned that I’d entered the world of cocaine, chain-smoking, who’s-who parties, modelling, glossy magazines and photo shoots (okay, maybe some of you believed the first three). A big “BLEH” to all of you. Faithful Loesil was the only one who didn’t blink an eye when I posted about it back in August, obviously seeing natural talent for what it is.
I recently read on Uno’s blog that it’s not unusual to walk around foreign countries and see your friends’ faces blown up on billboards, due to the cheap cost of production film and advertising in South Africa. The same can be said of Vietnam. This place is a production mecca bursting at the seams with potential, especially for foreigners, who for some strange reason attract the undivided attention of much of Vietnam’s population – or at least the advertising industry seems to think so.
I did another shoot today for a photo production company who sets up photo libraries for Getty Images. Here are some from the shoot in August. I’m not really sure if I can get in trouble for posting these, but I think it should be okay – but just in case: These photos are all under the copyright of Getty Images and may by no means be used, or reproduced. There, I said it. Don’t laugh too much!
Sunday, February 04, 2007
"Uncle and we are still operating together"
Some randomness from Saturday night. About 20 friends and anonymous stragglers headed over to Com Nieu – the “Rice Throwing” restaurant on Tu Xuong Street, District 3. This is the more informal an popular “street” brother of the sophisticated one on Ho Xuan Huong Street which we went to two weeks ago. What makes this place unique is the circus-like antics the waiters get up to when you order com nieu: The rice is cooked on a charcoal grill in clay pots, which are then whirled in the air to cool down, smashed and the disk of rice inside is tossed across the restaurant and caught by another waiter on a plate which, more often than not is met by appreciative applause from the diners. It's not as hard as it seems, though; I tried it two weeks ago at the other restaurant and managed to keep the hard, ricy UFO on the plate, much to the suprise of my faithless friends and other diners.
By magical appearance, a bottle of Tequila had also hitched a ride with a xe om, scrambled up my leg and onto the table to ensure a memorable and unrememberable evening which passed in hazy green blurs and the faint, fresh, minty aroma of mojitos being drunk at Berlin and the more heady odour of a late night bun munchie behind Benh Thanh Market. Lets just say this morning I was very glad that they had razed our football fields where we usually play on Sunday mornings making practise a no-no. Chi also bought me the awesome and much desired Dogma book Morales from the Ministry which has fantastic and quirky propaganda murals and slogans. Enlighten you? Sure: “Nong Dan Co Dang Doi Doi Am No” or “The peasants and the Party – always warm and fed”. Brilliant stuff.
By magical appearance, a bottle of Tequila had also hitched a ride with a xe om, scrambled up my leg and onto the table to ensure a memorable and unrememberable evening which passed in hazy green blurs and the faint, fresh, minty aroma of mojitos being drunk at Berlin and the more heady odour of a late night bun munchie behind Benh Thanh Market. Lets just say this morning I was very glad that they had razed our football fields where we usually play on Sunday mornings making practise a no-no. Chi also bought me the awesome and much desired Dogma book Morales from the Ministry which has fantastic and quirky propaganda murals and slogans. Enlighten you? Sure: “Nong Dan Co Dang Doi Doi Am No” or “The peasants and the Party – always warm and fed”. Brilliant stuff.
Little did the snuggly claypots know that soon they would meet their doom at the willing hands of the "riceman"
The infamous "riceman" tosses the charcoaled disk of rice high in the air to his brother in arms
"Check out my moves, fool!" 8/10 for execution, 10/10 for elegance
Oh, how the snuggly ones have fallen!
Tofu munchies
This is funny because Wi-Fi is Vietnamese slang for gay, something which that little question-mark of a boy certainly doesn't seem to be
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Caution: Anti-determinism rant follows...
Is it wrong to feel good when others around you are feeling bad? Is it wrong to be free and happy when those around you are shackled with grief and turmoil? Are we supposed to be doomed to longing for inner peace for everyone we love and cherish for the rest of our life and forsake our own in this altruistic crusade, and is it a selfish notion to believe we should first settle the cold stone of sadness and doubt in our own heart-lake?
I just finished reading Shantaram – which Nat gave me. The book itseld deserves a complete post on its own – and Gregory David Roberts writes that “Luck is what happens to you when fate gets tired of waiting”. It’s a notion that struck home, especially during this last month as I’ve been philosophising – something which I never ever do, no matter how many bottles of Tassenberg I’ve seen the green, glassy, murky bottom of – about karma and fortune. I was having this conversation with someone two nights ago after fetching a friend from the hospital: Basically, some things tend to fall apart, to quote Achebe, but depending on the nature of their demise and the will of the victim, they can glue themselves back together.
That will is partly the sum of experiences garnered and shared by others, gained by yourself and acted upon through time, either over the course of a few minutes of immense pain or a lifetime of slowly applied heart shattering torture. In other words, that will is yours to do with and use as you feel free and feel capable of. Will, I believe also shapes your fate and not, as I tended to contrarily believe, fate shaping your will. Thus luck, as an offshoot of the whole “divine decree” plane of thinking, is also not purely coincidental or serendipital and is in some part influenced by your will. Your kismet, mate, is positive thinking and positive exuberance in all you do. So as far as love is partly the passionate search for acceptance in others, so fate is partly the passionate search for good in others.
With all the problems the preamble to the Lunar New Year and the rise of Aquarius, my star sign, have brought for those around me here in Vietnam, it’s unnervingly strange that it is not I who is first surrounded, slowly transfixed and sucked in by the smoky tendrils and siren call of ill-fortune. I am truly blessed. I’m heading to Myanmar in exactly one week tomorrow; a country I still don’t have a clue about because I still haven’t opened my Lonely Planet. I have great friends and family, a pretty interesting job in a pretty interesting country, health and a tumbler of whisky in my hand. Fate must have gotten tired of waiting as luck flits its glorious wings through my life. I thought I’d share that with you. Just to be sure not to jinx myself, though, I’m heading off the burn some incense sticks at the pagoda tomorrow.
I just finished reading Shantaram – which Nat gave me. The book itseld deserves a complete post on its own – and Gregory David Roberts writes that “Luck is what happens to you when fate gets tired of waiting”. It’s a notion that struck home, especially during this last month as I’ve been philosophising – something which I never ever do, no matter how many bottles of Tassenberg I’ve seen the green, glassy, murky bottom of – about karma and fortune. I was having this conversation with someone two nights ago after fetching a friend from the hospital: Basically, some things tend to fall apart, to quote Achebe, but depending on the nature of their demise and the will of the victim, they can glue themselves back together.
That will is partly the sum of experiences garnered and shared by others, gained by yourself and acted upon through time, either over the course of a few minutes of immense pain or a lifetime of slowly applied heart shattering torture. In other words, that will is yours to do with and use as you feel free and feel capable of. Will, I believe also shapes your fate and not, as I tended to contrarily believe, fate shaping your will. Thus luck, as an offshoot of the whole “divine decree” plane of thinking, is also not purely coincidental or serendipital and is in some part influenced by your will. Your kismet, mate, is positive thinking and positive exuberance in all you do. So as far as love is partly the passionate search for acceptance in others, so fate is partly the passionate search for good in others.
With all the problems the preamble to the Lunar New Year and the rise of Aquarius, my star sign, have brought for those around me here in Vietnam, it’s unnervingly strange that it is not I who is first surrounded, slowly transfixed and sucked in by the smoky tendrils and siren call of ill-fortune. I am truly blessed. I’m heading to Myanmar in exactly one week tomorrow; a country I still don’t have a clue about because I still haven’t opened my Lonely Planet. I have great friends and family, a pretty interesting job in a pretty interesting country, health and a tumbler of whisky in my hand. Fate must have gotten tired of waiting as luck flits its glorious wings through my life. I thought I’d share that with you. Just to be sure not to jinx myself, though, I’m heading off the burn some incense sticks at the pagoda tomorrow.
On a lighter note: Suzy Q’s blog is up and running and is bound to bust a move of the most preposterous proportions if her reputation as the Ho Chi Harlot (sorry Susan, but come on it does sorta roll off the tongue! Much love!) is anything to go by ;)
Monday, January 29, 2007
"It'll be fine"
Ambivalence has always been an emotional weakness of mine – or strength depending on the context. I always have these rollercoaster events sequencing my consciousness, packed together in a tight-knit timespan leading me to think karma plays a large part of what orders my life. It’s like a poor fisherman who doesn’t catch anything for weeks wondering how he’ll provide for his family if it continues this way, then, as a huge storm strikes, the fish start biting by the boatful, and he has to decide whether to continue fishing, try to weather the storm and come home with enough food to feed the whole village, or whether to cut and run, to fight another day. It never rains in Saigon – it pours.
Sarah told me last year’s Tet festivities were special because supposedly it was a very lucky year that only comes around once in a blue moon (excuse the lunar pun). I think this year’s prelude to Tet is trying to even out the celestial imbalance.
Ambivalence ruled with an iron fist. Firstly, last Sunday one of my friends and co-teacher’s mother was in a horrible motorbike accident and things don’t look good. Then I met a really nice couple on Thursday who I went out with to the “Rice Throwing” restaurant (Com Nieu Sai Gon) where the waiters break clay pots of rice and toss them across the room which was great, only to have my motorbike snatched in a blink of an eye. By this time the inescapable feeling of destiny at work already started creeping up my spine.
On Saturday night, another friend and co-teacher’s grandmother died and Sarah’s brother’s plans to visit went awry only to semi-rebalance themselves later.
I found out I had to pay 14 million dong (about $850) for my motorbike and our plans for Myanmar were dealt another blow by a travel agent who mistakenly told us we don’t need to worry about visas only to find out later we only have 10 days to get one from the Myanmar Embassy in Hanoi.
This must be it, I thought, the wheel has turned on what could be considered a generally privileged and carefree year so far. But today I realised that karma always works with a plan. Energies flow in a certain direction but, as the Second Law of Thermodynamics states, cannot be destroyed so thus must be channelled somewhere and, in this case, returned.
Mr Hung and his daughter Tram from Kim’s Café were awesome with the bike fiasco, giving me until after Tet to repay them and Tram came with to the police and sorted everything out. They gave me a new bike nearly two months free hire as well. We met an awesome woman – Nhuy – who sorted out the visas in a flash and we’re getting our passports back at the end of the week (touch karma’s wooden coffee table) and I’m getting paid today. I can’t undo the terrible personal losses suffered by my friends, but I can give them words of encouragement and stand by them. What’s done can’t be undone or reversed but can be shaped into something less than terrible with the right frame of mind, which may sound offhandishly easy to say but I truly believe it.
Sarah told me last year’s Tet festivities were special because supposedly it was a very lucky year that only comes around once in a blue moon (excuse the lunar pun). I think this year’s prelude to Tet is trying to even out the celestial imbalance.
Ambivalence ruled with an iron fist. Firstly, last Sunday one of my friends and co-teacher’s mother was in a horrible motorbike accident and things don’t look good. Then I met a really nice couple on Thursday who I went out with to the “Rice Throwing” restaurant (Com Nieu Sai Gon) where the waiters break clay pots of rice and toss them across the room which was great, only to have my motorbike snatched in a blink of an eye. By this time the inescapable feeling of destiny at work already started creeping up my spine.
On Saturday night, another friend and co-teacher’s grandmother died and Sarah’s brother’s plans to visit went awry only to semi-rebalance themselves later.
I found out I had to pay 14 million dong (about $850) for my motorbike and our plans for Myanmar were dealt another blow by a travel agent who mistakenly told us we don’t need to worry about visas only to find out later we only have 10 days to get one from the Myanmar Embassy in Hanoi.
This must be it, I thought, the wheel has turned on what could be considered a generally privileged and carefree year so far. But today I realised that karma always works with a plan. Energies flow in a certain direction but, as the Second Law of Thermodynamics states, cannot be destroyed so thus must be channelled somewhere and, in this case, returned.
Mr Hung and his daughter Tram from Kim’s Café were awesome with the bike fiasco, giving me until after Tet to repay them and Tram came with to the police and sorted everything out. They gave me a new bike nearly two months free hire as well. We met an awesome woman – Nhuy – who sorted out the visas in a flash and we’re getting our passports back at the end of the week (touch karma’s wooden coffee table) and I’m getting paid today. I can’t undo the terrible personal losses suffered by my friends, but I can give them words of encouragement and stand by them. What’s done can’t be undone or reversed but can be shaped into something less than terrible with the right frame of mind, which may sound offhandishly easy to say but I truly believe it.
My sister and I used to watch this show on the Carlton Food network called Jimmy’s Farm – about a successful chef from London who gave it all up to breed pigs and open his own farmstall in the English countryside. He faced incredible obstacles and challenges (not least of which being his gay rare-breed stud-pig who was more interested in shagging the bulls than the sows). When things were at their worse – the farm being on the brink of being repossessed - Jimmy would utter the immortal words in his broad London accent: “It’ll be fine.”
Saturday, January 27, 2007
The Future looks bleak
A few months ago I mentioned how great it is to take the frenetic journey to work every day. Well, that feeling was shattered on Thursday evening in a heart-twrenching twist of fate that has left me hollowed, a shell, half the man I used to be, constantly wrestling with existential questions and not finding any answers. I’ve been wearing white since Thursday evening in mourning; as is the custom in Vietnam. I wander around in a stupor, an unbelieving daze, eyes glazed over, every free moment I catch myself thinking about my baby, the glint of her body in the morning, the purr she’d give me, the wonderful carefree feeling we’d share when we were together. It’s tough losing the one you love. My green Honda Future was stolen out of the ghetto in Le Thanh Ton that night. The night my baby went away. If anyone has seen my baby, tell her I love her, and everything happens with a reason. It was just not meant to be.
By the way, if I don’t post again in the next few days, you’ll be sad to know that Mr Hung from Kim’s Café, where I rented the bike, has beaten me to a horrible death with his walking stick, leaving me to have my fleshed slowly picked off my bones by the Pham Ngu Lao rat mafia. I’m off to negotiate compensation now. Wish me luck. Vaya con Dios.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Oh man
I had a student a few terms ago who, while most students would utter the inevitable troi oi when things went awry, just sighed resignedly and said: “Oh man.”
That’s how I felt after just watching the Asean Football Championship match between Vietnam and Thailand from the My Dinh National Stadium in Hanoi tonight. The first few minutes were bloody brilliant, the flares were burning bright leaving a red, misty glow over the grand stand, the stadium was rocking and even the commentators said they could hardly hear themselves speak. Tickets were sold out within half an hour of going on sales, fans queuing from five am the morning they went on sale and I thought; “Right, here we go, this is it.”
Bam bam, the opening skirmishes were intense, up and down the field. A few opportunities slipped through both teams hands…erm…feet. I was hopeful. It was truly frenetic football, reminiscent of South Africa’s Premier Soccer League - less skill then heart, but really entertaining stuff. Then Thailand scored on 28 minutes and my hopes faded with the waning enthusiasm of the 40 000-strong crowd. The first “oh man” of many rolled off my tongue.
Midfielder Minh Phuong took a great freekick towards the end of the half, but the drama-queen of a Thai keeper saved brilliantly to his right (only to roll around on the ground like epileptic headless chicken auditioning for a part in the D-Day scene from Shaving Ryan’s Privates for the first of many times). Vietnam even managed to win a contentious penalty but striker Phan Thanh Binh squeezed it past the right post. “Oh man” number three. Young Vietnamese footy superstar Le Cong Vinh, who’s like the sporting equivalent of Dan or Lam Truong, did show some moments of raw talent, African shibobo style, but just couldn’t finish the clear cut chance he got (he’d be right in any South African PSL team).
The second half started better, applying more intense pressure, but the Thai backline was made of kryptonite or something because the balls just bounced off them. Admittedly, Vietnam should have exploited the wings more, which was where my man of the match Bao Khanh and Cong Vinh were running their stinky red socks off, instead of playing up the centre channels the whole time, just to be blocked by the Thai Lex Luthoresque quartet. Thailand capitalised on a defending blunder and scored another goal half way through the second half. "Oh man" number six.
Towards the end the passes were just half-hearted, long balls played up to the two strikers, and the Thais easily regained possession, playing much more of a technical game. Vietnamese goalie Quang Huy was atrocious, his lack of skill matching the Thai goalie's aesthetically dramatic acting/time wasting ploys, which saw his astonishing, yet amusing headless-chicken-rolling-meets-the-tapdancing-frog-in-a-blender-slash-dying-drill-seargeant antics bordering on a full ten minutes.
I really feel for these guys - players and fans alike - after all, this is country is like my second home, but seriously, performances like this are going to keep Vietnam in 134th in the world, just above South Africa and Myanmar’s third team. They have the skill and talent, but it needs to be channelled and tapped in the right direction; the gung ho mentality needs to be balanced with some level-headedness and control. Oh man, good luck for the away leg in Bangkok this weekend.
That’s how I felt after just watching the Asean Football Championship match between Vietnam and Thailand from the My Dinh National Stadium in Hanoi tonight. The first few minutes were bloody brilliant, the flares were burning bright leaving a red, misty glow over the grand stand, the stadium was rocking and even the commentators said they could hardly hear themselves speak. Tickets were sold out within half an hour of going on sales, fans queuing from five am the morning they went on sale and I thought; “Right, here we go, this is it.”
Bam bam, the opening skirmishes were intense, up and down the field. A few opportunities slipped through both teams hands…erm…feet. I was hopeful. It was truly frenetic football, reminiscent of South Africa’s Premier Soccer League - less skill then heart, but really entertaining stuff. Then Thailand scored on 28 minutes and my hopes faded with the waning enthusiasm of the 40 000-strong crowd. The first “oh man” of many rolled off my tongue.
Midfielder Minh Phuong took a great freekick towards the end of the half, but the drama-queen of a Thai keeper saved brilliantly to his right (only to roll around on the ground like epileptic headless chicken auditioning for a part in the D-Day scene from Shaving Ryan’s Privates for the first of many times). Vietnam even managed to win a contentious penalty but striker Phan Thanh Binh squeezed it past the right post. “Oh man” number three. Young Vietnamese footy superstar Le Cong Vinh, who’s like the sporting equivalent of Dan or Lam Truong, did show some moments of raw talent, African shibobo style, but just couldn’t finish the clear cut chance he got (he’d be right in any South African PSL team).
The second half started better, applying more intense pressure, but the Thai backline was made of kryptonite or something because the balls just bounced off them. Admittedly, Vietnam should have exploited the wings more, which was where my man of the match Bao Khanh and Cong Vinh were running their stinky red socks off, instead of playing up the centre channels the whole time, just to be blocked by the Thai Lex Luthoresque quartet. Thailand capitalised on a defending blunder and scored another goal half way through the second half. "Oh man" number six.
Towards the end the passes were just half-hearted, long balls played up to the two strikers, and the Thais easily regained possession, playing much more of a technical game. Vietnamese goalie Quang Huy was atrocious, his lack of skill matching the Thai goalie's aesthetically dramatic acting/time wasting ploys, which saw his astonishing, yet amusing headless-chicken-rolling-meets-the-tapdancing-frog-in-a-blender-slash-dying-drill-seargeant antics bordering on a full ten minutes.
I really feel for these guys - players and fans alike - after all, this is country is like my second home, but seriously, performances like this are going to keep Vietnam in 134th in the world, just above South Africa and Myanmar’s third team. They have the skill and talent, but it needs to be channelled and tapped in the right direction; the gung ho mentality needs to be balanced with some level-headedness and control. Oh man, good luck for the away leg in Bangkok this weekend.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Thought for the day
If “forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it”, as Mark Twain so eloquently stated, then by logical reasoning, is the turd you step in “revenge”?
Muhahaha
Your results:
You are The Joker
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You are The Joker
| The Clown Prince of Crime. You are a brilliant mastermind but are criminally insane. You love to joke around while accomplishing the task at hand. |
Click here to take the Supervillain Personality Quiz
Thursday, January 18, 2007
The Lantern Festival
I headed down to the Saigon Zoo last night to check out this lantern festival they have going at night (duh). Supposedly about 40 artists worked on the lanterns that are on display during January, depicting famous sights from around the world. It's only 35 000 vnd if you're in town and well worth a visit. Here are some of the pics I took.
Due to vast photographic talent and experience garnered through numerous shoots around the world for Discovery, NatGeo and the like, I have managed, in one stroke of Pulitzer Prize-winning genius, to capture the Sphinx, a Giza Pyramid, a herd of camels and the Eiffel Tower all in one photo
The Leaning Tower in Italy - this one at the Saigon Zoo plays a Dean Martin rendition of Mambo Italiano
The Taj Mahal
I'm not exactly sure what this is, I think it may be a Japanese water pagonda, if such a thing exists
The Easter Island figures got themselves mixed up in a spot of trouble, due to calling the minotaur's mother Zeus' biatch (and the fact that they can't actually run away or even move)
Elephants grazing in front of an Angkor Wat temple
Kong Kong: "Shiat, this ain't NY - I can see the Eiffel Tower from here!"
Pandas shagging in front of some Chinese monument on the Great Wall
Halong Bay looks more like a set from Pirates of the Zoo III
This is the Chichen Itza Mayan Temple in Mexico (note the illegal immigrants milling around)
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Minor setback
Battle Cruiser. Boozer. Gaydar. Gay radar (which I only heard for the first time last night. Backne. Back Acne. Some words go well together and make wonderful little roll-off-the-tongue sayings. Two things, which just don’t go that well together, are “washing machine” and “passport”. Now, I’m not referring to my post before last about the metaphorical “washing machine that is my life”, but the real deal. The one that whirs and spits and splutters powder and fabric softener mixed with tangible, hot water in anti-clockwise revolutions. That one. And let me tell you, there’s no word like washport, or passwash or whatever you wanna come up with. They’re like chalk and cheese, which I’d like to write to the good folks at the Oxford Complete English Dictionary about suggesting they change it to detergent and important document.
It happened on Sunday, when Mr Diep’s, our good friend and landlord, younger sister came over to collect my clothes for washing (and I don’t want any grief from anyone for not washing my own clothes, I used to and still would if Diep didn’t insist his sister do it – and I pay her). I’d left the little book in my pants pocket by accident, was away playing football and when I came back – neatly balanced on top of a book, sat my sopping, sodden passport, ruffled like a mangy chicken, looking like something the cat dragged in, dropped in the bog and fished out again. I couldn’t inspect the damage just then so I just left it out to dry until this morning and muffled the screams in my pillow, biting my knuckles until the blood rage drained from my eyes and murder didn’t seem like the best idea since condoms. Actually, I’m pretty easy. After all, it was an honest mistake and half my fault anyways so I’m not that pissed off, just frustrated now. Bygones.
It happened on Sunday, when Mr Diep’s, our good friend and landlord, younger sister came over to collect my clothes for washing (and I don’t want any grief from anyone for not washing my own clothes, I used to and still would if Diep didn’t insist his sister do it – and I pay her). I’d left the little book in my pants pocket by accident, was away playing football and when I came back – neatly balanced on top of a book, sat my sopping, sodden passport, ruffled like a mangy chicken, looking like something the cat dragged in, dropped in the bog and fished out again. I couldn’t inspect the damage just then so I just left it out to dry until this morning and muffled the screams in my pillow, biting my knuckles until the blood rage drained from my eyes and murder didn’t seem like the best idea since condoms. Actually, I’m pretty easy. After all, it was an honest mistake and half my fault anyways so I’m not that pissed off, just frustrated now. Bygones.
This Myanmar trip might just have incurred its first minor setback. The other problem is that the South African Consulate is up in Hanoi so it’s not just a case of heading over and asking them to take a look at it and make a diagnosis: “I’m sorry son, it’s not going to make it.” So, I think I’m going to take some pics of the worst pages and mail to it them. Hope it works.
Damn bureaucratic red tape. Whatever happened to exploring the world with a handful of coins, perhaps a pirate ship at your disposable, perhaps a peg-leg or parrot and a crew of able seaman? The world was your oyster. Pirates get more booty anyhow.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Mission Myanmar
(To the tune of the BN Biscuits advertisements):
Myan-Myan, Myan-Myan,
Da daa, da da da daa,
Myan-Myan, Myan-Myan,
Da daa, da da da daa,
Myan-Mar!
From: bulgar.no-ip.info
Travelling companion and good friend, crazy Aussie girl Sarah, and I headed down to Pham Ngu Lao to book our tickets to Myanmar (Burma). It looks like this thing is actually going to happen, static sheets for my tumble-dryer or not, much to my disbelief; disbelief as I had to buy a Lonely Planet Guide (after much haggling with the bookseller) for 80 000 vnd ($5) just to find where it was on a map and didn't really think things through when I agreed to accompany crazy teacher girl. Okay, I didn't just buy the LP for the map; it's got truckloads of other useful info and a handful of otherwise miscellanous facts.
Allow me to digress. Under the topic Dangers and Annoyances: Bugs, Rats, Snakes and Monkeys they write: "Monkeys, too, can get a little friendly in places. A guide outside Monya pointed out natural medicines for 'not shitting', 'shitting' and 'snakebites', but said that there's nothing for monkey bites. 'Monkey bite is normal', he said."
Great, one less thing than to worry about, as in Myanmar it seems "normal" to get rabies from a monkey bite, become delusional, sinking deeper into the mental deficient quagmire called insanity, foam at the mouth, get lockjaw and die.
I'm really excited about this trip though. I'm like a grade 6 boy at his first "dance" party; you know the kind, with the table with the snacks and plastic cups on one side, a group of brace-faced, hormonal boys standing against one wall mustering up the courage to cross the divide, across the frontier to the other extreme of the room, where girls try their hardest to ignore the boys secretely hoping they'll be the ones that are asked to dance first.
We land in Yangon (formerly Rangoon) from Bangkok on the 10th of February and are staying for about 10 days. According to wikipedia, Yangon literally means "run out of enemies" or "the end of strife". I sincerely hope that is the feeling which will float down like mana from heaven to rest like a feather on my shoulders. I also really want to visit the myriad of temple ruins and complexes such as the ancient capital Mrauk U which now lies in ruins as well the last royal capital Mandalay.
Yangon from: www.asiatours.net
Obviously, as if there was any doubt, Sarah and I sealed the deal with a bottle of Go2 Cafe's finest Vietnamese Rhum and a impromptu version of "Myan-Myan" the BN song. BN, interestingly enough is also the ISO 639 alpha-2 language code for the Bengali language, an Indo-Aryan language of South East Asia. You're never to old to learn.
I'll keep updating as Mission Myanmar progresses.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
The washing machine that is my life
Sorry for the delay in the updates but I’ve been thrown into the washing machine with silent protests these last few days and I’ve just come up for air, clearing my throat and nose of the sickly-sweet detergent smell usually associated with hospital corridors and the Department of Home affairs, before I’m once again submerged under the hot, soapy wetness of my life.
Pre-Rinse
I’ve always wanted to be one of those seemingly important men who are greeted at the airport arrivals lounge by a tuxedoed chauffeur holding up their name on a little board. Well, lo and behold, as I stepped off the plane at Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok on Saturday morning there was my name; neatly printed on a little board held up by a very nervous Thai Airlines representative. First I thought it was some elaborate joke set up by my brother who lives in Bangkok, but the fidgety man quickly informed me it seemed very likely that I’d miss my transfer to Tan Son Nhat Airport here in Ho Chi Minh City, and I was quickly ushered to the departure lounge.
I made it in time, but paid the price of having my bag left behind, (it punctually arrived on my doorstep Sunday morning. In my secret heart I’d missed Vietnam the moment I left, in the same way I miss South Africa the moment my ears pop on take off out of the country and this feeling of homesickness was reinforced when the taxi driver dropped me off on Saturday afternoon. This place really is my second home. He obviously assumed I was some dumbass foreigner (I guess his judgement was spot on) as he could probably see the giddy excitement mixed with relief and exhaustion on my creased face, so, as any self-respecting Vietnamese taxi driver would do, he tried to short change the foreigner. I was too tired to argue and altruistically let him con me. It must have been good karma because I received such a warm greeting by my neighbours who all peeled out of their little houses to shake my hand and to babble something quickly in Vietnamese with fat grins on their faces. I was so happy all I could mutter was Chuc Mung Nam Moi (Happy New Year) and smile. My landlord Mr Diep – the man’s man, ladies man, man about town – and his family greeted me just as warmly and I knew I was home. The hollow in my heart filled up as my senses filled up with my neighbourhood’s sights and sounds, soaking it all up like a sponge that had been left out in the desert only to be rediscovered and dunked deep into the sweet oasis water: the Saigon air so dense you can almost touch it, the flitting sounds of children playing outside, women chatting over their daily chores, peddlers shouting their little sing-song advertisements of their wares as they cycled down my alley, it was all there as I drifted into a deep, fatigued sleep.
Rinse
I finally caught up with some members of the undercover Vietnamese guild known affectionately by their followers as “The Teachers”. The rendezvous point was Sheridan’s Irish Pub and Restaurant in Le Thanh Ton Street. My fellow teacher Sarah and I were planning on making a Tet holiday motorbike trip around the north of the country but that’s now cancelled as her brother is visiting during this time. Instead, over a pint of Amber Stout, she uttered the totally ludicrous request that had me spontaneously crack up because of the nonchalant way it was resented: “Would like to go to Myanmar with me?” That was insanely funny, and of course after I nearly choked on my stout with laughter, I accepted. So for now, my pending Lunar New Year plans are to be hiding from the guerrilla groups in little tribal villages outside Rangoon, not pissing off the military government in Burma (which is Myanmar’s politically correct name) and keeping a watch out for Burmese pythons. I think I should stay away from Irish pubs in the future.
Spin
Monday and Tuesday was spin cycle day; being thrown into the deep end of the wash barrel as far as English-speaking future of Ho Chi Minh City is concerned. My school kindly hooked me up with a level 7 academic English class, amongst others, which is three levels higher than I’ve ever taught before. It was all transitive verbs and non-finites finiteness, but it’s going okay so far but we’ll see what the rest of the week holds. Sorry for this self-absorbent rant but I thought I needed to tell someone and this is my blog after all.
Now all I need to figure out is where the “off” button is on this damn demonic life washer and find the “on” switch on the tumble-dryer…
Pre-Rinse
I’ve always wanted to be one of those seemingly important men who are greeted at the airport arrivals lounge by a tuxedoed chauffeur holding up their name on a little board. Well, lo and behold, as I stepped off the plane at Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok on Saturday morning there was my name; neatly printed on a little board held up by a very nervous Thai Airlines representative. First I thought it was some elaborate joke set up by my brother who lives in Bangkok, but the fidgety man quickly informed me it seemed very likely that I’d miss my transfer to Tan Son Nhat Airport here in Ho Chi Minh City, and I was quickly ushered to the departure lounge.
I made it in time, but paid the price of having my bag left behind, (it punctually arrived on my doorstep Sunday morning. In my secret heart I’d missed Vietnam the moment I left, in the same way I miss South Africa the moment my ears pop on take off out of the country and this feeling of homesickness was reinforced when the taxi driver dropped me off on Saturday afternoon. This place really is my second home. He obviously assumed I was some dumbass foreigner (I guess his judgement was spot on) as he could probably see the giddy excitement mixed with relief and exhaustion on my creased face, so, as any self-respecting Vietnamese taxi driver would do, he tried to short change the foreigner. I was too tired to argue and altruistically let him con me. It must have been good karma because I received such a warm greeting by my neighbours who all peeled out of their little houses to shake my hand and to babble something quickly in Vietnamese with fat grins on their faces. I was so happy all I could mutter was Chuc Mung Nam Moi (Happy New Year) and smile. My landlord Mr Diep – the man’s man, ladies man, man about town – and his family greeted me just as warmly and I knew I was home. The hollow in my heart filled up as my senses filled up with my neighbourhood’s sights and sounds, soaking it all up like a sponge that had been left out in the desert only to be rediscovered and dunked deep into the sweet oasis water: the Saigon air so dense you can almost touch it, the flitting sounds of children playing outside, women chatting over their daily chores, peddlers shouting their little sing-song advertisements of their wares as they cycled down my alley, it was all there as I drifted into a deep, fatigued sleep.
Rinse
I finally caught up with some members of the undercover Vietnamese guild known affectionately by their followers as “The Teachers”. The rendezvous point was Sheridan’s Irish Pub and Restaurant in Le Thanh Ton Street. My fellow teacher Sarah and I were planning on making a Tet holiday motorbike trip around the north of the country but that’s now cancelled as her brother is visiting during this time. Instead, over a pint of Amber Stout, she uttered the totally ludicrous request that had me spontaneously crack up because of the nonchalant way it was resented: “Would like to go to Myanmar with me?” That was insanely funny, and of course after I nearly choked on my stout with laughter, I accepted. So for now, my pending Lunar New Year plans are to be hiding from the guerrilla groups in little tribal villages outside Rangoon, not pissing off the military government in Burma (which is Myanmar’s politically correct name) and keeping a watch out for Burmese pythons. I think I should stay away from Irish pubs in the future.
Spin
Monday and Tuesday was spin cycle day; being thrown into the deep end of the wash barrel as far as English-speaking future of Ho Chi Minh City is concerned. My school kindly hooked me up with a level 7 academic English class, amongst others, which is three levels higher than I’ve ever taught before. It was all transitive verbs and non-finites finiteness, but it’s going okay so far but we’ll see what the rest of the week holds. Sorry for this self-absorbent rant but I thought I needed to tell someone and this is my blog after all.
Now all I need to figure out is where the “off” button is on this damn demonic life washer and find the “on” switch on the tumble-dryer…
Friday, January 05, 2007
Salaam!
Three guesses where I am? Hmm, I think those not blessed with the psychic gift will need more like 20 guesses. It’s about 1:30 am and I’m sitting on Doha International Airport. That’s in Qatar for those not in the geography-loop, which is quite near Dubai on the Arabian Peninsula, sort of.
I’m on my way back to Vietnam to continue the proletariat task of making a living by actually earning money myself, how working-class *yawn*. I hope everyone had as awesome a holiday as I did with lots of those yummy holiday munchies lining their stomachs. Despite all the sadness and misgivings of leaving loved ones behind again and returning to this tantalising, intriguing country which is Vietnam, I am glad in my heart. A kind of contentment as to what the future can hold has been bestowed upon me as if to say: “There, taste it, that’s what it’s like, now go out and fetch it.”
I feel this last year I’ve grown not in physical stature, except if you count the rotund Friar Tuck holiday-belly I’ve delicately developed, but in, I cringe to say it, an emotional way. It’s easy to palm it off as something that just happens as you get older, but I think it’s more than that – I now actually understand what people mean when they talk about life experience. It really does effect your mental state, absorbing new cultures and experiences and I think the Vietnamese have facilitated in this burgeoning enlightenment inside me. Damn Buddhists, you gotta love ‘em. Then again, many of my friends and family have equally contributed to this process, although some of my friends tried extremely hard to take me three steps backward along this process with them on New Year's Eve.
No, I haven’t turned into some new-age hippy or a positivist philospher or some shit like that, I’m just being realistic. It’s there – a tangible future that you can shape for yourself. Moulding your own life and letting others help you mould it. Actually, I just think it’s my sparkly new LG S1 Express Dual Notebook that’s making me happy. It’s so rad. It’s got like a little fingerprint security thingy so no-one else can use it (unless they shave off my fingertips ala Seven). Gadgets. You gotta love ‘em nearly as much as Buddhists.
Well I’m stuck in this damn desert oasis until 9 pm tonight, which is like another 18 hours away so I might ramble a bit more later…Salaam alaikum as they say in this part of the world…wish they'd actually let me out of the airport so I can go explore it...
I’m on my way back to Vietnam to continue the proletariat task of making a living by actually earning money myself, how working-class *yawn*. I hope everyone had as awesome a holiday as I did with lots of those yummy holiday munchies lining their stomachs. Despite all the sadness and misgivings of leaving loved ones behind again and returning to this tantalising, intriguing country which is Vietnam, I am glad in my heart. A kind of contentment as to what the future can hold has been bestowed upon me as if to say: “There, taste it, that’s what it’s like, now go out and fetch it.”
I feel this last year I’ve grown not in physical stature, except if you count the rotund Friar Tuck holiday-belly I’ve delicately developed, but in, I cringe to say it, an emotional way. It’s easy to palm it off as something that just happens as you get older, but I think it’s more than that – I now actually understand what people mean when they talk about life experience. It really does effect your mental state, absorbing new cultures and experiences and I think the Vietnamese have facilitated in this burgeoning enlightenment inside me. Damn Buddhists, you gotta love ‘em. Then again, many of my friends and family have equally contributed to this process, although some of my friends tried extremely hard to take me three steps backward along this process with them on New Year's Eve.
No, I haven’t turned into some new-age hippy or a positivist philospher or some shit like that, I’m just being realistic. It’s there – a tangible future that you can shape for yourself. Moulding your own life and letting others help you mould it. Actually, I just think it’s my sparkly new LG S1 Express Dual Notebook that’s making me happy. It’s so rad. It’s got like a little fingerprint security thingy so no-one else can use it (unless they shave off my fingertips ala Seven). Gadgets. You gotta love ‘em nearly as much as Buddhists.
Well I’m stuck in this damn desert oasis until 9 pm tonight, which is like another 18 hours away so I might ramble a bit more later…Salaam alaikum as they say in this part of the world…wish they'd actually let me out of the airport so I can go explore it...
Dozin' in Doha
Wow, there's nothing quite like sleeping on a cold airport floor for a few hours to revive the senses. Before I left my brother-in-law gave me some good advice, saying I should take a nap on the carpeted floor of one of the Islamic prayer rooms, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Instead, after my uncomfortable sleep, I found a designated "quiet room", which is this darkened room filled with snoring, slumbering bodies and sloping chairs which unnervingly resemble dentist's chairs. Overcoming the backflashes of Steve Martin in Novocaine I actually managed to catch a few winks in the dentist chair, so now it's 09:30 am. Less than 12 hours to go. Eish.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Duties done and dusted
When you're sleeping at night, when everything is really quiet, and you hear *bump* *bump* thudding around somewhere outside, don't fret; that would probably be me sleepwalking into things with my newly acquired, rotund, Friar Tuck-like Christmas belly. I think it may have stretch marks and if I had a hand-mirror to be able to see under the bulge I might be able to tell for sure!
I've been having an awesome time since being back - hence the lack of posts. First Natalie came to visit and we did everything we wanted, just chilling on the couch, shopping, going out for sushi, going to my sister's holiday house in Pearly Beach and I even managed some diving in between. My grand tally of crayfish caught stands at five which includes two oupa rooi gerte (grandfather crayfish) as long as my forearm. Nat went home on Saturday, which sucked big time not being able to spend more time with her, and then I went back to Pearly Beach with the parentals to do the family thing, which was very cool.
Christmas represented old-skool, going back to the tradition of spending Eve at my aunt's house in Franskraal with the whole famdam. I think this tradition stretches back to way before I was born so it's quite a solid one which I understand is good to maintain, like a Unesco World Heritage Site or something and not in the Calvinistic sense of tradition. Bleh. I had fun. Got some cool prezzies too.
I'm currently in Hermanus, where the next few days will be spent consuming a mishmash of alcoholic beverages, of dubious quality but impressive quantity, and surfing, or lying on the beach giving off the "surfer karma" making sure everyone knows I surf and trying to fool everyone into thinking I can do 360 airs, reverse rolls, drop-knee 720s and pull into two minute barrels just by the way I lie on the beach gazing across the blue expanse that is my playground. If I pull it off Uri Geller better step back cause his spoon-bending antics will be so-last-century...oh wait, they already are.
Will post again before New Year's Even hopefully. If I don't: You know what to do, don't disappoint yourself or me.
Some pics follow here or on FlickR shortly!
Monday, December 11, 2006
Journey: complete
Forty hours, five airports, six airplane meals, 24 Bellingham tiny wines, three hours of sleep, three in-flight movies, one suicidal piece of machinery and one sick passenger later: I am home.
These last few days would have been hell on earth if I wasn't so excited about coming home. After Bangkok we arrived in Nairobi at four am, departing at Jomo Kenyatta Airport. It felt like when you come out of a late-night movie in a mall and all the shops are closed, lights dimmed, and your footsteps echo in the empty corridors. We had to wait until 7:30 for our next flight, but that turned out to be 13:00, as some mechanical thingy-majig on the plane decided to commit suicide (selfish bugger) as we were taxiing, so we had to turn around on the runway and wait in the departure lounge until 12, by which time they'd figured out what was wrong, but then the pilot and his crew had completed their 12-hour shift and the airline was compelled by law to find another pilot. Luckily, there was a captain and crew sitting in the government/first-class lounge playing strip-poker and drinking games with the air hostesses, chuggin' on fat Havanas, downing tequila shots and chasing them with Jack and coke mixers. They would have to do.
Tiny wine was ordered and we headed off to Joburg aka Egoli, place of gold. It was a bumpy ride but the views while flying over the Serengeti and lakes Tanganyika and Victoria were worth it, as well of course, the copious i-tiny winies in constant supply and disappearing in a perennial stream. By the time we departed at Johannesburg, Christoff couldn't focus or handle heavy machinery (afterwards he said he couldn't remember ever climbing off the airplane at JHB International - damn lightweight) so yours truly had to do the PA work, booking us in and getting us on the Mango Airlines plane, who, by the way were pretty crap, and made us about three hours late but it wasn't their fault and if you pay minimal fees that's what you can expect so we couldn't complain. Other passengers did, however and kudos to Ghia the uber-cool air hostess who handled the grumpy, "this is not acceptable service", "I have hemorrhoids so I want a softer seat" whiny-ass passengers with grace and icy-cool finesse. Nice one! If they want silver service, maybe they should have coughed up a bit more money instead of buying the cheapest plane ticket on the market.
Again, while we were taxiing on the runway, some dude got a panic attack and freaked out. Five brandy shots and seven bitch-slaps didn't rectify the situation so we had to turn around again and drop him off. Back into the queue waiting to depart. I'm not sure, but I think we arrived in Cape Town at about 22:20 last night. It was good to see the folks and fam who had been waiting since seven I think, but luckily they used the Kotzé family common-sense and headed to the nearest airport restaurant to polish several bottles of wine whilst waiting.
I'm as happy as an ant in a cookie jar, bee in a honey pot, or caterpillar on head of lettuce. Will update again soon!
I'm as happy as an ant in a cookie jar, bee in a honey pot, or caterpillar on head of lettuce. Will update again soon!
Saturday, December 09, 2006
The first leg is complete
Well, aren't I a dedicated blogger? I'm sitting in an internet cafe, overlooking a big green garden in a damn big airport. Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok to be exact. This place is ginormous. It looks like a giant, U-shaped warehouse - the kind of warehouse that stocks people and airplanes. Steel and glass everywhere. It's times like these I wish I had rollerblades so I could just skate from one side to the other.
Airports are awesome, you see so many interesting people from around the world. I've only been here for about two hours, but it would take about another hour to describe some of the people I've seen, from a young Muslim boy wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt to an old man straight out of the 60s with grey, downy chest hair as long as my forearm peeling out from the button-holes of his shirt...The only gross thing about this airport is that there are a lot of very white, balding,, dirty, ugly and old Western men traveling with beautiful young Asian girls, which is a bit unnerving - I'm sure they love each other to death but I can't help wondering about the nature of their relationship and whether it really is that tingly, butterflies-in-the-stomach, head-over-heels, flushed, can't-sleep-at-night-so-I-stay-up-writing-poetry-to-you kind of love...
Well, I've got another eight hours to go and then it's off to Nairobi (where I doubt they have an internet cafe!) and another few hours delay...eight more hours of observing people...should be fun.
Later
Friday, December 08, 2006
Last day of work
I’m sitting here at school, about to go teach my last class for a little over a month. It’s an ambivalent feeling. No, that’s crap. It feels awesome going home. I’m gonna miss this place, but I’d miss it more if I weren’t coming back in four weeks. I could go off on some long-winded, adjective- and emotion-filled doughnut of a rant of what a great experience these last 9 months have been etc, but I’ll spare us all some tears and yawns. It was good. Punt (punt in Afrikaans means “Full stop – as in the punctuation mark – but carries more weight, probably because it’s shorter).
I thought I’d share this: As I’m writing this post, my mom just text messaged me. I thought, great, she gonna tell me how she can’t wait for me to come home; “Nog net twee slapies my diertjie” or something in that line. No, instead: “Are you allowed to wear pink shirts to work?” A bit arb, but funny.
Anyways, tomorrow evening this time I’ll be somewhere over the Indian Ocean, scratching my uncomfortable ass in my severely limited leg-room, wondering why the hell I decided to fly with Kenya Airways via godforsaken Nairobi..Oh yes, because it was damn cheap!
I’ll post again as soon as I’ve figured out what this “reverse-culture shock” phenomenon is all about…
I thought I’d share this: As I’m writing this post, my mom just text messaged me. I thought, great, she gonna tell me how she can’t wait for me to come home; “Nog net twee slapies my diertjie” or something in that line. No, instead: “Are you allowed to wear pink shirts to work?” A bit arb, but funny.
Anyways, tomorrow evening this time I’ll be somewhere over the Indian Ocean, scratching my uncomfortable ass in my severely limited leg-room, wondering why the hell I decided to fly with Kenya Airways via godforsaken Nairobi..Oh yes, because it was damn cheap!
I’ll post again as soon as I’ve figured out what this “reverse-culture shock” phenomenon is all about…
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Fast-food framing
Lotteria!
Originally uploaded by HennoK.
(To the tune of Abba's "Mama Mia")
Lotteria! Here we go again!
My, my, how can I resist you?
Lotteria! Does it show again?
My, my, just how much I've missed you.
Since the day I started,
Can't believe that with your chicken burger I've parted...
That's my 70s post for the day duty done...I feel used.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Visual visit tree
This is pretty neat. James Spahr, a designer on Information Aesthetics, created this diagram, visually depicting "how online users travel through a specific website. All traffic moves clockwise around the map, enters at the bottom of the page & exits at the top of the page. Thicker lines mean more traffic, while the color of traffic leaving a page matches the color of the section it is going to & vice versa."
[link: Eyebeam Reblog via designweenie.comvia knowingart.com]
I guess it's a bit more difficult for blogs, being single page entries (mostly), but wouldn't it be interesting to have a visual description of your site? You would probably also need a fair amount of traffic to generate a reasonable image. So, on the contrary, my blog's "visual tree" would probably look like so:
55
What's that? The number of people who have succumb to Typhoon Durian? The temperature in Saigon today? The number of Honda Dreams that I had to dodge on my way to District 4? The number of pimples on my ass? Nope, it's how well I know world countries. My score is 55, which is three better than noodlepie's, but couldn've been nearer to 100 (!) if I had better "mouse-control" and hand-eye coordination. Give it a try and post your score!
Hump Day
Today is “Hump Day” as Susan so kindly informed me (I think maybe I’ve finally met someone with a dirtier mind than me!). No, not like that, but I thought it was like that until I discovered it wasn’t but I still wish it was like that. It’s actually a vernacular term for Wednesday.
I never knew Wednesday was ubiquitously defined as Hump Day. I know about TGI Friday and the Sabbath, but Hump Day is new to me. Here’s a formal definition, here’s a more obscure one and here’s a plain fiendish one (which is actually like that which I first thought it was like and am quite glad it is that).
I never knew Wednesday was ubiquitously defined as Hump Day. I know about TGI Friday and the Sabbath, but Hump Day is new to me. Here’s a formal definition, here’s a more obscure one and here’s a plain fiendish one (which is actually like that which I first thought it was like and am quite glad it is that).
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
The perfect storm (my ass)
Patrick Swayze was out in the back-break of Nha Trang’s main beach, golden locks flowing in the wind and dripping with saltwater, mixing with the sweat beading on his forehead. Sitting across his nine-foot “rhino-chaser”, his heart was pounding in his throat as his muscles tensed at the sight of the oncoming perfect storm. The ocean bunched on the horizon as the swell picked up and he started to paddle...It was Typhoon Durian. The typhoon that hit Philippines a few days ago, where it killed hundreds, was on its way to Vietnam, and it stank. Like the fruit. Durian stinks. More then you can possibly imagine. The large, spiky green skin encases a yellowy, ripe, seething mass of meat-like, gooey pods that smell like a 10-day old rotting carcass of an alcoholic fisherman festering in a dank, dark alleyway near the harbour, amalgamating with the fishy-blood-and-guts odours of the wharf. And people eat it. And now it is was a typhoon.
Typhoon Durian hit Vietnam’s east coast last night, first making land off Quy Island, about 120 km off the mainland, then sweeping over the coastal resort city of Nha Trang and further inland, wreaking havoc and destruction, sinking more than a 1000 ships, leaving death and disaster in its wake. The government took drastic action, evacuating as many as 50 000 inhabitants from the predicted hotspots, but at least 15 people have died so far and 1000s are homless.
I took precautionary measures too, not leaving anything to fate or sloppy housekeeping, as I thought it would hit HCM City. I tied down the pot plants in the garden, nailed shut the windows and filled up the gap under the doors with polyfilla putty. I sticky-taped the paintings to the walls, glued down the furniture and bubble-wrapped all the glasses and kitchenware in the cabinets. I switched off the electricity, bought a week’s supply of canned food and dog food (for Christoff – I didn’t have much money left after I bought the space blanket and thermal underwear) and rearranged my cupboards survival-style so the most important garments necessary for evacuation were within reach. I crawled under my two duvets and waited. The wind picked up slightly around 11 ‘o clock and a slight buzzing in the air was making the hair on the nape of my neck rise. ‘Must be the static electricity that precedes a deep tropical depression,” I thought. The wind started to howl, the pitter-patter of the rain started slowly, gaining momentum until the individual drops were indiscernible from each other and the drumming increased in velocity. The shutters rattled and the howl of my neighbours dog cut through the noise. I thought, ‘This is it. Durian is here.”
The rain continued for a while, and then abruptly slowed down to an anti-climatic pitter-patter again. I was disappointed. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad no-one got hurt and we didn’t have to evacuate the city and seek shelter in the Mekong Delta, or worse, flee to Cambodia – but still disappointed. I was expecting more from Durian. Even the canal near my house, which usually fills up when a half-decent thunderstorm makes an appearance, was still empty. Maybe Typhoon Chom-Chom will bring the expected pain, anguish and excitement I was expecting. Probably not.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Miss-ed Saigon
I know a lot of people have ranted about expats behaving badly in Vietnam, not taking local customs and cultures into consideration, but it’s good to have finally had a lighthearted spin put on the matter. Last night I watched a local amateur acting troupe, the Saigon Players, perform a charity show called “Miss-ed Saigon”. The comedy show highlighted (sometimes painfully when you realise, “Hey, wait, I’ve done that!”), the inapt musings and behaviour of the expatriate community in Vietnam. Although it focused mainly on the “real expats”, those with real “hardship posts” at established multinational companies, villas in An Phu (District 2), drivers, and spouses who spend their time getting massages and manicures (basically, the type of expat life I can’t afford or wouldn’t indulge in even if I could), it still hit the spot quite accurately and had even the most jaded and cynical of audience members cracking up in recognition of some antics they too have dabbled in.
For example, they spoofed how difficult it was for some expats to pronounce Vietnamese names: Here’s a watered down version of the dialogue.
“Nguyen’s coming to the meeting.”
“When?”
“No, Nguyen.”
“The meeting’s at two.”
“Yes, the meeting with Thu is at one”
“No, the meeting with Oanh is only at three, what about Nguyen?”
“Huh? What about when? I told you, two!”
“But the meeting with Thu is only at one!”
“Oanh? At three, not two!”
“Nguyen?”
For example, they spoofed how difficult it was for some expats to pronounce Vietnamese names: Here’s a watered down version of the dialogue.
“Nguyen’s coming to the meeting.”
“When?”
“No, Nguyen.”
“The meeting’s at two.”
“Yes, the meeting with Thu is at one”
“No, the meeting with Oanh is only at three, what about Nguyen?”
“Huh? What about when? I told you, two!”
“But the meeting with Thu is only at one!”
“Oanh? At three, not two!”
“Nguyen?”
Shamed by “our” behaviour, a few of us decided to go have drinks at a bia hoi – local style (Actually Chi is Vietnamese, but she spent five years in London so she semi-qualifies with her posh Brit accent).
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Hit of the week
Today's hit of the week, proudly brought to you by IP2map.com, is from: Kathmandu, Bagmati, Nepal (12/1/2006 4:12:36 AM). I didn't know they had open internet in Nepal - I thought it was all banned and censored like the other medias, but there you go. Thank you.
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