Xuan is a handsome teenager who can be seen from our hotel lobby for most of the day. He smiles constantly for his brain is quite damaged from dioxin, as are the brains of his uncle and sister who live with him down the lane. Xuan paces, stares at the unending traffic, turns around and faces another direction, still smiling and then gets ready to pace again. He has remembered me and waves each time before turning back to stare at the cycles and cars, still smiling with a secret delight.
Vietnam has well in excess of a million or so similarly affected by dioxin. Huge areas in the middle of the country are still contaminated, where having a deformed child is the risk with each pregnancy. Hanoi's streetscene is the living museum to dioxin and to the resentment felt towards Westerners. The smiling Xuan is my outstanding memory of Hanoi, forever delighted by the sight of moving traffic.
We walked past Xuan last night and into the jam-packed streets in order to see the water puppets. When Janet has recovered from her trauma, she may write about them. On the way home, at the crowded market, someone slit open her cotton shoulderbag and relieved her of the burden of carrying an Oroton wallet, credit cards, cash and prescription glasses. We did not notice the loss for about five minutes, at which point, Janet came close to being sick from the shock.
Today, the cards having been cancelled last night, we had to attend the police station responsible for the night market area, in order to report the loss. This took over four hours as we visited one police station after the other, each pushing us towards a different station. Nobody could be bothered with us - tourists were trouble.
At the last police station, ironically the closest to our hotel, the captain was playing draughts in the squalour of the station, which possibly doubled as a garbage bin when unoccupied. He scowled, leant back in his collapsible chair and barked in Vietnamese to the poor cyclo driver who had brought us to him. Someone from our hotel had to appear to fill out the forms in Vietnamese. The cylo driver hung his head and nervously wrung his hands. The captain was not pleased at having his game of draughts interrupted by stupid foreigners who could not look after their belongings. We felt the anger.
A petite girl from our hotel arrived by scooter about 20 minutes later and, with remarkable bravery, strode in and showed no fear as she took instructions from this bad-tempered uniformed man who was as unpleasant a man as ever I want to meet. Later, she confessed, it was close to terrifying for her, as the poorly paid police are renowned for corruption and they now had her name and address. It's the wish of all Vietnamese to be invisible to authority and we had unwittingly exposed her to police attention.
An hour passed and finally all the documents were done and stamped. Janet was left in a fragile state and we walked back to our hotel with the petite girl. In all, the exercise took most of today, lots of talking last night until the early hours, and much soul-searching for what had gone wrong. We were disturbed by it all. Xuan would have just smiled and turned to check out the traffic again, not comprehending a thing. In fact, I'm not so sure I understand what happened myself.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Hello to everyone - Janet speaking
Today I have been on a five hour walk through Hanoi. First off I was aiming for a lake which is about 500 meters from here. "Ho," said I to myself, looking at the lying map - "turn right at the top of the road, turn right again go straight ahead, I can't miss it." I did arrive there a couple of hours later.
Richard got some money out of a teller machine yesterday - "How much did you get?" said I. "Millions."
he said. We worked it out, and he had got $12.95, so he had to go back and have another go.
The underwater marionette theatre is opposite the fabled lake, so I joined a throng waiting for tickets. There was quite a long line, and progress was very slow, so after about half an hour, it was my turn. There was a tiny sign which said "Sold out for today - Buy ticket for tomorrow" The group behind me had to leave tomorrow, so were unable to see it - they were not happy.
Walking along today, I came to a battered old shop. It had a loudspeaker out at the front, and in the back of the shop was a wizened long haired old man, who would have weighed four stones wringing wet, playing a decrepit piano which was new when Beethoven was a boy, horribly out of tune, but he was playing Bach's No. 1 prelude. I don't know why but I was reduced to tears.
After that I went to the Ho Chi Minh Museum, which is an imposing humourless pile of Stalinist architecture. On top of that it was closed, but the good thing about it was that I met a French couple on the steps, with whom I spent the rest of the day. She had worked in Moscow, and they were both so interesting. His name happens to be Christian Barnard, and they described being in South Africa, and news of his name getting out, so they were hounded by media people for interviews. That must have been quite a while ago, because I don't suppose many young people today would even remember who he was.
As Richard has said - there is a vast difference in the people. They are all after our money, which is understandable, but it seems that they have lost any joie de vivre, and even seem to be abrupt with one another. We had breakfast this morning in a nearby cafe - it took us over an hour because the passing street parade was so fascinating, and a Vietnamese woman on a motorbike came up to another Vietnamese woman with bananas (which looked fine), in two baskets at the end of the pole over her shoulder. The motorbike woman, picked a hand of bananas up, inspected each and every one so carefully, then promptly put them back, and without a word - drove off.
More anon after the marionettes.
Love from Janet
Today I have been on a five hour walk through Hanoi. First off I was aiming for a lake which is about 500 meters from here. "Ho," said I to myself, looking at the lying map - "turn right at the top of the road, turn right again go straight ahead, I can't miss it." I did arrive there a couple of hours later.
Richard got some money out of a teller machine yesterday - "How much did you get?" said I. "Millions."
he said. We worked it out, and he had got $12.95, so he had to go back and have another go.
The underwater marionette theatre is opposite the fabled lake, so I joined a throng waiting for tickets. There was quite a long line, and progress was very slow, so after about half an hour, it was my turn. There was a tiny sign which said "Sold out for today - Buy ticket for tomorrow" The group behind me had to leave tomorrow, so were unable to see it - they were not happy.
Walking along today, I came to a battered old shop. It had a loudspeaker out at the front, and in the back of the shop was a wizened long haired old man, who would have weighed four stones wringing wet, playing a decrepit piano which was new when Beethoven was a boy, horribly out of tune, but he was playing Bach's No. 1 prelude. I don't know why but I was reduced to tears.
After that I went to the Ho Chi Minh Museum, which is an imposing humourless pile of Stalinist architecture. On top of that it was closed, but the good thing about it was that I met a French couple on the steps, with whom I spent the rest of the day. She had worked in Moscow, and they were both so interesting. His name happens to be Christian Barnard, and they described being in South Africa, and news of his name getting out, so they were hounded by media people for interviews. That must have been quite a while ago, because I don't suppose many young people today would even remember who he was.
As Richard has said - there is a vast difference in the people. They are all after our money, which is understandable, but it seems that they have lost any joie de vivre, and even seem to be abrupt with one another. We had breakfast this morning in a nearby cafe - it took us over an hour because the passing street parade was so fascinating, and a Vietnamese woman on a motorbike came up to another Vietnamese woman with bananas (which looked fine), in two baskets at the end of the pole over her shoulder. The motorbike woman, picked a hand of bananas up, inspected each and every one so carefully, then promptly put them back, and without a word - drove off.
More anon after the marionettes.
Love from Janet
Today marks the halfway point in our time away from friends and family.
It's cool, not drizzling but not far from it. Misty, overcast. Many are wearing padded jackets. The streets are noisy and trumpet horns sound continually from early hours until after midnight. Not five seconds would elapse without irritating blasts in the tiny streets outside the boutique hotel, six flights and no lift, something like being in a lighthouse plunked into a noisy soup kitchen.
Wooden-shuttered windows, cooking smells from the street, people always calling out, cries from those selling wares as they walk along and every morning and afternoon, loudspeakers broadcast propaganda in Vietnamese for 15 minutes to everyone in the streets. The hotel staff said it is a police message. Others said it was the usual broadcast from the government. It is delivered calmly, routinely. Nobody seems to listen.
We are in the old quarter of Ha Noi. Also called "36 Streets" after the ancient town on this site where each street, or part, had the same goods for sale. Tinsmith street, Gold street, Puppet street... Streets changed their name according to what they were selling. Quaint and perpetually crowded in main areas, we never know what to expect in the next 10 seconds.
Footpaths are used to store goods, to eat at, to park motor scooters, to block with tiny booths for preparing food and selling goods. Those walking are forced onto the road, which is already crowded with cars, trucks, coolies carrying baskets on bamboo poles, scooters, and cyclopeds for the tourists. Vehicles shoot past, missing each other by millimetres. Everyone warns of their presence with horn blasts, the noisiest city I've ever been in, but I've not yet been to Sai Gon.
I've begged off going to the markets with Janet, wanting time to myself. The fall at the pool at Siem Reap has left her in some pain with sprained intercostal muscles. The ride to Para's hometown on a long dirt road full of pot-holes, has bounced her even more, but she's a trouper and little ever throws her.
Janet has the most enquiring mind I know, always has interesting questions to ask and always reading, chatting to everybody. Janet loves communicating, but today I would like silence and time just to be with me. In that she understands this mood, I am so grateful.
I like to sink into a torpor, trying to connect with something unique at each place we visit. Those who meditate really have a tremendous gift and if it is a ladder of 100 steps, I feel I still have both feet on the ground but maybe with one toe raised. To be at one with your surroundings, with no barrier between you both, is the goal. It takes immense strength and time to achieve, but first, one must have time alone.
______________________________
It is not so pleasant here. I miss Cambodia and its people: those dark, warm-skinned people who tumble over themselves to please and provide delight. You catch their eye when driving past them in your tuk-tuk and they burst into glorious smiles. I wave and they wave back. They want contact, and the poverty there encourages communities and liaisons and mutually helping each other. But here, in Communist North Vietnam, there are not the smiling faces so much and not the enjoyment in practicing English and not the desire to make contact. Americans, I would suspect, have damaged the image of the white man, for bombing their city has left deep-seated bitterness. I could be paranoic about this but I feel there is a resentment that will not easily be extinguished.
Janet gave some informal English lessons at the hotel in Siem Reap. They were just to a few staff members, especially the duty manager who slipped away to sit with her. Mr Boung Lai, whom we called Mr Moonlight as his name sounded like that, came especially close and he brought his young wife in on our last full afternoon to meet us. Janet and he were very close and leaving him was her saddest experience on this journey.
__________________________
And now, for some obscure reason, I will go to the Museum of War, maybe by taxi. It's marginally less dangerous than on foot and, besides, with an overcast sky, I get lost quickly. I'm wearing my favourite long-sleeved $8 Target's grey jumper, the sloppy one, thick black jeans, woollen socks and RM Williams boots. Just about right for the temperature. In Siem Reap, soon to be named Angkor City, it was three-quarter length shorts, sandals, T-shirt and a hat. Fruit smoothies all through the day and people saying hello, would you like to ride in my tuk-tuk. Here, they scurry past carrying their double baskets of fruit and goods for sale, looking like overburdened human scales of justice.
The thought occurred to me this morning to pack up and go back to Cambodia this afternoon, leaving Ha Long Bay and Saigon and the Vietnamese to themselves. Probably the wrong thing to do, now that we are here. But in Cambodia, I felt most like the person whom I would like to be.
The interminable noise is getting to me. The greyness, the claustrophobia of these tiny, over-packed streets and the remoteness of the people. Maybe Sai Gon will be a happier experience but that's not until next Thursday. Apologies to all if I sound miserable but I'm really not - too many strange things at once, I suppose, and not enough dark-skinned natives with ear-to-ear grins, wanting to say hello.
It's cool, not drizzling but not far from it. Misty, overcast. Many are wearing padded jackets. The streets are noisy and trumpet horns sound continually from early hours until after midnight. Not five seconds would elapse without irritating blasts in the tiny streets outside the boutique hotel, six flights and no lift, something like being in a lighthouse plunked into a noisy soup kitchen.
Wooden-shuttered windows, cooking smells from the street, people always calling out, cries from those selling wares as they walk along and every morning and afternoon, loudspeakers broadcast propaganda in Vietnamese for 15 minutes to everyone in the streets. The hotel staff said it is a police message. Others said it was the usual broadcast from the government. It is delivered calmly, routinely. Nobody seems to listen.
We are in the old quarter of Ha Noi. Also called "36 Streets" after the ancient town on this site where each street, or part, had the same goods for sale. Tinsmith street, Gold street, Puppet street... Streets changed their name according to what they were selling. Quaint and perpetually crowded in main areas, we never know what to expect in the next 10 seconds.
Footpaths are used to store goods, to eat at, to park motor scooters, to block with tiny booths for preparing food and selling goods. Those walking are forced onto the road, which is already crowded with cars, trucks, coolies carrying baskets on bamboo poles, scooters, and cyclopeds for the tourists. Vehicles shoot past, missing each other by millimetres. Everyone warns of their presence with horn blasts, the noisiest city I've ever been in, but I've not yet been to Sai Gon.
I've begged off going to the markets with Janet, wanting time to myself. The fall at the pool at Siem Reap has left her in some pain with sprained intercostal muscles. The ride to Para's hometown on a long dirt road full of pot-holes, has bounced her even more, but she's a trouper and little ever throws her.
Janet has the most enquiring mind I know, always has interesting questions to ask and always reading, chatting to everybody. Janet loves communicating, but today I would like silence and time just to be with me. In that she understands this mood, I am so grateful.
I like to sink into a torpor, trying to connect with something unique at each place we visit. Those who meditate really have a tremendous gift and if it is a ladder of 100 steps, I feel I still have both feet on the ground but maybe with one toe raised. To be at one with your surroundings, with no barrier between you both, is the goal. It takes immense strength and time to achieve, but first, one must have time alone.
______________________________
It is not so pleasant here. I miss Cambodia and its people: those dark, warm-skinned people who tumble over themselves to please and provide delight. You catch their eye when driving past them in your tuk-tuk and they burst into glorious smiles. I wave and they wave back. They want contact, and the poverty there encourages communities and liaisons and mutually helping each other. But here, in Communist North Vietnam, there are not the smiling faces so much and not the enjoyment in practicing English and not the desire to make contact. Americans, I would suspect, have damaged the image of the white man, for bombing their city has left deep-seated bitterness. I could be paranoic about this but I feel there is a resentment that will not easily be extinguished.
Janet gave some informal English lessons at the hotel in Siem Reap. They were just to a few staff members, especially the duty manager who slipped away to sit with her. Mr Boung Lai, whom we called Mr Moonlight as his name sounded like that, came especially close and he brought his young wife in on our last full afternoon to meet us. Janet and he were very close and leaving him was her saddest experience on this journey.
__________________________
And now, for some obscure reason, I will go to the Museum of War, maybe by taxi. It's marginally less dangerous than on foot and, besides, with an overcast sky, I get lost quickly. I'm wearing my favourite long-sleeved $8 Target's grey jumper, the sloppy one, thick black jeans, woollen socks and RM Williams boots. Just about right for the temperature. In Siem Reap, soon to be named Angkor City, it was three-quarter length shorts, sandals, T-shirt and a hat. Fruit smoothies all through the day and people saying hello, would you like to ride in my tuk-tuk. Here, they scurry past carrying their double baskets of fruit and goods for sale, looking like overburdened human scales of justice.
The thought occurred to me this morning to pack up and go back to Cambodia this afternoon, leaving Ha Long Bay and Saigon and the Vietnamese to themselves. Probably the wrong thing to do, now that we are here. But in Cambodia, I felt most like the person whom I would like to be.
The interminable noise is getting to me. The greyness, the claustrophobia of these tiny, over-packed streets and the remoteness of the people. Maybe Sai Gon will be a happier experience but that's not until next Thursday. Apologies to all if I sound miserable but I'm really not - too many strange things at once, I suppose, and not enough dark-skinned natives with ear-to-ear grins, wanting to say hello.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Hanoi, Thursday. It was a short flight of 100 minutes from Siem Reap but what a contrast! The large red flag with giant golden star at the airport was the first reminder of being in a communist country. Janet was not relaxed. It was very cool and drizzled. It took an hour to go through immigration and three simultaneous flights emptied their luggage on to one conveyor belt so it was an hour before we went in search of a taxi in the rain and dark.
A tout offered the half-hour ride into the city for $20 but I'd seen on the internet it was usually $13, so I kept looking until an official looking man (well, he spoke English) said $13 was correct and he would find us a taxi van. Where did we want to go? I said Prince #1 Hotel. One appeared very quickly and we were loaded.
The young driver spoke no English and drove furiously, bipping his horn repeatedly every few seconds all the way into the city, clicking on and off his turn indicator. It was non-sensical to keep sounding the horn so I wondered whether he was on drugs or just agitated. He went down some dark streets and suddenly stopped outside a tiny hotel which he said was Prince #1, the hotel where I had booked on the internet months earlier. But this was not Prince # anything - it was the Blue Lotus or something. A young man jumped in, showing me a tattered business card with Prince #1 Hotel printed along the top edge. He was trying to convince me most volubly that we were at a subsidiary of Prince Hotel. I would not budge and neither would he get out. The driver started up and we drove to another tiny hotel which he said was the real Prince Hotel. This was the Green Dragon or something. Again I would not budge and was becoming angry and very determined. Suddenly, he opened the taxi door and exited. After that, the young horn-happy driver took us to Prince Hotel #1 where he had no change for $20 note.
I would not pay until he brought the bags into the hotel but he would not budge from his van. A hotel staffman helped us and in the foyer I found $13 and took it to the driver parked in the street. He was clearly frightened of something. A hotel man told me they have to try to move tourists to the tiny hotels and their jobs are on the line if they can't convince the tourists the change was genuine. This kid was not going to earn anything much for the night. I gave him a dollar tip and the change was instantaneous - a huge smile and thank you.
I would not relinquish the passports and while details were copied, Janet struggled up three flights of narrow stairway into a shuttered, marble-floored room. Air-cond, cable TV, wifi (I have my laptop), good beds, separate bathroom and fridge. All for $25 a night, and overlooking a busy little streetscene with constant honking motorbikes. But now it's time to go to street level in the drizzling rain and look for something to eat.
A tout offered the half-hour ride into the city for $20 but I'd seen on the internet it was usually $13, so I kept looking until an official looking man (well, he spoke English) said $13 was correct and he would find us a taxi van. Where did we want to go? I said Prince #1 Hotel. One appeared very quickly and we were loaded.
The young driver spoke no English and drove furiously, bipping his horn repeatedly every few seconds all the way into the city, clicking on and off his turn indicator. It was non-sensical to keep sounding the horn so I wondered whether he was on drugs or just agitated. He went down some dark streets and suddenly stopped outside a tiny hotel which he said was Prince #1, the hotel where I had booked on the internet months earlier. But this was not Prince # anything - it was the Blue Lotus or something. A young man jumped in, showing me a tattered business card with Prince #1 Hotel printed along the top edge. He was trying to convince me most volubly that we were at a subsidiary of Prince Hotel. I would not budge and neither would he get out. The driver started up and we drove to another tiny hotel which he said was the real Prince Hotel. This was the Green Dragon or something. Again I would not budge and was becoming angry and very determined. Suddenly, he opened the taxi door and exited. After that, the young horn-happy driver took us to Prince Hotel #1 where he had no change for $20 note.
I would not pay until he brought the bags into the hotel but he would not budge from his van. A hotel staffman helped us and in the foyer I found $13 and took it to the driver parked in the street. He was clearly frightened of something. A hotel man told me they have to try to move tourists to the tiny hotels and their jobs are on the line if they can't convince the tourists the change was genuine. This kid was not going to earn anything much for the night. I gave him a dollar tip and the change was instantaneous - a huge smile and thank you.
I would not relinquish the passports and while details were copied, Janet struggled up three flights of narrow stairway into a shuttered, marble-floored room. Air-cond, cable TV, wifi (I have my laptop), good beds, separate bathroom and fridge. All for $25 a night, and overlooking a busy little streetscene with constant honking motorbikes. But now it's time to go to street level in the drizzling rain and look for something to eat.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Siem Reap Airport - Wednesday afternoon.
This may be hurried as we take off in about 30 minutes for Vietnam, our first visit to a Communist country. Having read recently a book by Warren Fellows who was jailed for 12 years in a hell-hole in Thailand for smuggling drugs, airports have assumed a certain dread, even though my most potent medication, paracetamol, lies securely hidden from sniffer dogs. Janet and I joke about certain individuals at the airport who look suspiciously at us. I fact, they look quite normal but since reading that book...
Another bout of food poisoning. This time from an Indian cafe and a bowl of vegetable soup. Gurgles through the night and a sudden dash to the bathroom at 3am. I was going to spend part of next day, Christmas Day, at Raffles Grand Hotel in their splendid bar, sipping pink gins, as suggested by a friend in Bangkok. But Lomotil and alcohol don't mix.
Today, we went to Para's hometown, a village about 30 kms out from Siem Reap. The last 15 kms was over a road with foot-deep pot-holes and depressions. Janet's ribs have still not recovered from her fall earlier this week and she emerged at Para's mother's house nursing herself.
The house itself is basically a wooden room on stilts with entrance gained by climbing up a wide ladder. There were no furnishings in the room, just a few mats and a piece of string over which clothes were hung. There was a kitten and a broom, no electricity. The toilet is any convenient tree at a safe distance from the house. The kitchen is a room at ground floor and it is surrounded by dozens of scrawny chickens and their brood. A few featureless dogs lay around and a dozen or so neighbours came to see people with blond hair for the first time in their lives. Lots of kids, a deranged uncle, toothless women holding babies, shy schoolchildren sent home to look at the aliens. I filmed them with the camcamera (or rather, Para tried with mixed success) and they stared and stared at them while we stared at them.
Para's mother, widowed in April this year, brought out photos of her late husband and a coloured photograph. He was a handsome man, much bigger and taller than Para, and a leader in the community. His fight with hepatitis B and subsequent hepatoma devastated the village. The pictures taken at the funeral and the preparation of the body were very moving. He had been washed before cremation with suitable fluids, Para said. "What were they?" I asked. Para replied they only had tea and gasoline so that's what they used. At least the fire was spectacular.
Time to board. Speak to you from Hanoi.
This may be hurried as we take off in about 30 minutes for Vietnam, our first visit to a Communist country. Having read recently a book by Warren Fellows who was jailed for 12 years in a hell-hole in Thailand for smuggling drugs, airports have assumed a certain dread, even though my most potent medication, paracetamol, lies securely hidden from sniffer dogs. Janet and I joke about certain individuals at the airport who look suspiciously at us. I fact, they look quite normal but since reading that book...
Another bout of food poisoning. This time from an Indian cafe and a bowl of vegetable soup. Gurgles through the night and a sudden dash to the bathroom at 3am. I was going to spend part of next day, Christmas Day, at Raffles Grand Hotel in their splendid bar, sipping pink gins, as suggested by a friend in Bangkok. But Lomotil and alcohol don't mix.
Today, we went to Para's hometown, a village about 30 kms out from Siem Reap. The last 15 kms was over a road with foot-deep pot-holes and depressions. Janet's ribs have still not recovered from her fall earlier this week and she emerged at Para's mother's house nursing herself.
The house itself is basically a wooden room on stilts with entrance gained by climbing up a wide ladder. There were no furnishings in the room, just a few mats and a piece of string over which clothes were hung. There was a kitten and a broom, no electricity. The toilet is any convenient tree at a safe distance from the house. The kitchen is a room at ground floor and it is surrounded by dozens of scrawny chickens and their brood. A few featureless dogs lay around and a dozen or so neighbours came to see people with blond hair for the first time in their lives. Lots of kids, a deranged uncle, toothless women holding babies, shy schoolchildren sent home to look at the aliens. I filmed them with the camcamera (or rather, Para tried with mixed success) and they stared and stared at them while we stared at them.
Para's mother, widowed in April this year, brought out photos of her late husband and a coloured photograph. He was a handsome man, much bigger and taller than Para, and a leader in the community. His fight with hepatitis B and subsequent hepatoma devastated the village. The pictures taken at the funeral and the preparation of the body were very moving. He had been washed before cremation with suitable fluids, Para said. "What were they?" I asked. Para replied they only had tea and gasoline so that's what they used. At least the fire was spectacular.
Time to board. Speak to you from Hanoi.
Monday, December 24, 2007
With some embarrassment, we admit to not having gone out of town to the fabled Ankor complex of temples. Our excuses are paltry: (1) We did it before and we still recall the exhaustion, and (2) Janet has discovered an exercise called ""lying around the side of the pool reading a book." And I have discovered shopping at the new market, the non-tourist one, where designer shirts are $5 and tailor-made trousers are $9.
Janet slipped while walking around the pool yesterday and hit her head. She strained her right-sided intercostal muscles and right pectorals. Some Panadol and a good sleep have seemingly fixed her up. My stomach trouble, totally incapacitating me for two days, came from contaminated chicken in a Khmer soup at the hotel. I mastered simultaneous diarrhoea and projectile vomiting with an ease that was entirely unexpected. If I hadn't just wanted to lie down and die, I think I could have been very proud of this accomplishment.
The Prime Minister of Cambodia was in this dusty town over the weekend so things have been cleaned up. Two days ago, police were everywhere. Black uniforms, khaki uniforms, blue uniforms. At every street corner there was a cluster. Roaring through the market town with sirens and whistles was the Police Commander in his large Camry sedan, the words "I love you" written in the dust on its back window. Now things have settled down but everywhere you look, there is activity: people working, talking, laughing, sleeping, vacantly staring, selling, eating, driving, riding, walking, shopping. It's like an ants' nest and I love it. Bits of theatre in every direction, exotic smells, bargains, cheap food and lodgings, friendly people, huge smiles, adorable kids who light up when we say hello. Everyone wants to practice talking, for tourism means money and the average wage is about $30 a month.
Para brought his friend to meet me - Sovann. Mr Sovann, as Para calls his best mate, was orphaned in early infancy. At three, he fell from a cow and fractured his left elbow. This was never set and today, at 21, his left arm is rotated so that the hand faces the front and is useless. He has no home, little education, one shirt and one pair of old blue trousers. What he has got is spirit, an enormous smile and an ability to see that life is wonderful, in his words. Mr Sovann was taken to the new market and we bought him some shirts and a pair of trousers, thongs, underwear, a blanket and food. I'll see about the $US100 he needs for a year's schooling in English. Para lets him stay over but Para's circumstances are not so great. He was sleeping and studying at the pagoda but the monks require those lodging there to learn an ancient script, Pali, which is useless outside the religion. Para rebelled and now lives underneath a one-bedroom traditional raised house with no bathroom or electricity.
We bought him a hammock and supports, a mosquito net, clothes, food, books. Para's English has improved dramatically as he spends time with us each day learning our language. He and Sovann came to the hotel yesterday and although I was cautious that these two young men were not going to attract criticism from other guests, hotel staff actually welcomed them and told them in their own language how lucky they were. As we sat beside the pool with our grammar book, trying to work out whether "A lot of employees is good" or "A lot of employees are good" the scene looked so incongruous among those Europeans and Japanese who lay in the sun getting browner while these skinny dark happy young men talked about how they feel bad because their skin is not beautiful, like white man.
And I guess that's a part of what I like here. The usual ways of judging people just don't work - at least, a lot of the behaviour and attitudes we have in Australia look so different here. Everyone lolls against each other, people touch all the time, smiles are almost a permanent feature of their faces. You can spit and nobody notices. You can wear any combination of clothing and, again, nobody notices. The standards for acceptance are a soft voice, smiles, kind words, handshakes, a bowing with hands clasped together and the head slightly bowed. The hotel staff have got to know me and always make a point of singling me out to ask about the day. I use the few Khmer words I know and their faces light up. The appreciate gentle men and women who meet their eyes and smile.
Now, it's time for my tuk-tuk driver to return. He's been waiting for an hour (at about 50 cents an hour) ready to take me back to the hotel where Janet is giving an English lesson to some unsuspecting barman. As I walked in, I was offered the usual massage price list - $8 for an hour seems reasonable and not a bad way to spend this Christmas Eve afternoon before we dress for dinner tonight at the hotel for their $18 Christmas Eve Special Dinner. Dressing for dinner means replacing lighter-coloured thongs with darker flip-flops and trying to encourage the Japanese teenagers not to wear T-shirts in the dining room that read "I think I will flick" you. Actually, the front message made Madame blush under her rather beautiful tan and quite blonde hair. "Would you like to look like that?" I asked. She was torn, I could tell.
Janet slipped while walking around the pool yesterday and hit her head. She strained her right-sided intercostal muscles and right pectorals. Some Panadol and a good sleep have seemingly fixed her up. My stomach trouble, totally incapacitating me for two days, came from contaminated chicken in a Khmer soup at the hotel. I mastered simultaneous diarrhoea and projectile vomiting with an ease that was entirely unexpected. If I hadn't just wanted to lie down and die, I think I could have been very proud of this accomplishment.
The Prime Minister of Cambodia was in this dusty town over the weekend so things have been cleaned up. Two days ago, police were everywhere. Black uniforms, khaki uniforms, blue uniforms. At every street corner there was a cluster. Roaring through the market town with sirens and whistles was the Police Commander in his large Camry sedan, the words "I love you" written in the dust on its back window. Now things have settled down but everywhere you look, there is activity: people working, talking, laughing, sleeping, vacantly staring, selling, eating, driving, riding, walking, shopping. It's like an ants' nest and I love it. Bits of theatre in every direction, exotic smells, bargains, cheap food and lodgings, friendly people, huge smiles, adorable kids who light up when we say hello. Everyone wants to practice talking, for tourism means money and the average wage is about $30 a month.
Para brought his friend to meet me - Sovann. Mr Sovann, as Para calls his best mate, was orphaned in early infancy. At three, he fell from a cow and fractured his left elbow. This was never set and today, at 21, his left arm is rotated so that the hand faces the front and is useless. He has no home, little education, one shirt and one pair of old blue trousers. What he has got is spirit, an enormous smile and an ability to see that life is wonderful, in his words. Mr Sovann was taken to the new market and we bought him some shirts and a pair of trousers, thongs, underwear, a blanket and food. I'll see about the $US100 he needs for a year's schooling in English. Para lets him stay over but Para's circumstances are not so great. He was sleeping and studying at the pagoda but the monks require those lodging there to learn an ancient script, Pali, which is useless outside the religion. Para rebelled and now lives underneath a one-bedroom traditional raised house with no bathroom or electricity.
We bought him a hammock and supports, a mosquito net, clothes, food, books. Para's English has improved dramatically as he spends time with us each day learning our language. He and Sovann came to the hotel yesterday and although I was cautious that these two young men were not going to attract criticism from other guests, hotel staff actually welcomed them and told them in their own language how lucky they were. As we sat beside the pool with our grammar book, trying to work out whether "A lot of employees is good" or "A lot of employees are good" the scene looked so incongruous among those Europeans and Japanese who lay in the sun getting browner while these skinny dark happy young men talked about how they feel bad because their skin is not beautiful, like white man.
And I guess that's a part of what I like here. The usual ways of judging people just don't work - at least, a lot of the behaviour and attitudes we have in Australia look so different here. Everyone lolls against each other, people touch all the time, smiles are almost a permanent feature of their faces. You can spit and nobody notices. You can wear any combination of clothing and, again, nobody notices. The standards for acceptance are a soft voice, smiles, kind words, handshakes, a bowing with hands clasped together and the head slightly bowed. The hotel staff have got to know me and always make a point of singling me out to ask about the day. I use the few Khmer words I know and their faces light up. The appreciate gentle men and women who meet their eyes and smile.
Now, it's time for my tuk-tuk driver to return. He's been waiting for an hour (at about 50 cents an hour) ready to take me back to the hotel where Janet is giving an English lesson to some unsuspecting barman. As I walked in, I was offered the usual massage price list - $8 for an hour seems reasonable and not a bad way to spend this Christmas Eve afternoon before we dress for dinner tonight at the hotel for their $18 Christmas Eve Special Dinner. Dressing for dinner means replacing lighter-coloured thongs with darker flip-flops and trying to encourage the Japanese teenagers not to wear T-shirts in the dining room that read "I think I will flick" you. Actually, the front message made Madame blush under her rather beautiful tan and quite blonde hair. "Would you like to look like that?" I asked. She was torn, I could tell.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Hello to everyone from Seam Reap .
Two days ago we visited Geraldine at the Orphanage. The place has a wonderful relaxed feel to it. We again met Michael who has been there for over a year - his visa will last until next April. He is desperately trying to adopt a little Khmer boy of eighteen months, but because of the constitution of the Sunrise Children's Village, this is proving very difficult. The little boy's parents both died of AIDS and he has no other relatives, so it seems to be very much a case of a rule to be broken. The two of them have a wonderful rapport. The staff at the orphanage were so afraid of contracting the disease that when he was born they would not pick him up without masks and gloves, but Michael had no such worries, and perhaps for that reason, the two of them have such a bond. The wonderful news was that, although the baby had the AIDs antibodies, he does not have the disease.
The kitchen, to which so many people contributed so generously has been designed and will be installed early in the New Year.
Richard has taken some wonderful movies of the children, and hopefully he will find out how to put these on the blog, or send them out through the internet. All that is beyond this technophobe firmly stuck in the eighteenth century.
The orphanage has expanded since we were here, and more than twenty new children have been taken in. Although Geraldine's policy is that she does not accept disabled children, this has been bent a bit, and a little girl which a disease which renders her bones very fragile has been included. I will have to ask Richard for the technical term for this. A bone breaks, and so she has to have an operation to insert a pin or plate, and lives her life in a wheelchair.
Geraldine invited us to lunch with the children, and then later, for afternoon tea in her own home. It is a beautiful teak Khmer house, donated to her by Han Sen in recognition of her work with Cambodian orphans. It is constructed above a very shallow lake, so from the verandah which runs all the way round the house, there is a magnificent view in every direction. There are no windows or screens, - instead there are shutters. Geraldine is very much at home there, and it is decorated in true Asian style which is so effective, and in her words - "They will have to carry me out of here."
I asked about rats and mice, (nobody knows about my phobia), and she said that yes there are mice, and pulled out a Buddhist mouse trap. It is a plate with a special type of glue. The mouse runs over it and becomes stuck, then in true Buddhist style, the mouse is extracted the next morning and sent on its way back to the field.
Michael said that the only disadvantage of Buddhism in his mind is that, as they believe in reincarnation, anyone who is disabled is thought of as being punished for their sins in a previous life.
Cambodia seems to have progressed a great deal in the year since we were here. I don't know if part of this impression is because I am becoming more used to the Asian way, but I am sure there is less garbage in the streets than there was - though to our eyes there is still a lot. Seam Reap is in the middle of a land boom. More and more 5 star hotels are being built to cater for the increasing tourist numbers. Because catering is so labour intensive - particularly here, where it seems that there is at least a member of staff for every guest, there has to be a trickle down effect. English is of paramount importance, and as staff go up the scale their English has to be so much better.
Our very best wishes for Christmas and New Year, and we will write again next time from Vietnam.
Janet
Two days ago we visited Geraldine at the Orphanage. The place has a wonderful relaxed feel to it. We again met Michael who has been there for over a year - his visa will last until next April. He is desperately trying to adopt a little Khmer boy of eighteen months, but because of the constitution of the Sunrise Children's Village, this is proving very difficult. The little boy's parents both died of AIDS and he has no other relatives, so it seems to be very much a case of a rule to be broken. The two of them have a wonderful rapport. The staff at the orphanage were so afraid of contracting the disease that when he was born they would not pick him up without masks and gloves, but Michael had no such worries, and perhaps for that reason, the two of them have such a bond. The wonderful news was that, although the baby had the AIDs antibodies, he does not have the disease.
The kitchen, to which so many people contributed so generously has been designed and will be installed early in the New Year.
Richard has taken some wonderful movies of the children, and hopefully he will find out how to put these on the blog, or send them out through the internet. All that is beyond this technophobe firmly stuck in the eighteenth century.
The orphanage has expanded since we were here, and more than twenty new children have been taken in. Although Geraldine's policy is that she does not accept disabled children, this has been bent a bit, and a little girl which a disease which renders her bones very fragile has been included. I will have to ask Richard for the technical term for this. A bone breaks, and so she has to have an operation to insert a pin or plate, and lives her life in a wheelchair.
Geraldine invited us to lunch with the children, and then later, for afternoon tea in her own home. It is a beautiful teak Khmer house, donated to her by Han Sen in recognition of her work with Cambodian orphans. It is constructed above a very shallow lake, so from the verandah which runs all the way round the house, there is a magnificent view in every direction. There are no windows or screens, - instead there are shutters. Geraldine is very much at home there, and it is decorated in true Asian style which is so effective, and in her words - "They will have to carry me out of here."
I asked about rats and mice, (nobody knows about my phobia), and she said that yes there are mice, and pulled out a Buddhist mouse trap. It is a plate with a special type of glue. The mouse runs over it and becomes stuck, then in true Buddhist style, the mouse is extracted the next morning and sent on its way back to the field.
Michael said that the only disadvantage of Buddhism in his mind is that, as they believe in reincarnation, anyone who is disabled is thought of as being punished for their sins in a previous life.
Cambodia seems to have progressed a great deal in the year since we were here. I don't know if part of this impression is because I am becoming more used to the Asian way, but I am sure there is less garbage in the streets than there was - though to our eyes there is still a lot. Seam Reap is in the middle of a land boom. More and more 5 star hotels are being built to cater for the increasing tourist numbers. Because catering is so labour intensive - particularly here, where it seems that there is at least a member of staff for every guest, there has to be a trickle down effect. English is of paramount importance, and as staff go up the scale their English has to be so much better.
Our very best wishes for Christmas and New Year, and we will write again next time from Vietnam.
Janet
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Phnom Penh - Wednesday. We are flying out of this fascinating city in a few hours' time, bound for Siem Reap. Para, whom I am sponsoring for English lessons, came down by bus, a dusty five-hour ride, but we are flying him back with us - his first time on an airplane. He's had a great time and is loaded with grammar books and readers, all so unbelievably cheap. A huge Khmer-English dictionary, hard-cover, about 4" thick and put out by Oxford, is $21. Books we use for teaching English that I have bought in Brisbane for $47, are $7 here. Not photocopied but original. Dozens of high quality books on grammar for $2! Power-saving fluorescent globes are 80 cents, a new desklight was $3. Why? Surely taxes and freight to Australia cannot be that much.
Janet is going to write about the orphanage when she can put down her reading material. She has just devoured book after book on this journey but has also seen the sights. Strangely, I've not done all the "sights" that the guidebooks dictate MUST be seen. I like wandering, shopping at the markets, getting lost, meeting the locals. I always feel as if I am going to return in the near future and maybe see the sights then.
Last night at The Sugar Plum, an up-market, authentic Khmer restaurant, 200 m from this outstandingly beautiful guest house, inbetween the Khmer grilled fish with soy beans and the shredded beef in ginger, the city was plunged into darkness. Maybe it was the gin and tonics or just that we are becoming so laid back, but we toasted yet another facit of Phnom Penh. Same thing this morning in the middle of retrieving emails.
Janet has some wonderful tales of her discoveries and seeing Geraldine Cox out at the orphanage and for dinner on Monday night. Geraldine hates the hair-raising drive from the orphanage into the city, a distance of 15 kms, and says she has to have sufficient gin and tonics to give her courage to drive back home. Her jokes and stories were strong enough for Para and his 24-year old uncle, Mao, not to be understood but to leave Janet spluttering with embarrassment.
Siem Reap in a few hours and we'll be there for Christmas Day, which the Khmer think is our New Year festivity. Luckily we'll be in Vietnam by then so we don't have to explain why we celebrate it all again a week later.
Janet is going to write about the orphanage when she can put down her reading material. She has just devoured book after book on this journey but has also seen the sights. Strangely, I've not done all the "sights" that the guidebooks dictate MUST be seen. I like wandering, shopping at the markets, getting lost, meeting the locals. I always feel as if I am going to return in the near future and maybe see the sights then.
Last night at The Sugar Plum, an up-market, authentic Khmer restaurant, 200 m from this outstandingly beautiful guest house, inbetween the Khmer grilled fish with soy beans and the shredded beef in ginger, the city was plunged into darkness. Maybe it was the gin and tonics or just that we are becoming so laid back, but we toasted yet another facit of Phnom Penh. Same thing this morning in the middle of retrieving emails.
Janet has some wonderful tales of her discoveries and seeing Geraldine Cox out at the orphanage and for dinner on Monday night. Geraldine hates the hair-raising drive from the orphanage into the city, a distance of 15 kms, and says she has to have sufficient gin and tonics to give her courage to drive back home. Her jokes and stories were strong enough for Para and his 24-year old uncle, Mao, not to be understood but to leave Janet spluttering with embarrassment.
Siem Reap in a few hours and we'll be there for Christmas Day, which the Khmer think is our New Year festivity. Luckily we'll be in Vietnam by then so we don't have to explain why we celebrate it all again a week later.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Somewhere there is a posting from Phnom Penh floating in the i-ether. Here's the second attempt.
The Pavilion is a beautiful old French mansion next to the Royal Palace. Floodlit tropical gardens and long pool, continuous food supply next to the pool in an open counter (but with Western prices) and a wonderful feeling to the whole experience. A verandah with table and chairs overlooking a pagoda, a third bed and lounge area are available for $US80 (ask for Room 15). Pretty well sheltered from the local noise and hustle, I came to regard it as an oasis in a city in which road rules do not exist, garbage is everywhere and probably the nicest people on earth exist.
Certainly, this is true of Para and his 23-year old uncle, Jake. They have been like mischievous chipmunks. No wonder Janet fled to the temples and palaces to get her fill while I took the boys downtown and bought some English textbooks at prices that were rock-bottom.
Phnom Penh's tuk-tuk drivers have a complete disdain for personal safety (and that of their passengers), making U-turns into the face of traffic thundering along 4 lanes straight for us. Unbelievably, the tuk-tuk driver then decides the centre lane of this oncoming wall of traffic belongs to him and what looks like certain death becomes exhilarating as the traffic parts, cruising past us on both sides and regrouping. Tired of living, the tuk-tuk driver then decides that a road he has past on his right, or left, is where he should be so, with no warning, we turn to be at right angles to traffic from both directions and present such a resentment to the swarms in every direction that you can only throw your hands and fate to the winds, hoping for a quick death and not be made into new road surface material.
Tomorrow, it's to Geraldine's orphanage if we can get the driver we were told knows the way so far out of town. His phone was not answering tonight, but who cares, nobody seems to worry about anything in this tropical steam, punctuated with ice-cold drinks, swims in the pool, beautiful smiles, sadder and more beautiful eyes than Arctic sea pups, and all set into a backdrop of golden temples, exquisite women, garbage overflows, tooting traffic, a constant carpet of motorbikes and strange vehicles pushed by thin Khmer survivors. It's a city I adore. Para and uncle Jake hold on to me as if I were being escorted back to the shock therapy room, laughing at my discomfort. Janet has them convinced she's a person of great importance as they respectfully bow before her and shake her hand. She has the theatrical presence suggesting she's quite used to this behaviour, even in Australia.
The Pavilion is a beautiful old French mansion next to the Royal Palace. Floodlit tropical gardens and long pool, continuous food supply next to the pool in an open counter (but with Western prices) and a wonderful feeling to the whole experience. A verandah with table and chairs overlooking a pagoda, a third bed and lounge area are available for $US80 (ask for Room 15). Pretty well sheltered from the local noise and hustle, I came to regard it as an oasis in a city in which road rules do not exist, garbage is everywhere and probably the nicest people on earth exist.
Certainly, this is true of Para and his 23-year old uncle, Jake. They have been like mischievous chipmunks. No wonder Janet fled to the temples and palaces to get her fill while I took the boys downtown and bought some English textbooks at prices that were rock-bottom.
Phnom Penh's tuk-tuk drivers have a complete disdain for personal safety (and that of their passengers), making U-turns into the face of traffic thundering along 4 lanes straight for us. Unbelievably, the tuk-tuk driver then decides the centre lane of this oncoming wall of traffic belongs to him and what looks like certain death becomes exhilarating as the traffic parts, cruising past us on both sides and regrouping. Tired of living, the tuk-tuk driver then decides that a road he has past on his right, or left, is where he should be so, with no warning, we turn to be at right angles to traffic from both directions and present such a resentment to the swarms in every direction that you can only throw your hands and fate to the winds, hoping for a quick death and not be made into new road surface material.
Tomorrow, it's to Geraldine's orphanage if we can get the driver we were told knows the way so far out of town. His phone was not answering tonight, but who cares, nobody seems to worry about anything in this tropical steam, punctuated with ice-cold drinks, swims in the pool, beautiful smiles, sadder and more beautiful eyes than Arctic sea pups, and all set into a backdrop of golden temples, exquisite women, garbage overflows, tooting traffic, a constant carpet of motorbikes and strange vehicles pushed by thin Khmer survivors. It's a city I adore. Para and uncle Jake hold on to me as if I were being escorted back to the shock therapy room, laughing at my discomfort. Janet has them convinced she's a person of great importance as they respectfully bow before her and shake her hand. She has the theatrical presence suggesting she's quite used to this behaviour, even in Australia.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
We left Penang with some regrets. Despite the rats in the open deep gutters, sometimes covered with grilles, Janet actually enjoyed the discoveries: not knowing what she was going to find as she wandered around the streets of Georgetown. Her happiness today was so evident - the pink opalescent toenails, the two new pairs of sandals, the colourful bag, the new Tissot watch... this lady opened the purse a fraction of an inch and never lost consciousness for a moment. Tonight, in Kuala Lumpur, she even bought yet another book. That makes about 25 we carry with us.
It's a short flight of 50 minutes from Penang to KL's commuter airport (we'll actually use it on Saturday when we fly to Cambodia) but the drive into the city took twice as long as we were in the air. I'm intrigued by the captain's messages in flight. Today, I'd swear he read a long bedtime story in Malay to the passengers, then switched to English to say, "Welcome aboard. We will be arriving in Kuala Lumpur soon. Thank you for flying Air Asia." What about a bedtime story for English-speaking passengers?
Lots of Islamic people here and lots of Christmas carols playing in the shopping malls and hotels. Why did they stop playing carols in Adelaide? Because the Islamic people were likely to take offence. Well, not here in the heart of Islamic country.
Petronius Towers during the day look as if they are made from stainless steel but at night they are pure, mysterious, fascinating, wonderful architectural gems in silver and lights. Janet was over-awed. I didn't look long because I want to film them tomorrow night and see it all afresh, getting the emotion just right.
And now, I'm sorry we are staying here only 48 hours, there's so much to see and the people are, in the main, better looking and far more prosperous than in Penang. Fewer Chinese, it seems, and more Malays. The Indians don't like the Malays, I'm told, but the Indians are in the minority here and run food outlets and drive taxis. I should learn Malay, so much of the language is a corruption of English so it's generally not hard to see what they are saying. The dictionary, for example, is Malaya to Eenglishe, or something like that. Janet and I love language and want to try to speak words in the local tongue but that will mean, in the next few weeks, Vietnamese, Thai, Malay and Cambodian and maybe Lao. I love the sounds of these languages; to me they mimic water lapping against the side of a rowboat.
It is said that one of life's most romantic moments is to have a lover talk to you in their native language, where you don't understand the words, just hear the sounds. And in this journey, I've embraced the lap-lap of watery syllables I'll never comprehend. I just close my eyes, even smile to myself as I am slowly led into new territory.
It's a short flight of 50 minutes from Penang to KL's commuter airport (we'll actually use it on Saturday when we fly to Cambodia) but the drive into the city took twice as long as we were in the air. I'm intrigued by the captain's messages in flight. Today, I'd swear he read a long bedtime story in Malay to the passengers, then switched to English to say, "Welcome aboard. We will be arriving in Kuala Lumpur soon. Thank you for flying Air Asia." What about a bedtime story for English-speaking passengers?
Lots of Islamic people here and lots of Christmas carols playing in the shopping malls and hotels. Why did they stop playing carols in Adelaide? Because the Islamic people were likely to take offence. Well, not here in the heart of Islamic country.
Petronius Towers during the day look as if they are made from stainless steel but at night they are pure, mysterious, fascinating, wonderful architectural gems in silver and lights. Janet was over-awed. I didn't look long because I want to film them tomorrow night and see it all afresh, getting the emotion just right.
And now, I'm sorry we are staying here only 48 hours, there's so much to see and the people are, in the main, better looking and far more prosperous than in Penang. Fewer Chinese, it seems, and more Malays. The Indians don't like the Malays, I'm told, but the Indians are in the minority here and run food outlets and drive taxis. I should learn Malay, so much of the language is a corruption of English so it's generally not hard to see what they are saying. The dictionary, for example, is Malaya to Eenglishe, or something like that. Janet and I love language and want to try to speak words in the local tongue but that will mean, in the next few weeks, Vietnamese, Thai, Malay and Cambodian and maybe Lao. I love the sounds of these languages; to me they mimic water lapping against the side of a rowboat.
It is said that one of life's most romantic moments is to have a lover talk to you in their native language, where you don't understand the words, just hear the sounds. And in this journey, I've embraced the lap-lap of watery syllables I'll never comprehend. I just close my eyes, even smile to myself as I am slowly led into new territory.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Hello from me Janet for the first time but not the last.
What amazing families we heard about today. The Khoo family of Penang. They are a Chinese family into their 43rd generation. Their wealth, influence over the whole world, and educational achievements are legendary. Their personal temple was destroyed by the Japanese in World War II, but has been completely re-built, slightly different from the original one to appease the spirits.
Every Khoo who travelled overseas and obtained a university degree is commemorated on a golden plaque in a special part of the temple. Many of them studied to become barristers, doctors, businessmen, scientists, musicians, etc, in London, Australia, Singapore, New Zealand and USA.
On their death a gold plaque is inserted behind glass in the memorial. Oldest generations at the back, and the younger ones on steps towards the front.
Their private temple is guarded by two stylised stone lions, one a female with a lion cub, and the other a male holding a rod between his paws. on which are the Chinese coins. The amazing thing is that each lion has a completely spherical granite ball in its mouth, the size of an orange. As the ball is larger than the mouth opening it had been carved inside the almost-closed mouth, through the narrow slit between the jaws. The whole mouth cavity had been carved out from between the clenched jaws!
Beyond the lions are two more statues before the entry to the temple. One is of a rich man who is happy, and the other of a poor man who is not. The Chinese really appreciate wealth. Behind the happy rich man are coins inserted into the wall.
The second family is much more recent and it is the family of Cheong Fatt Tze, who died in 1916. On his death, he was so highly thought of that the Dutch and British authorities ordered that flags be flown at half mast. He arrived penniless from Guandong province in China at the age of 16. He was eight years old before he could speak and today would probably be described as intellectually challenged. However he went on to create a huge commercial empire and built one of his many homes in Penang. It was his favourite and where he felt at home. It is called the blue house because he was a dealer in indigo which he purchased from India and so he painted his palatial house blue. The house has 38 rooms, 5 courtyards, 7 staircases and 220 windows. The plumbing for the rain water is a fascinating study. It was collected from the room, then into guttering, from their into pipes and so into the courtyards, which it cooled the whole house by running under the floors from the lower portion of the courtyards. The water as it dries rises through the walls and is evaporated by the sun on the walls, again giving a cooling effect. For this reason no modern acrylic or oil paints can be used, because they would peel, so the house remains today still treated with the indigo which allows for this cooling mechanism. In the same way as colonial homes in Australia, the doors have carved openings in a semicircle above the doors for the cross ventilation of the house.
He appears to have designed the house to make it unsaleable because he wanted it to be kept in the family. He therefore built a row of five houses opposite it, which in fact overlook it, a feature not liked by the Chinese. Incorporated into the house are many features from Europe, for example the windows have some beautiful blue lead lights and the floors are tiled with ceramic tiles in a complex pattern bought from Stoke-on-Trent in England.
Towards the end of his life he wanted to go to a meeting in New York. He was travelling with a German friend and two other Chinese business men. Back came the tickets, one first class for the German and three second class for himself and his two Chinese friends. He out-manouevred those who insulted him by creating a new shipping line with first class service for everyone and undercut the opposition by 50%. The original shipping line conceded defeat and thereafter gave him first class tickets and also made them available to all nationalities. A good story in the year 1914.
KL tomorrow. Goodbye from Janet and Penang and Richard.
What amazing families we heard about today. The Khoo family of Penang. They are a Chinese family into their 43rd generation. Their wealth, influence over the whole world, and educational achievements are legendary. Their personal temple was destroyed by the Japanese in World War II, but has been completely re-built, slightly different from the original one to appease the spirits.
Every Khoo who travelled overseas and obtained a university degree is commemorated on a golden plaque in a special part of the temple. Many of them studied to become barristers, doctors, businessmen, scientists, musicians, etc, in London, Australia, Singapore, New Zealand and USA.
On their death a gold plaque is inserted behind glass in the memorial. Oldest generations at the back, and the younger ones on steps towards the front.
Their private temple is guarded by two stylised stone lions, one a female with a lion cub, and the other a male holding a rod between his paws. on which are the Chinese coins. The amazing thing is that each lion has a completely spherical granite ball in its mouth, the size of an orange. As the ball is larger than the mouth opening it had been carved inside the almost-closed mouth, through the narrow slit between the jaws. The whole mouth cavity had been carved out from between the clenched jaws!
Beyond the lions are two more statues before the entry to the temple. One is of a rich man who is happy, and the other of a poor man who is not. The Chinese really appreciate wealth. Behind the happy rich man are coins inserted into the wall.
The second family is much more recent and it is the family of Cheong Fatt Tze, who died in 1916. On his death, he was so highly thought of that the Dutch and British authorities ordered that flags be flown at half mast. He arrived penniless from Guandong province in China at the age of 16. He was eight years old before he could speak and today would probably be described as intellectually challenged. However he went on to create a huge commercial empire and built one of his many homes in Penang. It was his favourite and where he felt at home. It is called the blue house because he was a dealer in indigo which he purchased from India and so he painted his palatial house blue. The house has 38 rooms, 5 courtyards, 7 staircases and 220 windows. The plumbing for the rain water is a fascinating study. It was collected from the room, then into guttering, from their into pipes and so into the courtyards, which it cooled the whole house by running under the floors from the lower portion of the courtyards. The water as it dries rises through the walls and is evaporated by the sun on the walls, again giving a cooling effect. For this reason no modern acrylic or oil paints can be used, because they would peel, so the house remains today still treated with the indigo which allows for this cooling mechanism. In the same way as colonial homes in Australia, the doors have carved openings in a semicircle above the doors for the cross ventilation of the house.
He appears to have designed the house to make it unsaleable because he wanted it to be kept in the family. He therefore built a row of five houses opposite it, which in fact overlook it, a feature not liked by the Chinese. Incorporated into the house are many features from Europe, for example the windows have some beautiful blue lead lights and the floors are tiled with ceramic tiles in a complex pattern bought from Stoke-on-Trent in England.
Towards the end of his life he wanted to go to a meeting in New York. He was travelling with a German friend and two other Chinese business men. Back came the tickets, one first class for the German and three second class for himself and his two Chinese friends. He out-manouevred those who insulted him by creating a new shipping line with first class service for everyone and undercut the opposition by 50%. The original shipping line conceded defeat and thereafter gave him first class tickets and also made them available to all nationalities. A good story in the year 1914.
KL tomorrow. Goodbye from Janet and Penang and Richard.
Bye-Bye Penang, We'll come back sometime. Today was better and we found the locals more friendly. Janet's new pink opalescent toenails were a hit on Penang Road and in our two-hour rickshaw ride, people stopped to admire her feet. Naturally, that required buying two pairs of shoes and, as we were in a shopping plaza, Janet bought a new Tissot watch. I bought her a colourful cloth bag and she has been so happy.
The watch people said they could spot my fake Tag Heuer from across the showroom floor. God, I thought, they'd say anything to get customers to buy a watch from them. I almost fell into the trap of buying a new watch except that we will be in Cambodia on Saturday and I'm likely to lose an arm in the streets if I have a genuine Tag Heuer watch.
Today, as I have said, was the rickshaw ride. This old Indian pedalled behind us, imitating Peter Sellers, and telling us of the stroke he suffered and his slow rehabilitation. He wandered all over the road, missing lamp-posts and buses coming straight for us, oblivious to Janet and me clutching each other and becoming all religious. He said that he had the right of way. At that point, Janet just turned and stared at me.
He took us to some amazing Chinese temples, ancient waterfront houses, places of interest we would never have found and, at the end, stood silent with his hand out. How much, I asked. Whatever Sir thinks it was worth. Janet again turned and stared at me. Finally, he cycled off, richer by $US33, still cursing the Malays who get so many handouts from the Malaysian Government but none for the Indians.
I had lunch - Chicken fillet Gordon Brew - and later some Chinese sweet and sour. Tonight we had dinner at the open market place where the total cost was $US4.54 plus two bottles of beer. Janet drinks from the bottle - some childhood habit she's never overcome. Then the night market lost its electricity supply and we called it quits, but the music in the streets continues. On Friday and Saturday, it stops at 3 am. At the moment, just after 11 pm, at least four musical events are competing for attention - same every night we've been here. Oh, who cares?
Now, to get ready for our departure after breakfast. Penang used to be the capital of Malaysia but since the 1950's it has been Kuala Lumpur, home to the Petronios Towers, recently considered to be the world's tallest building. The flight is only a matter of dollars and our hotel will be post-Kremlin style until we fly out on Saturday for Cambodia and to meet up with Para, the 18-year old schoolkid who met us at Angkor Wat in January, and who is travelling down from Siem Reap to greet us at the airport. Para has adopted me since his father died this year from liver cancer, leaving his little ricefield, a wife and four children to battle on their own. Almost daily emails through this year have encouraged Janet and me to try to do something to help and, of course, there's Geraldine, whom we will be seeing next Monday. Bring Para, she said, and we'll have lunch together with the kids.
Janet is going to write the next blog. She's going to talk about the amazing blue-indigo Cheong Fatt Tze mansion here in Georgetown, Penang, and the equally amazing Khoo dynasty which has put descendants into power all over the globe.
The watch people said they could spot my fake Tag Heuer from across the showroom floor. God, I thought, they'd say anything to get customers to buy a watch from them. I almost fell into the trap of buying a new watch except that we will be in Cambodia on Saturday and I'm likely to lose an arm in the streets if I have a genuine Tag Heuer watch.
Today, as I have said, was the rickshaw ride. This old Indian pedalled behind us, imitating Peter Sellers, and telling us of the stroke he suffered and his slow rehabilitation. He wandered all over the road, missing lamp-posts and buses coming straight for us, oblivious to Janet and me clutching each other and becoming all religious. He said that he had the right of way. At that point, Janet just turned and stared at me.
He took us to some amazing Chinese temples, ancient waterfront houses, places of interest we would never have found and, at the end, stood silent with his hand out. How much, I asked. Whatever Sir thinks it was worth. Janet again turned and stared at me. Finally, he cycled off, richer by $US33, still cursing the Malays who get so many handouts from the Malaysian Government but none for the Indians.
I had lunch - Chicken fillet Gordon Brew - and later some Chinese sweet and sour. Tonight we had dinner at the open market place where the total cost was $US4.54 plus two bottles of beer. Janet drinks from the bottle - some childhood habit she's never overcome. Then the night market lost its electricity supply and we called it quits, but the music in the streets continues. On Friday and Saturday, it stops at 3 am. At the moment, just after 11 pm, at least four musical events are competing for attention - same every night we've been here. Oh, who cares?
Now, to get ready for our departure after breakfast. Penang used to be the capital of Malaysia but since the 1950's it has been Kuala Lumpur, home to the Petronios Towers, recently considered to be the world's tallest building. The flight is only a matter of dollars and our hotel will be post-Kremlin style until we fly out on Saturday for Cambodia and to meet up with Para, the 18-year old schoolkid who met us at Angkor Wat in January, and who is travelling down from Siem Reap to greet us at the airport. Para has adopted me since his father died this year from liver cancer, leaving his little ricefield, a wife and four children to battle on their own. Almost daily emails through this year have encouraged Janet and me to try to do something to help and, of course, there's Geraldine, whom we will be seeing next Monday. Bring Para, she said, and we'll have lunch together with the kids.
Janet is going to write the next blog. She's going to talk about the amazing blue-indigo Cheong Fatt Tze mansion here in Georgetown, Penang, and the equally amazing Khoo dynasty which has put descendants into power all over the globe.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
I think I know what's wrong: I'm missing the Thais. The pollution, the rubbish in the streets, the traffic jams, the whole disorganized mess - it never mattered to me because the people were just beautiful. They would catch your eye and instantly give a smile brighter than Hollywood could manufacture. I remember having dinner outdoors at Lumpini Park in Bangkok. This is a night market but it has some great permanent restaurants with classy decor. Not exactly champagne ice buckets but not far from it. Janet and I were being served by some Thai kids, probably college students working at nights at this restaurant when two big German tourists wandered in. The Thais were so sweet and waied respectfully, however the tourists looked around, ignored the Thais who were offering peace and respect (as you do when you wai someone), gave a look as if they were being invited to inspect garbage and moved their big hulks out of there. One of the Thai girls twisted around to face us, put her hand up to her mouth and giggled. That's how they cope - they try to find delight in this world, and that's what I miss for the people of Penang I've passed by, do not engage with us in any way. We don't exist and we don't relate and we don't matter. Somehow, I feel it more on this visit to the East. Maybe we'll get it back in Cambodia and Vietnam in coming weeks.
Penang is a great island but inhabited by Thais, it is not. About 65% of the population are Chinese, the remainder is then mainly Malays but a healthy percentage are from India. Malaysian schoolchildren have to learn three languages: Mandarin, Malay and English. Malay is not so hard, many words are just a corruption of their English equivalents. For example, you hail a teksi from your hotel and you avoid the polis because 90% of them are supposedly corrupt. I'm sitting in my hotel room underneath an arrow nailed to the ceiling above me. This is where the translation fails me for it says OIBLAT - possibly obligation - for it points to Mecca so Islamic guests know where to face during their daily prayer sessions. My carton of fruit drink has zero kolesterol but 25 g of karbohidrat.
Today, we went by a small tourist bus to various temples, buddhas, pagodas and indeterminate places of worship. I loved the monks chanting, the temple gongs, the joss stick smells and the overall richness, but I was more impressed by nature's display from the top of Penang Peak, some 650 metres up and cloud-shrouded. This cool tropical garden is reached by funicular rail, the trip taking 30 minutes. We are watched by monkeys in the jungle trees as we ascend to the vantage points where much of Penang lies beneath. That was some view!
The minibus driver, the other male passenger (an Indian who has lived in Massachusetts for 30 years) and I were the three men in this bus today. All of us Type II diabetics. The Indian family were delightful people and they had their 25-year old daughter with them. She's a twin, the one suffering from cerebral palsy; the other daughter is doing her Master's at university.
Later, Janet and I went shopping together for some new feet. We found a pedicure shop at an up-market centre where there were basically only rich Chinese wandering around, all talking to each other on their mobile phones. For the first time in her life, Janet had a pedicure treatment that lasted for 90 minutes, topped off by having her toenails painted pearl pink. She must have checked how beautiful her feet looked every 10 paces for the rest of the night.
Having survived the double rat drama yesterday, Janet is now ready for the butterfly farm tomorrow, the pedicure girls assuring her that the insects do not actually bite. Nevertheless, Janet is so jumpy that anything bigger than a postage stamp will startle her if it moves suddenly or creates a sharp sound. Try it when you next see her.
Penang is a great island but inhabited by Thais, it is not. About 65% of the population are Chinese, the remainder is then mainly Malays but a healthy percentage are from India. Malaysian schoolchildren have to learn three languages: Mandarin, Malay and English. Malay is not so hard, many words are just a corruption of their English equivalents. For example, you hail a teksi from your hotel and you avoid the polis because 90% of them are supposedly corrupt. I'm sitting in my hotel room underneath an arrow nailed to the ceiling above me. This is where the translation fails me for it says OIBLAT - possibly obligation - for it points to Mecca so Islamic guests know where to face during their daily prayer sessions. My carton of fruit drink has zero kolesterol but 25 g of karbohidrat.
Today, we went by a small tourist bus to various temples, buddhas, pagodas and indeterminate places of worship. I loved the monks chanting, the temple gongs, the joss stick smells and the overall richness, but I was more impressed by nature's display from the top of Penang Peak, some 650 metres up and cloud-shrouded. This cool tropical garden is reached by funicular rail, the trip taking 30 minutes. We are watched by monkeys in the jungle trees as we ascend to the vantage points where much of Penang lies beneath. That was some view!
The minibus driver, the other male passenger (an Indian who has lived in Massachusetts for 30 years) and I were the three men in this bus today. All of us Type II diabetics. The Indian family were delightful people and they had their 25-year old daughter with them. She's a twin, the one suffering from cerebral palsy; the other daughter is doing her Master's at university.
Later, Janet and I went shopping together for some new feet. We found a pedicure shop at an up-market centre where there were basically only rich Chinese wandering around, all talking to each other on their mobile phones. For the first time in her life, Janet had a pedicure treatment that lasted for 90 minutes, topped off by having her toenails painted pearl pink. She must have checked how beautiful her feet looked every 10 paces for the rest of the night.
Having survived the double rat drama yesterday, Janet is now ready for the butterfly farm tomorrow, the pedicure girls assuring her that the insects do not actually bite. Nevertheless, Janet is so jumpy that anything bigger than a postage stamp will startle her if it moves suddenly or creates a sharp sound. Try it when you next see her.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Penang, Monday - We arrived yesterday at this very pleasant island, once an English outpost and a stone's throw from Butterworth airfield on the Malaysian mainland. It's another currency and another electrical connection, this time they copy the British three-pin. Someone in Customs is going to query how much electrical wiring, plugs and connections I have to carry around.
I was sad to leave Bangkok with its familiarity and lovely people, always ready to smile and always trying to avoid offending. Here, in Malaysia, the predominant ethnic group appears to be Indians and quite a lot of Islamic people. Janet is not too impressed by the Indians, two of whom ran the first hotel we stayed in here.
It is billed as a heritage site and I booked as far back as May, 2007. It was the home of a famous scholar and administrator over a 100 years ago. I had visions of a large room with dark polished floor, lazy ceiling fans, shuttered windows, teak everywhere, maybe even mosquito netting. Instead, we were shown a closet with two thin beds pressed tight together, no room to open a suitcase and the toilet only inches from the beds where one was to sit on the toilet to use the primitive hose shower. All this for RM100 (3.25 RM to the American dollar) a day. Janet was so tired (we were up at 4.30 am) that we agreed but while she slept I booked us in at a modern hotel opposite and later I negotiated to pay part of the booking. This is how a two-star hotel appeared to us as a five-star hotel by comparison.
The Malaysian Hotel, from our 8th floor window, looks out over Georgetown and the strait between us and the Malaysian mainland. It's a stupendous view, with a separate bathroom, good beds, air-conditioning and breakfast. Despite all that, it is really an old girl now but very welcome in the circumstances.
Janet's phobia for rats and mice, which I presume is well-known for she screams if she suspects a rat is anywhere within miles, was well-tested on our walk to the plaza last night, for there were rats in the streets. Janet's scream was so piercing and chilling that several rickshaw drivers upended their passengers in alarm. Luckily, Janet only saw two large rats but there were more. Now, she says she will not be comfortable at the Butterfly Farm in case one alights on her skin. This British lady reduces me to tears of laughter, unfortunately, with these reactions to tiny furry creatures, even yelping at the squirrels in the parks in Taipei.
Now we are off to explore Penang during the daylight, for Janet won't venture out at night anymore (wait until she gets to Hanoi!).
I was sad to leave Bangkok with its familiarity and lovely people, always ready to smile and always trying to avoid offending. Here, in Malaysia, the predominant ethnic group appears to be Indians and quite a lot of Islamic people. Janet is not too impressed by the Indians, two of whom ran the first hotel we stayed in here.
It is billed as a heritage site and I booked as far back as May, 2007. It was the home of a famous scholar and administrator over a 100 years ago. I had visions of a large room with dark polished floor, lazy ceiling fans, shuttered windows, teak everywhere, maybe even mosquito netting. Instead, we were shown a closet with two thin beds pressed tight together, no room to open a suitcase and the toilet only inches from the beds where one was to sit on the toilet to use the primitive hose shower. All this for RM100 (3.25 RM to the American dollar) a day. Janet was so tired (we were up at 4.30 am) that we agreed but while she slept I booked us in at a modern hotel opposite and later I negotiated to pay part of the booking. This is how a two-star hotel appeared to us as a five-star hotel by comparison.
The Malaysian Hotel, from our 8th floor window, looks out over Georgetown and the strait between us and the Malaysian mainland. It's a stupendous view, with a separate bathroom, good beds, air-conditioning and breakfast. Despite all that, it is really an old girl now but very welcome in the circumstances.
Janet's phobia for rats and mice, which I presume is well-known for she screams if she suspects a rat is anywhere within miles, was well-tested on our walk to the plaza last night, for there were rats in the streets. Janet's scream was so piercing and chilling that several rickshaw drivers upended their passengers in alarm. Luckily, Janet only saw two large rats but there were more. Now, she says she will not be comfortable at the Butterfly Farm in case one alights on her skin. This British lady reduces me to tears of laughter, unfortunately, with these reactions to tiny furry creatures, even yelping at the squirrels in the parks in Taipei.
Now we are off to explore Penang during the daylight, for Janet won't venture out at night anymore (wait until she gets to Hanoi!).
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Janet has already gone out for the day. We had breakfast under the trees, as usual, with the goldfish swimming in ponds under the tables. Every morning it is the same breakfast and every morning it is a different price. We spread the two excellent English-speaking papers and while I read the news, Janet reads the stars and does the crossword. We mumble to each other over the sliced fruit slices, mandarin juice, omelettes, toast and tea. The Burmese waitress is very gentle and almost apologetic as she waits on the table.
I was reading in The Nation this morning that Burmese refugees were being very badly exploited; the author described a 14-year old girl as being the family breadwinner, working at top speed peeling prawns all day long for a wage of 100 B. That's about $3. The minimum daily wage, by law, in Thailand is 189 B. Employees at the numerous 7-11 stores earn 25 B per hour with an extra 4 B per hour at night. Taxis, as I have mentioned earlier, have a 35 B flagfall and that includes the first 2 kilometres. The price has not risen for 10 years.
You would wonder who can afford to shop at the luxurious Siam Center complex with its 800 designer shops and restaurants. It's amazing to see world-class brand names, one after the other, with rarely a customer, but someone has to be paying the rent. We had dinner there last night at the Vietnamese Pho (soup) restaurant. Big bowls of shrimp soup, a beer each and 10 spring rolls, all for 504 B ($15).
Then off to the night market to find a replacement for my sunglasses that I lost in Chiang Mai. I bought genuine Ray-Bans for $12. Well, the girl said they were genuine. Dior, Police, all the top names were there. They start off at 850 B, shown on a calculator, slowly dropping the price until you stop laughing. Lumpini Market had a great free song show and with a 90 B bottle of beer, I sat for an hour to watch, then went to have an hour-long foot massage for 250 B ($7.50). I spoke a little Thai, which pleased the masseur, and got a bonus 20 minutes of back and arm massage. A generous tip followed.
Today, we pack up all the things we won't need for the next month as we are about to depart at 5am tomorrow for Penang, Cambodia and Vietnam. I'll pick up three days' washing and ironing now (50 B) and maybe go to the markets for some cocoanut icecream. Wish you were here but the real adventure is about to start tomorrow.
I was reading in The Nation this morning that Burmese refugees were being very badly exploited; the author described a 14-year old girl as being the family breadwinner, working at top speed peeling prawns all day long for a wage of 100 B. That's about $3. The minimum daily wage, by law, in Thailand is 189 B. Employees at the numerous 7-11 stores earn 25 B per hour with an extra 4 B per hour at night. Taxis, as I have mentioned earlier, have a 35 B flagfall and that includes the first 2 kilometres. The price has not risen for 10 years.
You would wonder who can afford to shop at the luxurious Siam Center complex with its 800 designer shops and restaurants. It's amazing to see world-class brand names, one after the other, with rarely a customer, but someone has to be paying the rent. We had dinner there last night at the Vietnamese Pho (soup) restaurant. Big bowls of shrimp soup, a beer each and 10 spring rolls, all for 504 B ($15).
Then off to the night market to find a replacement for my sunglasses that I lost in Chiang Mai. I bought genuine Ray-Bans for $12. Well, the girl said they were genuine. Dior, Police, all the top names were there. They start off at 850 B, shown on a calculator, slowly dropping the price until you stop laughing. Lumpini Market had a great free song show and with a 90 B bottle of beer, I sat for an hour to watch, then went to have an hour-long foot massage for 250 B ($7.50). I spoke a little Thai, which pleased the masseur, and got a bonus 20 minutes of back and arm massage. A generous tip followed.
Today, we pack up all the things we won't need for the next month as we are about to depart at 5am tomorrow for Penang, Cambodia and Vietnam. I'll pick up three days' washing and ironing now (50 B) and maybe go to the markets for some cocoanut icecream. Wish you were here but the real adventure is about to start tomorrow.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
A quick visit to Lumpini Night Market. This is a quality night market, not your ma and pa holding a baby while cooking dead chook and a domestic pack of dogs looking on.
No, Lumpini is full of nice things and nice people. They sell quality, like the genuine Tag Heuer Cararra watch, I bought there tonight. Normally they sell at, maybe, $10,000, but I managed to bargain a seller down to $75. Janet swore I was being taken but men know these things and I was on to something hot.
However, after an incredible dinner for about $15, we kept shopping and the same watch appeared at other stalls. It was a period of great triumph for Janet as she discovered my watch could have been purchased for exactly half the price at most other places. She produced not so much a prolonged laugh but a victory bray and carried a smirk that suggested she had lost either her mind or her moral compass.
Her greatest moment of the day was when she waied (formal hands-together bow) to an 18-month old little Thai boy and he waied back to her, his fat little hands clasped together as he gave a solemn nod. After that, Janet was in heaven. The kids are so beautiful, so cute. Parents lit up when showing them to us and we smiled and talked happily with them, usually in exaggerated mime.
My saddest moment was watching from a taxi a beggar who had lost his arms. He held a plastic cup in his mouth, bobbing his head to passers-by to solicit coins. Nobody put any in, from where I could see over a line or two of traffic. Moments later, I saw a man lying on the edge of the footpath, one arm outstretched and also holding a cup for begging. Janet saw others at the markets on Sunday, one covered in scars from acid attacks, his face barely recognisable as a face and his body a mass of scar tissue, all pink and peeling as he sat haunched up in the full sun. I guess we had better get used to all this before we get to Cambodia and Vietnam, as it is full-on in those countries.
No, Lumpini is full of nice things and nice people. They sell quality, like the genuine Tag Heuer Cararra watch, I bought there tonight. Normally they sell at, maybe, $10,000, but I managed to bargain a seller down to $75. Janet swore I was being taken but men know these things and I was on to something hot.
However, after an incredible dinner for about $15, we kept shopping and the same watch appeared at other stalls. It was a period of great triumph for Janet as she discovered my watch could have been purchased for exactly half the price at most other places. She produced not so much a prolonged laugh but a victory bray and carried a smirk that suggested she had lost either her mind or her moral compass.
Her greatest moment of the day was when she waied (formal hands-together bow) to an 18-month old little Thai boy and he waied back to her, his fat little hands clasped together as he gave a solemn nod. After that, Janet was in heaven. The kids are so beautiful, so cute. Parents lit up when showing them to us and we smiled and talked happily with them, usually in exaggerated mime.
My saddest moment was watching from a taxi a beggar who had lost his arms. He held a plastic cup in his mouth, bobbing his head to passers-by to solicit coins. Nobody put any in, from where I could see over a line or two of traffic. Moments later, I saw a man lying on the edge of the footpath, one arm outstretched and also holding a cup for begging. Janet saw others at the markets on Sunday, one covered in scars from acid attacks, his face barely recognisable as a face and his body a mass of scar tissue, all pink and peeling as he sat haunched up in the full sun. I guess we had better get used to all this before we get to Cambodia and Vietnam, as it is full-on in those countries.
It's the birthday of the world's longest reigning monarch today in Bangkok. King Bhumibol was born in Massachusetts on this day in 1927, close to where his father was studying medicine at Harvard. He's the only monarch ever to be born in the USA. He is dearly beloved by the people and every day or so, when the King is mentioned, we are asked whether we love the King. There's no other answer, Yes, we say, we love the King. He is a very good man. The taxi driver or the shop assistant or the hotel clerk then settle back with a grin from ear to ear. "Yes, he lovely man."
There is genuine admiration for this wise old monarch. Without saying too much to those who upset him, he manages to settle grievances. Thakskin, for example, the Chinese-Thai political leader (now ex-) was said to have started each audience with the King kneeling on the floor with his forehead touching the carpet.
Whatever the King wears is watched slavishly by the Thais. For example, when he was discharged from hospital on 7 November after a minor stroke, he wore a pink collarless shirt with pink blazer. He revealed recently that despite being an old man, he likes to wear bright colours to remove the stuffiness of his position. On that day, he wore pink. Fully a quarter of the Thais now wear pink polo shirts, ranging from a very delicate hue, almost white, to sunburnt watermelon.
The poloneck shirt I'm wearing today has the royal crest surrounded by pink but the shirt itself is daffodil yellow, the colour for Monday, the day of the week when the King was born (you can wear purple on a Saturday to show affection for the royal dog, Tongdaeng, which was a stray, or red for the day many of the King's closest relatives were born). Yellow is the most popular colour and is especially to be worn on Mondays. The streets today are awash with yellow - it is a veritable sea of daffodils. Even Janet is wearing her yellow shirt, for to wear anything else is to suggest that you do not love the King. Nothing will be done about that, but I like to show respect to this man, as does Janet, although I heard her grumbling at breakfast under the trees this morning, something about "toadying".
Streets are blocked off and oceans of daffodils are there waving their Thai red, white and blue flags. The daily papers are collector's items and the long speech given in one of his palaces yesterday, when the King's unscripted and very detailed examination of Thailand and its position in the world was televised, was very impressive. At 80, he talked for over an hour about problems and strengths and how Thailand should approach various situations, all with a comforting sense of Buddhism by never losing perspective that we live in increasingly challenging times. He is concerned about climate change for many reasons, not the least being that Bangkok is only a metre or so above the high tide mark and has a very flat terrain.
So, what do we do today? The television is showing the routes the King will travel but the roads are blocked off. We don't want to get into the cycle of eating, sleeping and doing little else but today the public transport and streets are crowded. It's also a public holiday so much is closed.
Janet is ploughing through a book a day, the present one being written by an American woman who lived in Thailand and fell in love with the place and the people. Strangely, she writes with great humour and very palpable affection. Janet laughed aloud when she read about the pet monkey that periodically chewed through its leather strap and escaped, running around inside the house, once being found sitting on the toilet reading a comic book upside down.
Tomorrow, I pick up our visa for Vietnam and book the train journey for the last excursion we will have in Thailand in January, the colourful trip down to Hua Hin, the seaside town that was once very pretty and has the King's summer palace. It's a three-hour journey in an air-conditioned carriage. The price is about $14 return. After that, it's a day or so in Bangkok and then the flight home.
Geraldine is back in Phnom Penh and thinks we are seeing her on 15 December but we don't arrive until nightfall from Malaysia and I also don't like the idea of walking the streets to find transport or be brought home in the dark streets at night in that mysterious city. The tragedy of Pol Pot's murderous regime seems to hang over the country like a black cloud and the soldiers of Pol Pot are now middle-aged citizens, thousands with the blood of tortured countrymen still on their hands. But that's another story. Today, we are daffodils with a touch of pink.
There is genuine admiration for this wise old monarch. Without saying too much to those who upset him, he manages to settle grievances. Thakskin, for example, the Chinese-Thai political leader (now ex-) was said to have started each audience with the King kneeling on the floor with his forehead touching the carpet.
Whatever the King wears is watched slavishly by the Thais. For example, when he was discharged from hospital on 7 November after a minor stroke, he wore a pink collarless shirt with pink blazer. He revealed recently that despite being an old man, he likes to wear bright colours to remove the stuffiness of his position. On that day, he wore pink. Fully a quarter of the Thais now wear pink polo shirts, ranging from a very delicate hue, almost white, to sunburnt watermelon.
The poloneck shirt I'm wearing today has the royal crest surrounded by pink but the shirt itself is daffodil yellow, the colour for Monday, the day of the week when the King was born (you can wear purple on a Saturday to show affection for the royal dog, Tongdaeng, which was a stray, or red for the day many of the King's closest relatives were born). Yellow is the most popular colour and is especially to be worn on Mondays. The streets today are awash with yellow - it is a veritable sea of daffodils. Even Janet is wearing her yellow shirt, for to wear anything else is to suggest that you do not love the King. Nothing will be done about that, but I like to show respect to this man, as does Janet, although I heard her grumbling at breakfast under the trees this morning, something about "toadying".
Streets are blocked off and oceans of daffodils are there waving their Thai red, white and blue flags. The daily papers are collector's items and the long speech given in one of his palaces yesterday, when the King's unscripted and very detailed examination of Thailand and its position in the world was televised, was very impressive. At 80, he talked for over an hour about problems and strengths and how Thailand should approach various situations, all with a comforting sense of Buddhism by never losing perspective that we live in increasingly challenging times. He is concerned about climate change for many reasons, not the least being that Bangkok is only a metre or so above the high tide mark and has a very flat terrain.
So, what do we do today? The television is showing the routes the King will travel but the roads are blocked off. We don't want to get into the cycle of eating, sleeping and doing little else but today the public transport and streets are crowded. It's also a public holiday so much is closed.
Janet is ploughing through a book a day, the present one being written by an American woman who lived in Thailand and fell in love with the place and the people. Strangely, she writes with great humour and very palpable affection. Janet laughed aloud when she read about the pet monkey that periodically chewed through its leather strap and escaped, running around inside the house, once being found sitting on the toilet reading a comic book upside down.
Tomorrow, I pick up our visa for Vietnam and book the train journey for the last excursion we will have in Thailand in January, the colourful trip down to Hua Hin, the seaside town that was once very pretty and has the King's summer palace. It's a three-hour journey in an air-conditioned carriage. The price is about $14 return. After that, it's a day or so in Bangkok and then the flight home.
Geraldine is back in Phnom Penh and thinks we are seeing her on 15 December but we don't arrive until nightfall from Malaysia and I also don't like the idea of walking the streets to find transport or be brought home in the dark streets at night in that mysterious city. The tragedy of Pol Pot's murderous regime seems to hang over the country like a black cloud and the soldiers of Pol Pot are now middle-aged citizens, thousands with the blood of tortured countrymen still on their hands. But that's another story. Today, we are daffodils with a touch of pink.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Yesterday, we said goodbye to Chiang Mai after a great 3-day holiday there. The weather gets quite cool at night, enough for a light woollen sweater. The locals, who are so used to higher temperatures, were wearing padded jackets. Even the staff in the Indian restaurant wore jackets, one with a fur collar. The night market is very high class and well-lit but there are the cheaper night markets for $3 polo-neck T-shirts.
A quick $30 flight from CM to Bangkok, then Janet said we should catch the local bus rather than the 380 B taxi. What seemed like several hours later, we arrived at our hotel, having to come the last dozen kilometres by taxi as we had no idea where we were when the bus stopped and we were told we could get out now. Bad idea, Janet. Not that mine are better as I got lost yesterday when venturing out without a keeper or responsible adult. I didn't take much money and found that I had 50 B left and still god knows where I was.
The decorations are beautiful in the city for the King's 80th birthday bash on Wednesday. Trooping of the Colour on television last night was said to have been spectacular and it was heart-warming to see the King looking good on the front pages of the papers this morning. Breakfast for two was outrageously priced at $A6.90. We have it under the trees on tables that astride ponds of goldfish.
Today, it's housekeeping. Janet is on the internet to business people in Australia and I am trying to confirm flight details for next Sunday to Penang, but English is such a difficult language for them. I find airport very stressing, intially very sexy but quickly it becomes stressful. They take themselves so seriously with AK-47 sub-machine guns, X-rays over and over again, ridiculously long queues, pressure to have everything exactly correct and then you feel that you must mortgage your house to buy their coffee which is undrinkable. You shuffle on board, cover yourself in olive oil and squeeze into a seat built for a child and try to read, hunched over in a modified foetal position until they help you off at the other end. We have 16 flights, and that translates into many hours on the massage tables later.
A quick $30 flight from CM to Bangkok, then Janet said we should catch the local bus rather than the 380 B taxi. What seemed like several hours later, we arrived at our hotel, having to come the last dozen kilometres by taxi as we had no idea where we were when the bus stopped and we were told we could get out now. Bad idea, Janet. Not that mine are better as I got lost yesterday when venturing out without a keeper or responsible adult. I didn't take much money and found that I had 50 B left and still god knows where I was.
The decorations are beautiful in the city for the King's 80th birthday bash on Wednesday. Trooping of the Colour on television last night was said to have been spectacular and it was heart-warming to see the King looking good on the front pages of the papers this morning. Breakfast for two was outrageously priced at $A6.90. We have it under the trees on tables that astride ponds of goldfish.
Today, it's housekeeping. Janet is on the internet to business people in Australia and I am trying to confirm flight details for next Sunday to Penang, but English is such a difficult language for them. I find airport very stressing, intially very sexy but quickly it becomes stressful. They take themselves so seriously with AK-47 sub-machine guns, X-rays over and over again, ridiculously long queues, pressure to have everything exactly correct and then you feel that you must mortgage your house to buy their coffee which is undrinkable. You shuffle on board, cover yourself in olive oil and squeeze into a seat built for a child and try to read, hunched over in a modified foetal position until they help you off at the other end. We have 16 flights, and that translates into many hours on the massage tables later.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Janet is around at the massage parlour at the moment. I had an hour-long massage at 5pm after coming back from the elephants so, on my recommendation, Janet unsprawled herself from the king-size bed and moved a tonne of newspapers, books, fruit knives and magazines, and meekly went around with me a short while ago to get herself oiled up.
Today, most of our energy returned. After buying some clothes this morning, we purchased some durian fruit, ate a bit when back at the guest house and threw out the rest. It's an acquired taste, somewhat like heavy metal music, but just as unwelcome to us both.
The elephant's show was scheduled for 1:30 pm so we hired a driver and car for the afternoon for $14. It's the guest-house owner's son-in-law, and he was very patient with our dawdling with the elephants, even denying himself a sigh of exasperation when we went for a 30-minute ride on the back of an old female elephant after the show.
The path taken by the mahout was frightening and involved really steep climbs in a narrow jungle path where the mud was up to half a metre deep. The lead elephants had squashed huge footprints way down into the mud and I think our elephant just used the same footholes. The slopes were at least 30 degrees, if not more. We were in danger of sliding out of our little seats and under the safety bar, with the mahout thinking this was all wonderful fun. In fact, it was.
I practically exhausted the battery on the camera (Clem shouted me a long-life battery for the trip) and some great footage was taken, the highlights being the soccer match, the elephants doing their paintings and the intial exposure to them when they were wallowing in the nearby running river.
On the way back, our driver took us to an orchid farm and we took more pictures and talked to a Chinese photographer who spoke excellent English (self-taught, he said) who was from UN and up for the weekend from Bangkok. As light was fading, we pulled ourselves away from his interesting conversation because he had thousands of dollars worth of camera gear and professional tripod and talking instead of indulging in his hobby.
Now, Janet should be back in 30 minutes and then we'll get a tuk-tuk to the night markets to an Indian restaurant, recommended by our masseur. All dishes, he said, were exquisite (I've forgotten the Thai word) and each was around 40 B - maybe $1.20. Everywhere, there is cheap food - just point in any direction and there's something to eat for sale.
Today, most of our energy returned. After buying some clothes this morning, we purchased some durian fruit, ate a bit when back at the guest house and threw out the rest. It's an acquired taste, somewhat like heavy metal music, but just as unwelcome to us both.
The elephant's show was scheduled for 1:30 pm so we hired a driver and car for the afternoon for $14. It's the guest-house owner's son-in-law, and he was very patient with our dawdling with the elephants, even denying himself a sigh of exasperation when we went for a 30-minute ride on the back of an old female elephant after the show.
The path taken by the mahout was frightening and involved really steep climbs in a narrow jungle path where the mud was up to half a metre deep. The lead elephants had squashed huge footprints way down into the mud and I think our elephant just used the same footholes. The slopes were at least 30 degrees, if not more. We were in danger of sliding out of our little seats and under the safety bar, with the mahout thinking this was all wonderful fun. In fact, it was.
I practically exhausted the battery on the camera (Clem shouted me a long-life battery for the trip) and some great footage was taken, the highlights being the soccer match, the elephants doing their paintings and the intial exposure to them when they were wallowing in the nearby running river.
On the way back, our driver took us to an orchid farm and we took more pictures and talked to a Chinese photographer who spoke excellent English (self-taught, he said) who was from UN and up for the weekend from Bangkok. As light was fading, we pulled ourselves away from his interesting conversation because he had thousands of dollars worth of camera gear and professional tripod and talking instead of indulging in his hobby.
Now, Janet should be back in 30 minutes and then we'll get a tuk-tuk to the night markets to an Indian restaurant, recommended by our masseur. All dishes, he said, were exquisite (I've forgotten the Thai word) and each was around 40 B - maybe $1.20. Everywhere, there is cheap food - just point in any direction and there's something to eat for sale.
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