Basel. Paris. London.

Finally, the trip to Europe has arrived!

It has been a really interesting year off, of which the highlights include:

1) Journeying together with Karen - I am blessed to have spent this year with Karen discovering old and new things about each other and making new friends along the way! Who would have thought that we would have come this far from a simple badminton game all those months ago! And at the risk of being soppy (readers, please avert your eyes if easily nauseated) Beebee, I love you!

2) Travelling - both for work and pleasure. I wanted to have marked off all the states in Australia by the end of this year, but I have only managed half - Brisbane, Adelaide and New South Wales, which leaves Perth, Tasmania, Northern Territory and Canberra!

It has been a good time working in both M. and K., though, and making like-minded new friends along the way.

And saying hello again to hospitable friends whom I have not seen in years, of course!

3) Visits from friends and family to Melbourne - this year has seen an unparalleled number of visits from overseas friends and family, with Mum and Grace coming from Malaysia, and friends from a whole host of countries and interstate - Perth, Brisbane, London, Singapore, Switzerland and New Zealand.

4) Personal development - I can now spell the whole alphabet from A to W. (D'oh!)

Man, I am not sure how much I have grown as a person, but I'd like to believe I have matured a little bit more this year, having seen quite a few things both personally and professionally. It is the stories of my friends that remind me of who I am, and also teach me the lessons to help me through this life. I thank God for everything that I have been allowed to taste this year, both the bitter and the sweet.

It has truly been a deeply fulfilling year, and I carry so many stories with me that this blog will not possibly hold, which I can't wait to share with you when I see you.

To all my friends, family and readers, thank you for journeying with me and reading my blog. It means a lot to me to be able to walk together with all of you. Pray for us as we travel to the different countries, and wrap up this year with a bit of restful relaxation.

I love you all, truly I do.

Road Trip Australia: Adelaide

It was a spur of the moment decision - a friend was coming down from Singapore to Adelaide for a conference, and asked me to remind him which state of Australia I was in again.

And before I knew it, I was on a plane to Adelaide, for the first time ever in my life, not only to catch up with him, but with some other friends that I hadn't seen in forever.

I touched down and absorbed the airport with my eyes, and walked steadily towards the exit where a friend was waiting to pick me up. I hadn't seen Sel in 7 years, and it was like we never left. Sel has this amazing sense of humour and the best/worst stories ever from his schooldays. He dropped me off at where I was going to live those two nights.

I was going to bunk with Vic at Hindley Street - the King Street equivalent of Melbourne. If that still doesn't make sense to you, think poles and women dancing on it. Scantily-dressed women.

It was quite a vibrant part of town, and Vic and I was walking up and down the streets looking for something to eat (and if there happened to be pole-dancing women in the establishment, well, so be it. Hahaha!) but most of the restaurants were closed and we ended up having dinner at a Lebanese restaurant.

Day 2

I got up really early the next morning as Vic had to attend his conference, and I wanted to take in the scenic sights of Adelaide.

The first photo worthy picture on the top left - seriously! But it did get better after that! :)

It took me about half an hour of walking before I actually saw anything photo-worthy in Adelaide! I must have been walking in the wrong part of the city, but I was really giving up on finding anything, when everything fell into place:


Beautiful gardens in the city periphery - the poor girl has been squatting there forever while people try to suck on her brains.

The University of Adelaide is really quite stunning, with rolling gardens and ancient buildings right here in the City of Churches.

Adelaide, the City of Churches - where they have so much money they use it as floor decoration!

I had breakfast with S, Z and J, three friends who I hadn't seen in 7 years. It was a really good time of catching up and laughing over a Malaysian breakfast. Z was always anxious about how the quality of the food was compared to Melbourne ("Aiyah, nothing compared to the Malaysian food in Melbourne, I know lah!") but it was really quite good, and I was just happy to be there sharing a meal with long-lost friends.

Lunch was with S as both Z and J headed off to work - I was brought to his favourite Vietnamese restaurant, Yen Ling. It was actually really good food, and S convinced me to try the Vietnamese coffee, which looked suspiciously like petrol with condensed milk. Tasted really good, though - like the kopi susu back in Malaysia.
Most "power" coffee ever!

We talked about everything under the sun, like two friends catching up at a mamak stall, and exchanged stories of life and love. I have never laughed so hard, or thought so deeply for awhile now.

We picked up A, who S had been dating since our Uni days from their hospital, and I finally got to see their workplace where all their wonderful stories came from.

On the way back to their house, the coffee I had earlier started to kick in, and I had the Worst. Diarrhoea. Ever. I was squirming around in the back seat, begging for S to stop at the next nearest restaurant.

Let's just say that after I was done, that particular McDonald's which I went to doesn't serve Happy Meals anymore, if you know what I mean.

We went back to their unit and were too tired to go out anymore, and so just called in pizza and soft drinks while we talked delved into nostalgia that night. Another friend J who I haven't seen in forever, and recently married, popped in and the reminiscing just escalated from there!

Day 3

I caught up with V briefly before saying my goodbyes to him, and promising to meet up again in Singapore.

And then it was off to see the Three Stooges - S, Z and J for one last meal before heading home.

They brought me to this place in Hutt St in the posh end of town called Citrus, and there we had the best-breakfast-I-have-ever-had-in-Australia-bar-none. I had the humble French toast myself, which was done really well, but the rest of them had this chilli, garlic and basil scrambled eggs that was beyond description. An egg-gasm, if you will.

The gang at Citrus - two minutes before my head exploded at how good the breakfast was.

And then the last leg - off to the airport where all three of them had saved their best jokes for. I was laughing to the point of begging them to stop.

I sat in the airport lounge once more, waiting for the plane that would take me back to Melbourne, and wondered why on earth it took me seven years to catch up with them.

Indeed, how can we explain the friends that we swore we would keep in touch for life just slip away by the wayside as we chase for the things that we thought mattered.

To Cherish, Honour and Obey

I went for my first ever Australian wedding a few weeks ago. To be fair, it was the second wedding that I have attended since being in Australia, but this was the first Caucasian one that I have attended. I was like the Token Asian Guy there, if you know what I mean!

It was held in a vineyard somewhere in the south of Melbourne, about an hour and ten minutes' drive away, especially if you're really late, and your girlfriend has kindly offered you her car which has the electronic tag device for the Citylink tolls on it.

True to form, I arrived twenty minutes late at the vineyard, to see the groom and bride about to walk into the garden where friends and relatives were waiting for them. M looked dashing and poised in his cream-coloured suit as E's left hand slipped into his, bouquet in her right hand, dressed in a beautiful off-shoulder wedding gown.

They turned the upper halves of their bodies to look at me as I drove the car around the corner. M smiled and waved hello, and just at that very moment, the sun peeked through the chink between them (hello, Mao's Last Dancer!), and they were bathed in the glorious Melbourne evening sun, both of them looking for a moment like angels on their wedding day.

They must have ran towards the celebrant, because by the time I was parked and out of my car, both M and E were already standing in front of the sixty-odd crowd of witnesses, and the celebrant's voice floated in the air as she spoke the blessings and officiated the wedding.

From where I was, it was a little difficult to hear what was being said, yet when it came M's turn to say his vows, everyone could see his lips move as he stumbled through his prepared speech to E, but his flushed face and tearing eyes were evidence enough of the emotions running in them that evening. The sight of a grown man crying, especially for all who knew M, evoked a lump in all our throats and tears were gathering at the fringes of most eyes present.

The ceremony itself was brief, and soon vows were exchanged, and signatures cemented the wedding. We then headed into the wine cellar, dimly lit with candles, as we drank champagne and ate canapes while meeting friends, new and old.

The dinner itself was nice and cozy in a restaurant that overlooked the vineyard. The food was quite good, but the highlight of the night were the speeches from the parents. Both M and E came from a large family of four siblings, and both fathers were equally eloquent and witty in celebrating and embarassing M and E that night. You could hear the pride in both their voices about their children, and how welcoming they were to their respective partners.

M spoke last and admitted that he did not know what the ingredients of a happy marriage were, as most of who he considered to be happily married couples warned him about the perils of marriage, while the only person to say something nice to them as a couple was their jeweller, who was recently divorced!

It then proceeded to a night of drunken dancing, as white people, emboldened by alcohol, finally took to the dance floor to sort-of dance. Okay, so I was guilty of some bad sort-of dancing as well, but I will never turn down the opportunity to move my body like an epileptic.

The night soon drew to an end, and goodbye kisses and congratulations wished to the happy couple before I left, feeling warmed by what I had witnessed tonight.

I Do. I mean I would like to I Do.

The long drive home that night allowed me to entertain some thoughts as the wheels slowly ate up the distance between me and home.

I think that perhaps I am generalising here, but I think that a lot of women think about their wedding day.

About four or five years ago, that was a very occupying thought of mine as well - about how perfect my wedding day would be, about the speech that I would make, about the friends and family gathered around to celebrate this momentous occasion. I would wish Dad were there to see it as well.

People talk about how there shouldn't be an emphasis on the wedding day, but on the marriage instead. Too much emphasis is placed on that single stressful day sometimes, when the real crux of it is in the journey together as a married couple.

Yet tonight was a reminder that weddings were important, too, as a celebration of a milestone in both M and E's lives - much like the hallowed 21st birthday celebrations here.

It was a chance to hear the stories from the parents who had watched their sons and daughters grow up, blossoming into adults, and falling in love; with the secret wish for the couple that they too will one day give their own speeches at the happy weddings of their sons and daughters.

A Little Bit More Of Innocence

It was a Sunday night, and started becoming very busy in the Department.

People were streaming in with problems that needed attending to urgently, and there was a very sick man bleeding to death from his bladder in one of the resuscitation bays.

The evening doctor had kindly stayed on to sort out the dying man, and I was left with free rein of the busy Department.

In the midst of all the chest pains, kidney stones and chronic lung disease patients, there were a host of teenagers as well, which was unusual for a Sunday night.

One of them was the hospital's littlest orphan, on her second-daily visit to the hospital, asking for someone to look at her sore neck at 2 a.m. because she had tripped over her dog and hit her neck on the edge of the door. The nurses tell me that she had been in not too long ago faking the same complaint - she had found another trigger for the staff to finally pay attention - they had put her in a collar, scanned her head. She devoured the attention, her large unblinking eyes surreptitiously smiling at all the fuss, and had hoped for a repeat of the same tonight.

Another boy and his undistinguished partner came in after having a longer than usual seizure that night - he was flailing his arms and legs for a good 15 minutes and she was worried enough to bring him in. I remembered him from one of my shifts before, and recognised that he had another pseudoseizure, a psychological variation of actual seizures, and took some blood off him and watched him for a couple of hours.

I was trying to suppress my surprise when I found out that he was the littlest orphan's brother.

Two siblings separated only by the entrance door to the Emergency Department. She didn't seem to acknowledge his presence in the Department, and I don't think she acknowledged him outside either.

The boy's partner was someone who you wouldn't have cast a second glance at on the streets. Nothing about her turned heads to look, nothing about her personality invited further probing questions. She was plain in every sense of the word.

The evening doctor remembers her from last night, though. She had come in for some vague medical issue, and cried in pain the moment the nurses put the tourniquet on her in order to take blood. We're not even talking about the needle yet. Just a tight band around her upper arm, and she started crying uncontrollably.

Where kids their age were going to parties, or pubs, deciding which university to go to, or which jobs to interview for, these three frequented the hospital instead.

The last teenager that night was a nineteen-year-old girl and her young partner, the 'love of her life'. I saw her yesterday night when she thought that she had vomited up blood in her toilet.

We had taken bloods from her and given her fluids, when an hour later she threatened to discharge herself. Luckily the pathologist was in, and the bloods were processed, and there was nothing of immediate danger so we sent her off.

Tonight, however, the boyfriend explained that she had had about eight cans of Victoria Bitters, and they were out looking for her missing dog when she fell down and had a seizure. Her seizure sounded bona fide, and there was a strong family history of her father and grandfather having it too. And dying from it.

Once again, when she had sobered up, she wanted to leave.

You don't understand, you are endangering your life if you leave now, I try to tell her.

I HATE HOSPITALS! she complained vehemently. I know my rights, and I will sign whatever paperwork I have to, to get out of here.

But you might die! I protest.

Look at these! she upturned her hands defiantly, and you could see the multiple slash marks across her wrist where she had previously cut herself. You think I give a damn about dying?

I attempt a softer approach. You know, I understand life has been hard for you, and...

She arced up.

Understand? How could you understand anything? I have been fending for myself since I was ten years old and...

Hey, don't get started, her boyfriend's voice is soothing across the room. I liked him when I met him yesterday, and you could see that he was the one thing going for her in her nineteen-year-old life.

I sensed an opportunity.

It's not just about you, you know. Think about the people who love you.

Her voice was steady but precarious. I will look after myself, okay? I have been looking after myself for a long time now. I will get that brain scan in the morning...

How do I know that? I ask.

Well, the love of my life will ensure it! she says, turning towards him.

He was sitting atop the counter in the room, his hunched shoulders supporting his intoxicated face. He looked away uncomfortably, his hunched shoulders too small to bear the burden as the love of her life.

Sometimes we go about our middle-class lives sheltered from the cries of this broken world we live in. We worry about the meaning of life while some people worry about simply living. We worry about our careers, our cars, how we can save for the latest iPhone and what Europe will look like this time of the year.

Modern Day Prophet

I can't get over this song from Jason Mraz while thinking about these orphans - both the real ones and the with-parents-like-that-they-might-as-well-be ones.

When the house was left in shambles
Who was there to handle all the broken bits of glass
Was it Mum who put my Dad out on his ass
or the other way around?
Well I'm far too old to care about that now.

And taking drugs and making love at far too young an age
And they never checked to see my grades
What a fool I'd be to start complaining now

What about taking this empty cup and filling it up
With a little bit more of innocence
I haven't had enough it's probably because...

When you're young it's okay to be easily ignored,
I'd like to believe it's all about love for a child.

Dear God, please look after and love our orphans in the way we have failed to.

Other People's Stories: Paris, I Love You

I sat before his lumbering hulk over dinner.

I watched him smile his familiar smile framed by his trimmed Indian beard. The bags under his eyes were deeper than when I last saw him seven years ago, but his eyes still twinkled with mischief. He was big, and used to be overweight, but has been working out recently.

He tells me that he has a poster of Eric Bana in his room, and hopes to look like him one day. His hair is slicked back just like The Incredible Hulk star.

His large frame hides a soft heart, a fragile heart that has been mishandled by clumsy girls of late.

The No. 1 Parent's Dating Agency

He would turn 31 in two years. That was his parent's ultimatum for him. If you don't find a girl by then, we will very well find one for you.

His younger brother was begging to marry his girlfriend of eight years but they said No, your older brother must get married first.

He tells me about Europe. He was going there to see a potential girl that his parents thought would be nice for him. He had an adolescent crush on her in his teen years, and they had been communicating via e-mail leading up to his visit. His younger brother was graduating as well, so it was going to be six weeks well spent.

When in Amsterdam, do as the tourists do

He started off with a week in Amsterdam.

He walked by the canals daily, avoiding the many cyclists, and was tempted to walk into a 'coffee shop' and have those wonderful marijuana-laden brownies, but feared for its unknown effects on his health. He was by himself in Amsterdam, and it would be awhile before they would find his drug-laced body.

Amsterdam was famous for one other thing, of course - the prostitutes who stood along the glass windows. Half-naked live mannequins for your viewing pleasure, sir.

There were all sorts of women you could choose from - tall, short, chubby, skinny, blonde, brunette, blue-eyed, brown-eyed, young, old, Asian, European, African - for a Malaysian Indian boy this was overwhelming - watching your pornography finally come to life. It was like he was a child let loose in a hormone-crazed Teenager's Candy Store.

There were no friends or family around for him to feel self-conscious or self-conscience with. He walked past the masses of women seductively calling out to him, and pretended to ignore their siren calls while secretly checking them out of the corner of his eye.

He made several rounds around the alleyways, his steps getting slower and more deliberate as he gathered enough courage to even look at the women.

Man, were they ugly.

He had toyed with the idea of losing his virginity in Amsterdam long before even setting foot in Amsterdam. Here he was in the Sex Capital of the world, and he was damned well going to have sex, even if it meant that he had to pay for it. Because no girl in her right mind would want to sleep with me for free, he laughs. A self-deprecating joke repeated often enough has now become his personal mantra.

My First Time

He finally walked into an establishment where the women were definitely of a different class. They were all beautiful with inviting bodies, and their clientele was telling - men decked out in corporate suits and ties, looking for a quickie before heading home to their wives or to work.

He could not take his eyes off the line of women, each standing outside their own mysterious room, beckoning to him in their accented English.

He faltered, initially. He walked out hurriedly from the place. All his conventional upbringing went against his lust for his first ever experience of a woman. I mean, what would your mother say if she knew, huh? he chided himself.

But then the Other Voice spoke.

You've thought about this since even before the trip, man!

This may be your only chance ever of being with a woman - you're never coming back to Amsterdam!

Who's to say that you would even make it out of Europe alive? Your plane could crash, and you would die a virgin. You want to die a virgin?!

Screw that. He was in Amsterdam, and he would find himself a hooker.

He steeled himself, but still felt nervous as his sweaty palms pushed past the doors once more, his stomach churning with excitement and anxiety.

His eyes darted around the women holding out the forbidden fruit to him at 50 Euro a pop.

Pop. What a funny way of saying ejaculation.

He finally settled on a tanned, curvaceous brunette. She led him into her room with a little laugh, and introduced herself as Anna from Portugal.

Anna from Portugal. He wasn't sure what to do, but he felt like he needed to exchange pleasantries with Anna from Portugal. With a little rehearsed laugh, she led him into the room lit by electric candles and eased him onto the bed. He fumbled with his clothes in his eagerness and noticed how coolly she undressed herself. He hoped his inexperience wouldn't be obvious to Anna from Portugal, but even if she noticed, she didn't show it.

He slipped her the fifty while she slipped him a condom.

His mind was attempting to sort out the assault on his senses, torn between stage fright, intense pleasure, the intoxicating smell of her perfume and the warmth of her body against his.

Soon they were going at it fully but then Pop! and suddenly it was over as quickly as it started.

He apologised to her as he slipped his clothes back on. She shook her head slowly, and her thick Portuguese lips smiled an It's OK.

You're not the first, she thought.

You're my first, he regretted.

50 Euro, 5 minutes = 10 Euro per minute. What a waste of money!, he cursed in his practical Malaysian head. He was conjuring up thoughts on how to make his next visit last longer. More bang for his buck, so to speak.

He walked out quickly, not catching the eyes of the other prostitutes as he made a beeline for his hotel room. He was slightly disappointed at how it abruptly it had ended, but also elated that he had finally Done It.

It had taken twenty eight years, but he was finally a Man, although he didn't feel any different, to be honest.

He never visited another prostitute on his entire trip.

Lost. In Translation.

Austria was beautiful. He spent two weeks there by himself - Vienna was the total overseas experience - the place was clean, cultured and the people were generally very nice. He wandered around as a lone traveller, pointing to maps when language failed him, and developing a crick in his neck from looking up all day at centuries-old churches.

He spent a few days in the picturesque Salzburg before trying out the amazing beers in Munich which an American traveller had mentioned to him in passing.

He loved hearing the English language from the congregation of tourists with him. He would often eavesdrop into conversations, and savoured understanding when so often words on the signposts and those leaving the lips of the locals meant nothing to him at all.

Europe quickly became a routine - every day he would take in the breathtaking sights around. And every night he would return, remove his shoes in the quiet of his hotel room, and wish that Anna from Portugal was there to hear about what he had seen that day.

Paris Je t'aime

His next destination was Paris. He plopped his luggage in his hostel room, and proceeded to circle on his map the places he was going to visit here.

It was while waiting in one of the many eternal queues to the tourist attractions that he noticed for the first time how out of place he was here in Paris.

Here he was - one stupid, lonely little Indian boy in the City of Love amidst a queue filled with couples. Some were smiling and sharing kisses frequently while others stood around looking bored. One or two were obviously exasperated and arguing whether or not the wait was worth it.

He felt like he did once more in high school - that stark loneliness and subtle rejection as the kid that everyone picked last to join their team in their basketball games. A pariah.

It was somewhere in the middle of the gardens surrounded by the trimmed hedges when he was surprised by his angry tears.

I want someone to hold hands with!Why the hell doesn't anyone speak any English around this Godforsaken place? I'm sick to death of being alone! Where is my girl, huh?! WHERE IS MY GIRL?! I'M NEVER GOING TO FIND MY GIRL!! I want to be in love too!! It is true! The only women who will sleep with me are the ones I have to pay! Or the one my parents choose out for me! I AM a loser!!

Wave after wave of these thoughts washed over him, and soon he began to cry in earnest. His whole gigantic frame shuddered as he wiped the tears from his eyes, and he tried to choke back the sobs. Fuck this, he thought, as he ignored the curious stares of onlookers, and he allowed himself a good cry there in the middle of the gardens somewhere in the City of Love.

Turning the Decade

To my older brother, on his 31st birthday - Happy Birthday! May this next year be one filled with friends old and new, discovering new experiences and finding a deep joy in life!

Random Memories: Eight Years Old

My brother and I used to sleep in the master bedroom by ourselves when we were younger. I am not sure how we got away with that, but I suspect that my Dad's inability to climb the stairs easily and both my parent's generosity had something to do with it.

The master bedroom holds a lot of memories for me as a child. I remember the pillows that adorned the bed - interspersed among the proper sleeping pillows were our bantal busuks (literally 'smelly pillows' in Malay, equivalent to a security blanket.) I had this yellow Doraemon pillow which I must have drooled on incessantly until it changed colour. (Ewww...)

The master bedroom was also the scene of the death of our childhood dreams - I remember how as little children we used to have these wonderful T-shirts with capes at the back of them - it was the height of the Superman (Christopher Reeve, not Brandon Routh) craze then. We were pasar malam heroes in our T-shirts - I was the Malaysian Hero with my red flowing cape while my brother had his blue Batman one.


My wonderfully artistic younger sister's recreation of what I looked like in that caped shirt as a child. I wish I knew where the original photo is.

We were a handful, both of us boys, tearing through the house like chimpanzees on steroids, our capes flowing behind us. We would scream the house down, and I think that one day we were jumping around and making a little too much noise when Mum decided that she had had enough, so she grabbed the sewing scissors and then proceeded to cut the capes off our T-shirts, much to our juvenile horror.

We didn't fly around so well after that. Our tiny imaginations couldn't bring us beyond the jagged edges of cloth that hung limply from our superhero uniforms where our brave capes once flowed.

I remember as well the nights before our sleep when my brother would tell me stories sometimes or we would talk about everything and nothing before falling asleep. There was a period in his ten-year-old life when his only aim was to make me laugh until I begged him to stop.

The magic words that would cause me to laugh uncontrollably would somehow always involve a bodily excrement or function and some bad words (read: shitting, pissing and farting) and I would be so tickled that I would still laugh about it the next day.

Twenty one years on, and my taste in toilet humour has not weaned off one bit. Just ask Karen.

Happy birthday, Jo.

Wong Fu Productions: Up In Da Club

Wong Fu Productions is the inspired trio of Philip Wang, Ted Fu and Wesley Chan - three Americans of Asian heritage who started off in their budding directing and production skills in college.

They struck Youtube gold (or should I say yellow) when they uploaded their first clip - Yellow Fever several years ago and since then, the trio have never looked back, coming up with their own production company, becoming more adept at both their directing and acting skills, and indeed have created a nice little niche market for themselves.

Indeed, their brand of militant niceness and astute humour have struck a chord with many people, Asians or not, and they continue to serve as an inspiration to many aspiring talents.

Watch all 4 parts to the end - I laughed my ass off - and I know that you will too! (I know that some connection speeds are slower than others, but it is worth the wait!)

Chew On This

Almost true representation of events.

(With apologies to my friends who are dentists, who I am sure are kind to small animals and little children. Occasionally.)

The top 3 things that humans fear most:
1. Public speaking
2. Death
3. A visit to the dentist

I have not seen a dentist in 20 years. I am not particularly fond of them, they don't get Christmas cards from me.

My teeth are, surprisingly, in perfectly good condition, thank you very much, apart from this unbearably horrible toothache that I get when I eat. And when I don't eat. In fact, it hurts all the time.

[The chances of Heng Khuen seeing a dentist is found in the equation

P = Pt x ft > Fd

where P is the probablility of Heng Khuen visiting a dentist, Pt is the pain from the toothache, multiplied by ft which is the frequency of the toothache and Fd is the F@^&ing dentist, er I mean, Fear of dentist.)

I finally dragged myself to the dentist and he tells me that I have multiple cavities, which are holes in my teeth. He says that I have enough holes in my teeth for him to play a whole round of golf.

I am not laughing.

I also have this set of impacted teeth, which means my mouth was too small (contrary to popular opinion) to fit in all my teeth, so two of my molars were squeezed in to sit under my tongue, which I often show to little kids to scare them into obedience.

But my dentist says that my impacted teeth have to come out, or else more cavities will form when food gets stuck there. I think of the piece of apple that I had last night now stuck between my teeth. It now has a face. And a beard. And a pickaxe. And it is furiously chipping away at the rock of my teeth, laughing gleefully like a maniac, as it digs harder and harder to find the nerve that will give me Unbearable Pain which is its Revenge for me eating it.

I walk into the dentist's room. There is a chair in the dentist's room. It is not like an electric chair. It is an Ergonomic Reclining Chair with soft cushion padding, which fits your body snugly so that you can lie in it comfortably. It is like a La-Z-Boy couch which you lie on to watch the game on your big screen TV.

Except that it is not a La-Z-Boy. And there is no soccer match in front of you.

They slap on a pair of sunglasses and then suddenly a light descends upon you from above. The light stand is angled like a curious dinosaur bending it's head down to get a closer look at you. Except that it has the Sun for its face.

It is like you are in an interrogation. A comfortable chair, and a not-so-comfortable interrogation.

There is a tray. There is a tray with many instruments which look like they belong to a villain in a Bond movie. There are instruments with hooked pointy little ends which look like they could cause a lot of pain. And then there are the clamps. Which could fit on your little finger, squeezing it tighter and tighter. There is a needle, which looks like it could have truth serum in it. There is a pair of pliers. For ripping out teeth. And fingernails.

Suddenly your breath stops as your eyes land on the most horriblest instrument of all. The drill. The tiny little sharp rotating drill which sounds like a hundred little tiny fingernails scratching on the blackboards of your mind.

The dentist comes in, and he is all smiles. You expect a Villain Monologue during which time you will shoot out the lights with your gun, kick him in the balls and then make your escape.

You have to keep your mouth open the whole time while he does unkind things to you. Not unlike another profession that I know of. (With apologies to my friends who are in that other profession, who I am sure, too, are kind to small animals and little children.)

He reaches for the drill. The dentist tests it first. It gives a satisfying buzzing whirr in his gloved hand, vibrating the air around it. And then he reaches it into you. Hundreds of tiny fingernails scratch slowly but eagerly along the blackboards. The high pitch whirring resonates in your head, threatening to detonate it from inside.

Your body arches upwards. Your face scrunches in pain. Your fists grab the comfortable La-Z-Boy beneath you and threaten to rip it to pieces. You want to scream but there is no sound.

He has to inject you with an anaesthetic, he says. It will feel like a pinch. Or a mosquito bite, he promises. But it is not like a pinch. It is like a mosquito bite except that the mosquito is from a place called Hell, and it has eaten a mouthful of red-hot cili padi and volcanic magma before stinging you.

Your mouth gradually goes numb as if Muhammad Ali threw a few punches at you, but only managed to hit the left side of your face.

The dentist reaches for the pliers. You feel the steel rubbing on your tongue and clunking against your teeth as he clumsily rips your tooth (fingernails/eyes/nipples) out. The tooth is curved like a scimitar and red from the stab wound into your gums. Your mouth pools with blood. You taste it on your tongue.

He gives you a cotton swab to chew on. He smiles and expects a thank-you nod for his hard work torturing you today.

He leads you out of his room and you think that you are finally safe. Thank God that is over.

The worse is yet to come. Your half-numb mouth hangs open at the amount that you have to hand over for the forty five minutes of torture that you had just walked out of. A thread of saliva steals out from your open mouth like an art thief's rope at the Louvre, and it dangles over the three digit number on the bill before you.

Like a masochist, you swallow your blood-stained saliva and dig deep into your wallet to pay for the pleasure of the pain today.

The receptionist flashes you a perfect smile and takes your cash. You pray that somewhere in the back of her mouth, the tiniest little piece of a Mars Bar is patiently chipping away at the those pearly white teeth.

Do Not Go Gentle Into the Good Night

So I walked into the ED one Sunday night and it was chaos. It looked like a bomb had struck the place after a hurricane and a tsunami had hit it. The crap did not only hit the industrial strength fan, it also hit the full-blast air-conditioning and the heating in the ventilation.

But enough bad analogies.

Just before I had walked in, there were three simultaneous codes - a 91 year old man who had a large aneurysm of his aorta (swelling of the main blood vessel in the tummy area), another seventy something year old gentleman was having seizures from the newly diagnosed brain tumour in his head, and there was a 30-something year old mother who had overdosed on a whole heap of medications who no one could wake.

And she was vomiting out blood as well for good measure.

And so the whole department was abuzz with doctors and nurses flying from one end to the other, trying to put out as many fires as they could.

Every bed was taken in the Emergency Department that night, as evidenced by the full waiting room outside, as we had neither the time nor the place to see anyone.

My boss went out and told the waiting patients in no uncertain terms that tonight the ED was really busy, and unless they were willing to wait for a long time or thought that their ailment needed attention this very night, they would be better off coming back tomorrow. Or never.

Please, thank you, come again.

The surgeons were in the room seeing the gentleman with the 10 centimetre aorta that was about to rupture, trying to convince him that he needed an operation urgently. His wife and daughter were there by his side keeping vigil.

His wife stood there by his side telling him that he should probably have the operation. For the longest time the man kept silent while she talked on and on about how he should have it. She was trying to cope with the sudden bad news and her mind was grasping at straws at this stage. She was about to lose him and she wasn't ready yet. So, yes, yes to the operation. Yes to hope.

20 metres away in another room, a young mother was trying her best to die on us. Her family had checked in on her at six pm that day and thought that she was sleeping so they had left her alone. It was only when she didn't rouse that night when they called her to dinner that they feared the worst.

They rushed into her room, the pack of empty pills by her side and she would not respond to their frantic calls trying to coax her back from Death's edge. Her brother had tried to sit her up, and she had vomited out blood in his arms, and the family were beside themselves as the call for help went out.

Many women have tried to take their own lives, but more often than not, it is actually a cry for help and most survive. I have never seen someone come so near to death on overdosing on pills before.

And so we were trying to put the tube down her throat to help her breathe, and all this time the blood gushing out of her stomach made it very difficult. Then we had to get lines into her to give her the medications that would keep her blood pressure up.

We had to keep reaching for some shots of adrenaline to bring the blood pressure to a level where it would perfuse the vital organs in the body.

The man with the brain tumour had finally settled from his convulsions with the medications that he was given. His family sat next to him, distraught at what they had just witnessed. Just this morning he was fine - he was their father, their husband - having breakfast with them, laughing about things and now eight hours later his body no longer belonged to him.

It was weak on one side and would not respond no matter how hard he willed it, and when he fitted, he jerked around as if he were being drawn on the strings by an invisible puppeteer.

We had to attend to the man with the enlarged aorta because he had suddenly lost consciousness. As we stepped in, the surgical registrar dramatically waved us away, his arms cutting open in a fashion like No Deal!

No! he exclaimed. Don't do anything!

The surgical registrar recounted to us what had happened, his eyes wide open in surprise. It was the most amazing thing! he exclaimed. So we were just telling him about the operation when this man suddenly turned to his wife and daughter and said, angrily -

"I've had enough! I don't want anything done for me anymore! See you! Goodbye!"

And with that he just... went.

The surgical registrar's voice trailed off, amazed that the man could dictate his own death.

[Mr A leaves the play, never to return. Exit Stage Left]

My boss went out to talk to the family to confirm the man's last wishes, and he returned to the room, his single nod confirming that this man should be kept comfortable only.

Back in the room with the young mother, we battled on and had to throw a heap of medication at her in order to keep her blood pressure up, in order to stop her from the death she wanted so much. She was finally flown away to another hospital that night, her family still coming to terms with their grief and now needing to find their way to her tonight.

There is time to breathe, and reflect. Here was one man who had lived a good long life, and had seen many things in his time, and who was just sick of it all. He somehow wielded the power over the timing of his death -nature had finally taken its course, and he wanted no more of our withcraft to try and stop it.

On the other hand, here was a young mother, who at a very young age decided that she had seen enough in her time and was just sick of it all as well. And in some strange way, she wielded the power over the timing of her death as well, but the love of her family, and the same modern medicine that brought her to the brink of death was trying its best to pull her back to life.

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To School

Well, it's officially 200 posts now since I made my move from my previous blogdrive account. Thank you to everyone for reading. And for sharing your stories with me.




Freedom

As relayed to me by my favourite friend storyteller.

So we were from one of those La Sallian brother's school lah, you know, and it was an all boys' school, run by the Catholic brothers. It was horrible in an all boys' school because we would get into all sorts of trouh-ble, you know.

And no use caning us, because you know lah, as boys, after awhile we don't feel it... So the brothers had to be very creative lah you know, about their forms of punishment.

There was this one that they came up with - called the Statue of Liberty.

So what happens is that the punished boy will be standing in the middle of the field in the hot afternoon sun, and he will be holding a Coke bottle in his hands, lah, you know. The old type of Coke bottle one, you know - in the glass and with the steel bottlecaps.

And he'll have to hold it with his arm outstretched lah, you know, like the Statue of Liberty.

And so it would be like a sort of sadistic torture lah, you know. You would be melting lah, melting you know! in the midday sun, and the bottle of refreshment is just there in your hands but you couldn't drink it.

Huhuhuhuhuhuh.

Terrer (Awesome) right? The Catholic brothers were pretty pleased with that punishment - I guess even compassionate men of God lose all compassion in a boys' high school!!

So one day, right, there was these three boys in the middle of the field lah. Sweating, sweating all, with their Coke bottles in their hands. Punished to the max.

Then suddenly ah, there was this boy coming out from nowhere, you know. Like a bolt of white and green lightning he suddenly appeared from out of the blue, and he just ran like crazy lah... We saw him running and then we thought to ourselves, Eh, what the hell is this guy doing lah?

Faster and faster he approached the three students in the middle of the field, and then suddenly we realised what was going on! Someone must have dared him or offered to pay him some money to do this lah - he had a bottle opener in his hand and in one swift motion, three bottlecaps flew off three Coke bottles, and then he ran back to the cheers of everyone sitting in the terraces.

And the three boys were gloating now, drinking their Cokes victoriously. The look on their faces were like Ah, feel the fresh taste of freedom! Hahahaha!

Then, half an hour later, right, that bottle-opener boy was standing in the middle of the field, being pa-nished, with a Coke bottle in his outstretched right hand. Ahahahahah! Padan muka! (Serves him right!)

But he had this grin on his face, you know, because just for that moment, he was a hero lah!

To Catch You Up On Places I've Been 5

Road Trip Australia: Bellingen and Dorrigo

It had been an especially difficult twelve days for me, and it was with great relief that I greeted Friday, and subsequently fell into the slumber that welcomed the weekend.

I had planned a trip with my pharmacist friend, C, and her partner, W. It was the weekend where the markets were going to be on in Bellingen, and then we would take a look at the stunning rainforests of Dorrigo, a World Heritage area.

And so we piled into W’s Subaru Forrester, which he had just purchased having lost his old second hand BMW. He had done this driving one night on the roads leaving CH, when a kangaroo jumped out of absolutely nowhere, and he had slammed on the brakes, causing his car to swerve and skid, the car coming to a complete stop only when it smashed into an electric pole, taking out the electricity of the entire CH with it for six hours.

But the Subaru was a beautiful car, replete with sunroof just made for a day like today. The sun had decided to come out in full force, brightening the skies to a vivid blue, spotted only by the few wispy clouds that had decided to work the weekend. Everything else was just more vibrant in the cheerful sun – the grass were especially green and the waters gleefully danced with the rays in the soft Saturday breeze.

For the first time in a long time since I obtained my drivers’ licence, I was able to sit at the back of someone’s car. A day like today transported me back to my childhood days and all the long family trips we would take – Mum and Dad and three kids in tow – I felt like I was a nine year old boy again, eyes wide open with my mouth slightly agape inhaling all the sights that flew by us at a hundred kilometres an hour.

It was a day so beautiful it was almost obscene.

Mere words cannot explain how in love I am with nature on a day like this, watching it once more through the eyes of a child.

When it comes to nature, I lose all my adult practicalities, and marvel instead – to see trees and not see lumber, to see land and not to want to own it, to marvel at the stars and galaxy and not feel the need to conquer it. To just stare in reverence, awe and whispered thankfulness.

=============================================

We drove past some really small towns on the way to Bellingen, and passed some acres of farmland. It is at this point that I comment to C and W that in my next life, I have decided that I would be reincarnated as a cow. I watched them with great envy, sitting there grazing grass lazily in the Saturday morning sun as if they had worked hard all week to deserve it, when the truth of the matter was, to a cow, everyday is Saturday.

But then you would have to be slaughtered in the end, protested C.

Looking at those cows right there, I thought to myself – is that really such a bad thing? If you could spend a lifetime of incomparable daily bliss and contentment, knowing perhaps that your ultimate destiny is in the abbatoir or on someone’s plate, wouldn’t you feel completely calm and accepting of your fate? I know I would.

W pressed a button to pull the sunroof away, and suddenly the fresh air came rushing in, bringing with it the musky smell of cow manure. I asked them if I could stand up, and C laughed , saying I should do the whole Titanic thing.

W laughed along and then I decided I would. I stood up in my seat and poked up half my body through the sunroof and for three glorious seconds felt the hundred kilometre winds and sunshine on my skin.

W and C told me to sit down, and their hushed admonishing tones suggested that it wasn’t all that funny in the end to them. Humans are such contradictory creatures sometimes!

==============================================

And so we arrived in the town of Bellingen, a wonderful hippy-esque town which has sprung up in the middle of nowhere, and thrived.

There were cars parked for miles around, mostly tourists here for the weekend market.

Our first stop was a quaint little shop ingeniously called the Yellow Shed – a gaudy yellow warehouse-converted-into-a-shophouse place which sold oddities and a mish-mash of antique collectibles, crystal decorations, pet lover paraphernalia, jazz CD, aromatic candles and books on New Age religions. It was like Hippie Heaven, yeah.



I bought myself a few CDs (Peace out, dude.) and was almost tempted to buy a cat lovers’ book when I realised that I was actually looking more for a cat recipe book.

(I love cats. They taste like chicken).

We sauntered along the whole town, and C really wanted to see the local pharmacy, because she heard that it was really pretty – like it had stained glasses and all. It was a really pretty pharmacy, in fact, but the thing I like the most was the old style word “Druggist” sketched into the colored glass.

Druggist. How apt. Like a drug pusher. My own local drug pusher. So much more personal than the term pharmacist, don’t you think?

We wandered around a little more and found the biggest shop in town – The H and W – which had served the town for a hundred years. It was one of those wonderful shops with a ceiling as high as a cathedral, and a mezzanine floor (fancy way of not saying first floor). They were selling clothes and apparel on the ground floor, and – you guessed it – junk and antique collectibles on the second floor.

There were so many interesting things up on the mezzanine floor that I could barely begin to describe it – old wooden closets and treasure chests, the swinging incense chandeliers and Indian cushions, Thai Buddhist idols and doorknobs.



Yes, you heard right, there were doorknobs. Not just one, not just one hundred, but trays full of them. In case you woke up one morning, you know, and misplaced your bedroom doorknob. In which case you wouldn’t be able to leave the room anyway to buy your doorknob. (The marketing team of these doorknobs need to rethink their sales strategy).

Having wandered through a few more quirky shops and bohemian restaurants, we finally chanced upon a nice bakery to try and quell our complaining tummies. It was a marvellous find – C and I agreed that we have never had pastry so fresh and good before. My coconut slice with its adjuvant fresh fruits was life-changing.

We wandered through the Bellingen markets and it was a beautiful day out for the family as fathers and mothers and little children trawled through the many food, jewellery, plant and health food stalls available. There were even tarot card readers who would sit and talk to you with “No time limit for $25.”

After one and a half hours of trudging through the hula hoop dancers (Spot the Pothead, as W pointed out) and me being refused a ride on the ponies there, we finally made our way out of the Bellingen Markets.

===================================================

Our next destination was Dorrigo, along the scenic and promisingly named Waterfall Way. It was the perfect season to catch the waterfalls – the recent rains had ensured that there was enough water for the promise of a spectacular cascade but had damaged some of the roads in the process. The recent run of good weather ensured that all the roads were fixed and opened up again.

It was quite a steep ascent as we climbed up one side of the Great Dividing Range, and in all fairness, the waterfalls along the way were quite nice, but not spectacular, you know?

As we reached the top of the Dividing Range, a peculiar sight greeted us all – the top of the mountain looked like the bottom of the mountain. We drove through flatlands with hills in the distance, and paddocks just like down below. I had sort of expected the top to be, I don’t know, not flat.

We finally arrived in Dorrigo National Park, and the first thing we did was walk out to the Skywalk – this was a carefully constructed wooden walk that stretched out above the forest below you. It offered a breathending (breathtaking just doesn’t seem to cut it) view of the hills and trees below. The perfect calming blend of green, blue and white brought to you in true Technicolour.



We decided to brave the rainforest walk as well, a good hour long walk to see the waterfalls secreted in the middle of the forest. It was a wonderful walk through the forest – the leaves of the impossibly tall forests overlapped in such a way that it took the craftiest of sunrays to find their way to the forest floor. Even the wind could not find its way through the maze of branches and leaves to rustle the underlying grass.

There was almost a reverential hush within the forest, as deep as a basement in a cathedral – the quietness was only disturbed by the sound of our footfall, and the occasional bird brave enough to lose its whistle in this immense jungle.

There was a clear pathway for trekking but you could often see where fallen trees had to be cut cleanly through with a chainsaw to allow more tourists to walk through.

The quiet was a welcome intruder into my soul, troubled and noisy from the work of the past twelve days, needing once again to center with my God, and His universe.

One Night Stand

It is a noisy bar on a Friday night. The bar itself is a beautiful concept - set in the bohemian capital of Brunswick St, it has attracted crowds of young people, backpackers and artistic souls alike. They were there to have a good time, to celebrate an anniversary, to people watch, to be watched, to drink a workweek's worth of frustrations away.

The place is decorated beautifully - coloured lights string the ceillings reminiscent of a seventies' American pubs in Vietnam, and, in keeping with the theme of the bar, toy soldiers were waging their little battles all along the pipes lining the walls of the bar.

The converted warehouse's high ceillings reverberate with the cacophony of chatter from the separate cliques of friends there that night, interspersed with the sparse background trance music which was present but not intrusive. Beer is flowing freely from the taps as people trade their red and yellow dollar notes for golden glasses of courage and forgetfulness.

It is in this gamut of frenzied interaction when you couldn't help but notice her. She stood alone for an extended period of time, which seemed really out of place in a joint like this. She was really tall for an Asian girl, and that made her stick out even more like a sore thumb.

She was dressed for a night out, you could see that she had paid extra attention to her make-up tonight. Her sky-blue sloping platform shoes snuggled the overly long legs which were covered with orange socks that travelled up to her knees. From then on, just the slightest peek of her thighs before her dress takes over, its rectangular shapes and array of colours matching her patterned handbag. Her hands were covered in delicate gloves, its lacy patterns perhaps belonging more to the wife of a Chinese kingpin from half a century ago.

Maybe that was her in a past life, then, the wife of an unscrupulous Chinese drug lord, and she is paying off her karma in this life, trapped in the body of this man instead.

Her/his chin is the first giveaway - masculine in its strong angular definition, his upper lips showed the faint shadow that layers of makeup could not hide. No amount of mascara could alter the downward turn of the edge of his eyes which completed his decidedly male facial features which a blind man could spot all the way from the other side of the bar.

The bar is as noisy as a protest, the loud chattering murmur punctuated by drunken laughter and shouts of recognition as new friends continued pouring in. Several girls were being chatted up by men of all ages tonight, but no one comes to talk to him.

The occasional pauses of conversation allowed the Friday night patrons eyes to wander, and inevitably, a few fall on him. The reactions are plethora - some snigger inwardly, others try to point him out discreetly to their friends, and others are not as discreet. But the question on their lips after "Is that actually a dude?" is "What is he doing here?".

His intentions are uncertain, but he looks like he is waiting for someone to pick him up or buy him a drink. Or just to talk about everything and nothing, like ordinary people were doing all around him.

He twirls his cascading hair, his eyes downcast and he is lost in thought. His body sways slightly as he dances in the arms of a make-believe lover. There is a ghost of a smile on his face as he returns to a different time.

Perhaps he is in a bar once more in Phuket, and it is Friday night there too. But there, he is among his other friends who had grown tired of being boys. Tonight, he would be out with them in a bar not unlike this one, but they would be laughing, getting pissed on a girls' night out in town, and perhaps he would be taken home by a nice man (they usually weren't) if the night went well.

Instead, he is here tonight, a stark phantom of loneliness haunting the bar where people tried their best to ignore him. He wanders to the menu board, trying to look interested and telling himself not to pay attention to the gnawing loneliness he felt inside.

Hours pass and the only person to talk to him was a girl who had been kind enough to exchange a few words with him when he compliments her on her sweater as she walks past him to get to the toilets. The conversation doesn't last beyond a few minutes as she ambles back to her laughing group of friends, leaving him once more to drift aimlessly.

He finally sits himself at the bar, and his eyes trawl the blackboard menu above the bartender's head. He decides on a beer, and he silently thanks the imaginary nice Caucasian man who had offered to buy him drinks tonight, who had held his hand as he recounted how his drunken dad once beat him so bad he had to be in hospital for weeks, and who had laughed at the story of how his mother caught him trying her clothes and high heels at home one day when he was sure that she was away visiting Auntie Pom in the hospital.

He reaches for his purse, and pays the bartender for the pleasure of another night in hell. And so he dies a slow death every night, doomed to pay off all his past sins, as he whispers a quiet prayer for a better life in his next reincarnation.

To Sleep, Perchance To Dream

I will finish my reminiscence off of my time in NSW soon but here is a page from a day when things got a little bit hectic at work. Please forgive the medical jargon, and just fast forward pass the bits that don't make sense. It is the humanness of the story that I am interested in the end, as always.

11 July 2009

I love cardiac arrests. Nothing stirs you from the slumber of a lousy ward day than a bona fide full on cardiac arrest.

Today I didn’t manage to save a lady from dying. She was in the hospital for chest pains which we had investigated at length but all our leads ended in cul-de-sacs. She had developed some abdominal pain and low blood pressure overnight, and the consultant this morning wanted to do a scan on her to make sure that she didn’t actually have a weakening of her main blood vessel, the aorta.

And so the arrangements were made for her to be brought to the nearby big hospital in PM for her CT scan. She was never to make that journey as I was asked to see her later that morning as she was becoming more breathless and dropping her blood pressure.

I must admit that my mind was still ambling at the pace of a ward round, and I suggested silly reflex things like ventolin or Lasix when obviously this lady was dying right before my very eyes.

And soon the fog cleared up and I asked them to bring the BIPAP machine (a tight mask that fits over her face to help with her breathing) to her bedside, by which time she started becoming unresponsive. The cardiac monitors still showed a heart trace, but we couldn’t get a blood pressure and her oxygen saturations were dropping faster than a stock market in the Great Depression.

We got her dentures out and put in a Guedel’s airway which sat rather awkwardly in her mouth. I tried to bag and mask her unsuccessfully as I had difficulty getting a good seal. One of the nurse slammed the emergency buzzer on my harried command, and soon help arrived. We proceeded to put a nasopharyhgeal airway instead, and tried to ventilate her better with the bag and mask.

But we were all fairly junior and standing there like lost deers, before the consultant came by, and joined us in standing around like lost deers. This lady was dying before us and we didn’t know how to fix her.

We couldn’t get a blood pressure and the cells in her body were slowly dying from the lack of oxygen. We were throwing aramine and gelofusin at her, but the blood pressure still could not be detected. The decision was finally made to put a tube in her throat to make ventilation easier.

I picked the short straw and had the unenviable task of putting the tube into her gummy mouth.

I asked for suction to clear out the saliva pooling at the back of her throat, and then moved in the steel laryngoscopic blade and pulled her tongue aside. It was touch-and-go for a moment when I tried to manipulate the back of her throat to visualise the vocal cords better, but finally there it was in all its slitty glory, opening up for the plastic tube invitingly.

I didn’t need a second invitation. I whispered a quick prayer and put in the tube, a little too far in, admittedly, but there was great satisfaction in seeing her chest rise and fall as the bag was put onto the tube and pressed to inflate her lungs. The anaesthetist finally appeared, pleased to see that the tube was in, albeit a little too far in, and got it readjusted.

All this action became a little too much for her to take in the end, and her heart finally gave way. We started resuscitation, threw in the adrenaline, atropine and lignocaine combination but to little avail.

Her son was sitting at her feet all this time. They said he would be really lost without her, because he had a mental illness and was staying with her in a dependent manner.

Somehow, by the grace of God, there was no frantic hysteria as Mum entered her last leg of her race in life.

There was almost a peace that passeth understanding permeating him, as he held Mum’s hand and told her that he was there.

Sitting there at the end of the bed, he watched the doctors and nurses panic with their dilated pupils, their nostrils flared, their arms shaking, conjuring up all their magical spells and charms to try and ward off Death one more time.

The son, complete with straggly hair and unkempt beard, stood calmly before us when it was all over and we broke the bad news. It was almost like watching Mum pass away and watching the staff do everything they possibly could was therapeutic or a release of sorts for him.

There was an almost eerie clarity and purpose as he said, “ Nope, I’ve got to go to the solicitors and sort out Mum’s last will and wishes, and get some things from her cupboard, but thank you for all that you have done for Mum. I don’t have time to cry yet, but I will soon, but now is the time to get things done.”

Some people fall apart in the face of the death of a loved one. Others gain a lucidity and an energy to move purposefully to do the necessary things, and honour the wishes of their dearly departed, knowing that in this whirlwind chaos of activity that follows death, they will somehow find that little pocket to grieve for their loved ones, but not just yet.

Another Aeroplane, Another Sunny Place

His legs climb up the steps to the airplane, pausing in the queue outside the plane ever so often as the passengers inside the plane find their seats and scramble to push their luggage into the overhead compartment.

There is a plastic smiling stewardess who looks at his boarding pass and tells everyone where to go, as if they were incapable of finding their seats themselves.

He finds his seat next to the window, and plants himself next to another person who will share his space, but not his life, for the next hour or so.

The seats are stiff, he pays little attention to the perfunctory safety demonstration by the stewardesses at the start of the flight. He flicks through the on-board magazine absently as the plane begins to take off.

The plane propellers creak as they lift the airplane and its eighty four passengers skywards. He leans forward in his seat and looks outside as the world distances itself from him. The roads that seemed eternal when the taxi brought him to the airport were now just lines - perimeters surrounding the jigsaw puzzle pieces of mismatched green and brown earth beneath him.

Below him a million lives were being lived, a hundred thousand dramas unfolding, thousands of people leaving to hundreds of different destinations, convincing themselves that their problems and worries were important, when in truth, from up here, it all seemed a little less consequential.

His ruminations are interrupted when the plane flies through the clouds, and as the wispy, white, fog-like surroundings obscured his vista of the world beneath, he marvelled at the fact that he is actually flying through water.

He wishes that he could roll his window down and stick his hands out and feel the clouds. He is sure in his little-boy heart that it would feel like tearing away at cotton.

Suddenly the plane bursts through the clouds and into a different world. Silent as the South pole and just as beautiful, the sea of clouds formed their own winter wonderland beneath him, peaking and dipping like soft marshamallow mountains and valleys. The sky is a vivid blue, and it never rains here.

He takes out his camera phone and switches it on, unwilling to let such beauty pass him by. There is a little flurry of excitement in his heart as he turns it on. In the cinema of his mind, the plane takes a sudden noseward dip towards the earth, sending screaming passengers and stewardesses and the on-flight meal trolleys crashing toward the front of the plane, hurtling at six hundred kilometres per hour towards earth.

He feels both relief and disappointment when his Vodafone backed Nokia did not create the airplane catastrophe threatened by the stewardesses at the start of the flight. He captures the breathtaking view quickly and covertly, and he stows away his camera phone before it is confiscated by the friendly staff of the airplane.

He smiles a secret smile, feeling triumphant, as once more, he has cheated Death.

It's (Not So) Fun To Stay At The...

I must admit that in the time when we I was up in NSW, that there were times during the nine weeks when I had to find ways of dealing with the unnerving quiet.

There would be the regular phone calls back to K and also some fastidious reading in bed, but most of all, I would rediscover my old friend the television.

Masterchef Australia was all the rage back then, and we were glued to our televisions every night cheering on our favourite amateur chefs. I had a soft spot for Poh, who was one of the final two contestants in what was one of Australian reality television's most viewed finals ever.

The night of the finals, K and I were furiously smsing each other while the show was going on to share the excitement and the roller-coaster ride of emotions with a whole nation.

I had selected Poh to win - she had shown much promise in the last few shows leading up to the finals, and more importantly, she was showcasing Malaysian cooking to the judges and to Australia. To spice things up, let's just say I entered into a little bet with K, who secretly wanted Poh to win, but had to choose Julie by default.

The wager, done half-jokingly, was that the other person had to do the YMCA publicly.

Well, you can guess who won now, and I guess, this is as public as I will get.


To my other Poh - the most reluctant YMCA you'll ever see.

In other good news, Poh has been given her own cooking show and is in the process of publishing her own cook books. So maybe K will take pity on me and make me something from Poh's cook book one day.

I wouldn't bet on it, though.

To Catch You Up On Places I've Been 4

Road Trip Australia: Brisbane



It was my first trip to Brisbane, oh wait, no, scratch that - it was my first trip to Queensland ever, and I was as excited as a little boy on Christmas Day when the plane landed in Brisbane.

This year, one of the things I wanted to do was visit my friends interstate, and the proximity of my work in the north of NSW to Brisbane allowed me to drop by for a weekend to visit A, a good friend from high school.

One of the first things I like to do when I am travelling is to take a picture of the local taxis - it highlights something so basic in each city, and yet so different - Melbourne has its yellow taxis while the taxis in Brisbane are orange and white!

(Cheok, HK - Voted Most Likely To Be Easily Amused - Graduating Class of 1997)

There was a pickup bus and its former world-champion of pickup-bus racing driver which brought me to my friend A's place - he lived at the M on Mary Street, just on the fringe of CBD - an excellent location - away from the hustle and bustle, but with the heart of Brisbane right at your doorstep.

It was already late when I arrived, so we went for supper at the only place open in Brisbane on a Friday night - Pancake Cafe, which looked suspiciously like the Pancake Parlour back in Melbourne. It was a good time of catching up with A, and the food was actually not bad!

The next morning, God decided to bless us with a day out of His "Beautiful Saturday Weather" book, and it was perfect for walking around and taking photos:


The iconic Brisbane Conrad Treasury Casino; the bridge to Southbank; Southbank, where the Queensland Performing Arts Centre sits, licking itself clean for the production of CATS

It was quite a walk to our designated breakfast place, and I took in all the sights and sounds of Brisbane as we made our way patiently to this place in the west:


The Gunshop Café -bang for your buck, great shots of coffee, located in the wild, wild west and (insert other groan-inducing gun-slinging puns here). :)

The Gunshop Café on Mollison Street was a local icon for breakfast, and it was filled to the brim this particular morning as locals packed the café, deliberating over hearty bacon and eggs and lattés.

A and I finally decided on the same thing - the savoury chive cornbread with scrambled eggs and smoked salmon - it was a really yummy way to start the day!

Energised, we took in the other sights of Brisbane that morning - our first stop was the lovely Southbank, overlooking the Brisbane river. Southbank has been converted into a wonderful oasis for locals and travellers alike - it houses a fully synthetic beach and also many beautiful structures including the majestic Wheel of Brisbane (cleverly named so because it is shaped like a - you guessed it - wheel) and also sporadic other decorative contraptions.


The beautiful Southbank and Brisbane river - home to the Wheel of Brisbane and Stanley Market. Enlarge to see that cute little self-perpetuating water construct in the left hand corner.

One of the highlights of the area is the bustling Stanley Market - home to artistic odds-and-ends. Here you can get everything from paintings to framed panormaic photographs and an assortment of jewellery as well. Have your cards read by a Tarot reader or consult a fully qualified naturopath. This bohemian market has everything to suit the tastes of the adventurous.

Personally I bought several clever buttons from a button stall, half of which was filled with "I love Twilight" buttons and the other half with "Twilight Sucks!" buttons. I bought 4 buttons: One reads 'Cleverly Disguised As Responsible Adult' (that's me!), another one with Elmo's face on it (for K), the political one reading 'I dream of a better tomorrow where chickens can cross the road without having their motives questioned.' (Why did the chicken cross the road?) and my favourite: 'Rock is dead... Long live papers and scissors!'

We took in more of the surrounding buildings and bridges, and walked ourselves silly that morning. We ended up in the beautiful Botanical Gardens which were home to many local trees and fauna, and witness to the occasional wedding.


Some well-preserved relics in the suburbs; the beautiful curving Goodwill Pedestrian Bridge with its signature skyward spiral; the Botanical Gardens overlooking the Brisbane River

We decided that we had had enough walking for the daytime and so went back home to catch some rest.

We came out again in the evening as A brought me to see the local Chinatown (a must-see for me since I am almost Chinese) and interestingly enough, Chinatown is home not only to the Asian grocers and your Oriental eateries - it was also home to Brisbane's most popular nightclubs and lounges.


The view from A's room in the daytime and at night; Chinatown is proudly displayed on the top right red building as you enter it - there is a China House in Chinatown, there is a China Room in China House, there is a China kitchen in China Room, and in the China room there is very nice china. I'm sorry I made you read that.

There were many interesting statues that graced our path back to Southbank for dinner at Cha Cha Char. One showed an itinerant bagpack-carrying kangaroo waiting to cross the road at a traffic light, while another were just an eerie pair of hands situated at the corner of Eagle and Queen St. The hands were trying to make a point, I think, like - "Hey, look! My other hand is pointed to where the hidden treasure of Captain Cook is! Start digging!"


The statues; Char Cha Char, and a delicious dinner. Note the cute cow sauce dispenser in the left hand corner.

We made our way to Char Cha Char finally, and were a little bit early so A and I just sat out by the night river and talked a little more. We were finally given seats inside and proceeded to have a really nice steak dinner which A very generously paid for. We also had really expensive water, which cost us about seven dollars and fifty cents for a bottle of still water.

(Today's travelling tip: When the waiter asks you if you want water and you say yes, and proceeds to ask you whether you want option a: Sparkling or b: Still, go for option c: Tap. Water shouldn't cost $7.50 a bottle. Even if it has been blessed by the Pope.)

I am going to end off my very satisfying three day trip to Brisbane here. I must say that I really like the town itself, I felt really safe walking the streets the whole time, and I am sure that one day it will match and surpass Melbourne as a very liveable city indeed.