Rucksack Wanderlust

On strike

2009-04-26T15:37:00.002+01:00

Stating the obvious: I have been on strike for a while now and was urged by fancy to make this fact official. Given that it is now official, I will probably start writing again tomorrow (for an ever increasing readership of mostly fancy himself).

One in 8 Million

2009-02-13T07:20:00.000Z

Great series - makes me miss New York.

The size of the Statue of Liberty

2009-02-11T00:09:00.003Z

Can you imagine growing up in Ebbsfleet valley, telling your friends to meet you for a beer under the upper belly near the left front hoof?

It was the best of times...

2009-02-09T07:39:00.006Z

As a German girl exiled in non-German speaking places I have long gotten used to just smiling and nodding at people quoting TV shows, movies and famous lines by famous dead people. It is thus not unusual for myself to actually start using these phrases myself without being completely clear on the connotation or the source. Then, one day, I often stumble upon the source or true meaning and realize I have been saying profound none sense for years. Why don't my friends ever stop me?

The past few weeks we have been meeting a lot of new people here in the Spore and as the evening progresses we usually pull out the good old India/Nepal stories. Then, as the evening progresses more, fancy usually sums up his feelings about India in a quote that an Indian guy threw at us one fine day as fancy and I were climbing into a rickshaw causing the usual spectacle, loaded heavy with bags, fancy with crutches in his hands due to his post Everst knee situation and me sick and tired of being stared at. The quote is: "Just remember, when it's the worst of times, it's still the best of times". Until now I thought this clever man had made this up, but alas, not so.

He was quoting Charles Dickens's A Tale of Two Cities: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." - am I the only person who did not know that?

So 2004

2009-02-09T06:05:00.000Z

Blogging is so 2004 according to Wired Magazine. I am not sure that is true, but I certainly am no "oasis of folksy self-expression and clever thought". What can I say, worked till midnight on Friday, went swimming drunkenly post BBQ on Saturday night and then spent Sunday chasing people who manage to look alive and dead all at the same time. Thrilling?

Myanmar

2009-01-28T09:08:00.002Z

I'm a big fan of not relying on the news and instead finding out about a place myself. However, going to Myanmar is a bit controversial in my head - does it inadvertently support the current government? I don't know. I will try my best to avoid buying anything that does so and pack lots of things to give away. That is if I get a visa. A little visit at the embassy today revealed the customary SE Asian official, who, sitting behind a see-through plastic wall, mumbled something, mostly to himself, that I finally deciphered as: "come back in the morning". Of course there was not another potential tourist anywhere near the counter nor any reason why he could not just accept the heap of papers I had to offer to him or for that matter, why he could not look at me while he mumbled. But I suppose that is a mute point and I will be back tomorrow.

And Then There Was Light

2009-01-12T10:12:00.003Z

A, originally uploaded by Christiane B.

Our first exciting photo outing: abandoned hotel guarded by a nice old man and a furiously barking, tail wagging, large dog.

Afterwards we went for beer and murtabak, the latter being fantastic for all non-vegetarians.

Aunty Miss Chris

2009-01-11T04:09:00.009Z

A lot of people we have met here are our age or older and yet I feel like a bit of an elderly aunt watching over a happy bunch of children chirping on the playground. I don't think I have a heck of a lot to show for all the things I have done in my life so far, but I have most certainly done a lot of things.

The people I meet here are experiencing my 2001 at the moment. I don't mean 9/11. I mean the first experience of being on their own, with a job, in a new country, dancing all night, taking taxis everywhere, spending nights sitting up soaking up the feeling of being somewhere totally new and different, living the life of an expat, although I must say even that has declined in quality. An young expat is really like a middle class singaporean who lives in a condo rather than an HDB flat. I think it's high time the cushy imperialist lifestyle has ended, but the point is that being an expat here is really nothing special and not that different from life back home wherever that migh be. Only the weather is better.

My enthusiasm for having conversations revolving around just how different it is to be in Singapore and how special and how lucky we all are to live "abroad" and how this is totally life changing because, wow, it turns out you can't plan every detail of your life ("at least I still got married at 27 as I planned it") is limited. I spent about 3 hrs a day back in 1993 talking to my dear friend from 9th grade about just how different and awesome we were. And I am happy to say it is resolved now. I don't want to navel gaze and discuss our specialness (which of course evaporates just as soon as you set foot in Heathrow or JFK and everyone looks just like you) but rather meet people who through their experiences, whatever those might have been, have actually become more interesting people and don't need to talk about that the whole time.

Maybe I am no longer as open minded to meet new people? Or a bit tired of it? I don't know, but strangely in NY and London (EDIT: and Boston, where I stumbled upon an unexpected gold mine) I have always met really interesting people, and different kinds of interesting people at that, not all are nomads, but artist, writers, thinkers, wine driners, engineers - people who are passionate about what they do. This crew who enjoys dancing in a plastic palace (Clarke Quay) with Asian hookers (oh my dear, how craaaazy is that?) and discussing whether it is daaaangerous to go to Thailand right now (It's NOT) makes me want to go home by midnight and watch pirated movies instead and mildly pat their head "there, there, you'll be fine".

Loved by the Ladies

2009-01-10T01:55:00.004Z

There are three pictures of mine that get more hits than most others combined. One that displays my injured ankle, another one that displays a dear friend's pink tights and one that does not display much at all really. I have long made peace with the foot and opaque tights fanatics on flickr and learned never to tag a picture with the world foot or leg because it makes me feel brushed aside as a photographer when their love of my feet overshadows their love of my photographic skill. So this morning I was introduced a a new, interesting group of fans: the bisexual ladies, who are not looking for any guys at the moment (they profess) but are rather around to check out the ladies. That's perfectly fine obviously and I can't say I mind if people look at my photography and think to themselves that those are a bunch of beautiful gals. It's a compliment to the model and photographer, but if you tell me that you are arousing yourself while looking at the beautiful, beautiful ladies, I wonder whether you are really appreciating the thought I put into lighting, cropping and editing. I wish you'd praise how my artistic skill feeds your passion. Do it for my ego.

Expat Wives

2009-01-09T06:34:00.002Z

By about 10 am every morning (as observed from my special window seat in my corner office) a sparse but long trail of ladies begin their daily trek to the pool. They go separately and they don't seem to communicate with each other, possibly not aware of the fact that they all have the same routine: a few lathargic laps of breast stroke, head over water, a few moments of lingering by the pool, book in hand, then back to the apartment. Later they re-emerge on their way to the gym. Some have the order reversed.

I have met three girls from our building since we moved in. One Swedish, one British and one Australian. All three came to Singapore with their husbands/boyfriends. All three worked before they came here and all three gave up their jobs in order to make the move. All three are apologetic and try to downplay the fact that they are not working. Not working yet they say. Clearly they don't know how it so happened that they ended up one of those girls who sits by the pool and has to wait out the little economic turn down until they can reasonably hope to get a job. Why is it that it's all girls? Where are the boys who came here with their lovers? Why are women still more likely to make a compromise and give up their careers or at least put a large dent into them? The girls I know are not trophy wives. They had normal jobs before their move to the Spore. It is certainly more socially acceptable for girls to admit they don't work. People, expats and Singaporean alike always ask fancy about his job, never me. Either they want to be polite and not pry into what might be a delicate situation or else they just assume that I probably don't work. And this is 2009 people.

Oh but wait. The crowd at the pool - they are actually not all ladies. There is one very tan French man, giant novels in hand, sitting unashamedly by the pool every single afternoon from 2-5 or until his wife comes home. He does not even apologize, slouches low in his personal deck char and tans fast and furiously.

Outliers

2009-01-04T06:05:00.004Z

I wonder whether there is some cultural divide between what European and American kids are taught in terms of authority. Obviously I come from a culture where authority is not questioned nearly enough and kids are taught to respect certain professionals (doctors, police men, crazy men with mustaches) and not interrupt or challenge their elders. In the US according to Malcolm Gladwell only lower class families teach their kids this humility. A certain entitlement, brattiness, confidence and sense of having to question everything and everyone is taught to rich kids in the US, characteristics that hold across different racial and ethnic backgrounds. Paradoxically these are exactly the skills that let those kids succeed in life or so it appears from what I have gathered by reading Outliers over fancy's shoulder by the pool.

Maybe this will be the year I challenge my economists once and for all and demand they admit all their assumptions are bogus to begin with!

It would be interesting to study this authority and culture theory a bit more. Surely there must be a PhD out there somewhere that lets one do that? With the INSEAD application out the door I am trying to forget it ever happened and swiftly come up with a good plan B, as you can see.

Oh sweet serenity

2009-01-04T04:32:00.003Z

Sunset Swing, originally uploaded by Christiane B.

I essentially never see my parents because we live on very different continents. When I do see them it is always a surprise of how they are much different from what I thought they were like. I tend to forget. Or maybe use selective memory. The mental preview of a parental visit usually revolves around glasses of wine to be drunk and do-you-remember-when conversations to be had. I tend to forget however that after the first evening of wine and chat comes the first morning of scrutiny. Sentences starting with the words "not that I want to tell you what to do" can only be explained as being rooted in memories on their part of me being small and silly. The fact that we do not own six matching plates is construed as something that is due to us not knowing that we need to want and that we need to have six matching plates. In no way does it enter the maternal side of the parental unit's mind that we are not lacking six matching plates (or clothes lines or coffee tables or side boards) because we fail to realize that we need them which in their minds we clearly do, but rather because we really, truly are happy without said items. The senior believe that their way of life, full of matching items, planned out meals and swiffered floors is just a little bit superior to ours and the reason we are not living it quite their way can only be because we don't realize that it is superior. Therefore they must educate us. Persistently. A little bit every day. Surely one day we will see that we are mistaken.

Beach Storm

2008-12-29T13:28:00.001Z

Lone boat with approaching storm, Ko Phi Phi island, Thailand
Originally uploaded by .Anton

A storm just caught us sitting under a make shift internet hut on the beach. The cold Singha will have to wait because when it rains, it really rains.

Phi Phi has been a return to a younger than Koh Lak and more party lusting crowd. Also I met a lady who I think I could be if I were not so prissy. We went diving with this gnarly looking, freckled all over, wiry Ozzy woman who talks like a dike and splits her time teaching skiing and mounteneering. Sadly I can't ski. I do hope that if I end up weathered and cowgirl-esque in a decade or so to carry it with such grace.

The beach here is littered with wonderful bars spilling out their big pillows onto the sand, stoners singing soul music, Thai ladies giving massages right on the beach for 300 bhat and long tail boats showing up every night with the freshest fish. I do love Thailand.

More on Beach Chairs

2008-12-26T14:54:00.008Z

I have in the past spoken about the amazing phenomena that is German vacationing behaviour, best observed in Mallorca or along the Adriatic coast lines. Here, in Koah Lak, Thailand, I was able to see the finest, proudest and most blatant display of this vacationing trademark. The fucking towels on the fucking beach chairs at 6 am. Why?

We arrived in a parent friendly and us friendly resort north of Phuket when there was not a soul in sight. Sun chairs littered the abandoned beaches, speedos were a rare sight, soft boiled eggs stayed behind at the breakfast buffet. Then the Germans came. A lot of them. And some Finns too. And I do think they deserve their soft boiled eggs piled high on their breakfast plates and I will not deny a man his right to choose a white or yellow speedo of the "banana hammock" cut and style but the beach chairs. Puhleeeeaaase. One morning, shortly after the towel cart opened, fancy and I were strolling along the lovely, sandy, white beach (so much better than the beach chairs!) being happy campers when it occurred to me to take a rest and sit on one of those fabled chairs after all. Not a soul was in sight and so I figured what I nice moment to gaze out upon the ocean and be luxurious. Except there was not a beach chair available. Oh yes, there are about forty of them lined up throughout the resort, in little coves and hidden under palm trees, but upon careful inspection I realized there was not one that did not have a carefully placed towel on top of it. We walked by a row of forty beach chairs, all toweled down with the same purple hotel beach towel. The owners were still piling soft boiled eggs onto breakfast plates and were not to be seen. How I wonder do they know which one is theirs? Who I wonder had to get up early and strategically place these? Is it the youngest child? The eldest? What I wondered would happen if I moved one?

I saw, without having to lift a finger, the anger this imprudent action would inspire. A few hours later, a white speedoed, bulldog faced fat bellied German family man (mini bulldog in a blue speedo watching intently) was directing some Thai guys to carry beach chairs clear across the resort in order to replace one that apparently had been stolen from him. It was not my doing. Yet watching him command these poor guys around I lost my taste to try to trick the Germans. You can't beat them, you have to join them?

Or you can just sit in the lush white sand and drink mojitos. I think I can! Pictures to follow.

Today is the four year anniversary of the tsunami and people in the resort have put down postcards and flowers for the people who died in the area (5000!). To think that the turquoise bay could part and send huge waves into our bungalows is hard to imagine. I guess it's always luck to be at the right place at the right time or not to be there.

No Longer Idle

2008-12-01T09:13:00.001Z

27/365 Idleness gets the job done
Originally uploaded by Christiane B

The time has come to admit that in the previous months I had come close to having to state my occupation as being housewifery. Upon our arrival in SIN city any illusion of independence had been crushed along with that little bit of self-worth that comes with the ability to be independent. When I say independent I mean that before I moved here I was able to get myself a cell phone at my leasure, I was able to sign a lease, I was even able to open a bank account. Not in SIN city, at least not on a dependent pass. And that is what I was: a dependent. Someone who had to call her Cuban fancy to sign for her to get a phone and someone who could not even dream of applying for a credit card in her very own name. And lets be honest, asking a Cuban for help in anything money or credit related is obviously pretty much forbidden by law in most countries.

Well, the only reason I can admit to this gut wrenching situation is that it has now been remedied. As of a few days ago I am proud holder of an employment visa by a company that only narrowly escaped being named "Little Me Incorporated". Either way, I convinced my company to hire myself and turns out I was very convincing and now I am free again. I might just go out and buy myself something useless, just because I won't have to call fancy to sign for me. Yay!

Worth a Visit

2008-12-01T09:01:00.001Z

P1090897
Originally uploaded by stevenjude

This is how much fun you could have. If you come visit us. Or come live here.

Apparently Air Asia is going to start flights from London to KL in March and from KL its only one awful long bus journey or one little puddle jumper hop on an aeroplane to us in Singapore.

So what are you waiting for?

Lack of Clarity

2008-11-20T14:03:00.003Z

I had almost forgotten my password that's how long its been. You see, the thing is I am somehow in this state of suspense which makes it a bit difficult to say anything, anything at all, lest I be jinxing myself or contradicting my very strongly held opinion of today by early tomorrow.

The time spent swimming a few laps in the tropical downpour is about the only moment of clarity I have in a day. In the meantime I am scrambling to make some money while the money lasts. On one hand the world bank should be flooded with requests for projects right about now, making me a very rich woman on the other hand I fear soon there will be nobody to shell out the cash needed. Other than maybe Saudi Arabia but only if they get their super oil tanker back.

Then there is the big question of holy shit, will I go to grad school next year? Do I have the brain power to get some applications out and oh, is that a good idea or a rash and silly one? This weekend I have my debut as a children's photographer, which might plunge me back into the obsessive wishing to make a living as an "artiste" momentum or maybe not.

SIN city and its tales of chicken-rice and expat sluts does merit its own post. Soon. Very soon.

Shanghai

2008-11-10T03:01:00.001Z

Old and New Shanghai
Originally uploaded by Christiane B

Hurrah! And no storm in sight.

You gotta sleep when you gotta sleep

2008-10-28T16:05:00.001Z

Mid Day Break
Originally uploaded by Christiane B

I don't know how and what and why but I am running in circles like a mad rabbit. Need to start with the mid day naps.

In the meantime, fancy and I are double eloping so to speak. He is running us away somewhere for the weekend in honor of our ship wreckage one year ago. I just don't know where we are going and so far this is the only surprise he has been able to keep from me (duh, obviously as far as I know) .

My money is on Shanghai. Or maybe Tokyo. What do you think?

Asian Trust?

2008-10-24T01:45:00.002+01:00

When we moved yonder east, fancy and I took the opportunity to finally get a joint bank account because that is what one does. Apparently it shows one's commitment and the general we are in this mess together-ness.

However, apparently Asian families don't dig being controlled by their significant other because upon finally checking my bank balance yesterday I realized that I could only see 2X worth of transactions, however my bank account has been reduced by something more around the value of 67X. Funny. Where did all that money go. Before accusing them of theft I realized, well, yes, half the transactions from IKEA are not on there I know that I left what feels like millions at IKEA (despite the fact that everything is so damn cheap! How does that happen?), so I knew something was wrong.

It turns out anything fancy purchases I cannot see on my statement and vice versa. It would have been funnier if he, as an Asian man, could see what I spent but I could not see what he spent. My favorite would be however if the total balance would only reflect my purchases, thus giving me the illusion of a double salary and only half the expenditures. Sadly this is not the case.

Do all joint bank accounts hide this stuff from you or is it just a testament to Asian family trust?

Voyerism

2008-10-23T02:55:00.003+01:00

From the exact spot where I spend most of my days, the upper corner of the wood dining room table, I can observe two other people's lives, which by the way seem just as varied as mine.

Bare chested man across the parking lot hovers in a seated position by the window. I only see the pillows he leans against. Hopefully the glass is reasonably solid. Maybe he is a home-working professional or else he counts his drug money all day long. Then to my right, in very close proximity, is expat lady as I call her. I think she is English or maybe Australian and she spends most her days outside the scope of my prying eyes, but in the afternoons she flops herself onto some balcony chairs, adjusts her bathing suit to minimize tan lines and then gets up every two seconds to take care of something inside the house, only to come back out a minute later. She then readjusts her bathing suit and pretends to relax again.

I kind of want to meet my new friends. I hope they think I am either a lady preparing for her evening cooking show, a PhD student researching sexual abnormalities in primates or an astronaut.

The World Out There

2008-10-22T00:49:00.003+01:00

Today I am taking my laptop and I am leaving Parc Emily, yessssir.

In the confines of kitchen (imported cafe Bustello), pool (Do I need to say more) and balcony (View of sleazy men carrying heavy things) I have everything to make the day go by.

Better even, wearing a beach sarong counts as being dressed, taking a break can include a nap and the snack selection is decent, but lacking are the hilarious things that happen when OTHER human beings actually interact with you, like not on the intenet. Maybe they will spill coffee all over you or cut you off at the light or maybe they will even swear at you when you spill coffee on them. I can't wait! Starbucks here I come.

Academia or Art

2008-10-21T00:14:00.003+01:00

It's 7 am, the residents across the pool are sitting outside in their wicker chairs drinking sweet tea with milk or whatever it is that Singaporeans treat themselves to for rising early and I am trying to get in a little review of polynomials before work.

Will wait with the cat but will charge ahead with project "Just Do It" or as my friend just quoted her friend saying "Fucking Just Do It". The way I see it there are two options: Academia or Art. Thankfully they are not mutually exclusive and I might even believe that doing badly at one might increase my chances with the other. So with three weeks to the application deadlines for PhD programs in Singapore I finally got enough adrenaline going to decided to go for it. This is precisely the perfect time span that I can go into and remain in overdrive. I have had too much time to think and ponder for the past five years and as a result I have been to many pretty islands and have had many pretty wine induced conversations about finding my passion, but I have not done a whole lot.

Thankfully there are exactly two universities in Singapore worth applying to, so I am spared the pondering of 15 backup choices vs. reach schools and so on. A bit silly not to go to grad school in either the US or Europe you might say, especially given that those are the best schools and incidentally I have lived most my life in either place. Yes indeed, but what to do? The positive part is that it makes the process easy: either I get in and I accept or I don't. Filling out fun electronic forms, chasing down profs from almost a decade back and google-ing up some research ideas is not difficult. Difficult is trying to get a date to take the GMAT or GRE within the next three weeks in a part of the world where everyone is currently trying to get into grad school it appears and then not freaking out about well, having to take the test which means preparing for the test while working full time.

So the next three weeks, until November 11th, it is all about academia. After that it will be all about art. 11/11 is the magic day. I am shortlisting models (mentally) from the people I have met here so far and sharpening my photo lenses and come 2009 I should be well on my way towards academia or art. Or both.

How many islands...?

2008-10-09T03:23:00.004+01:00

There is something inherently difficult for me to commit to one place, one thing. I think it's all about having options and as many as possible. The thought of shutting the door on anything at all seems ludicrous. As I result I may have adopted a bit of a short term mentality when it comes to life. The same way I would choose my classes in college never to commence before 10:30 am no matter how brilliant the subject matter, I also make sure nothing I commit to now ties me down for more than a year. Fancy is portable so that part luckily works out.

This strategy has worked out fine and dandy until now, but I am starting to feel that this attachment phobia is making me miss out. Some things seem to demand giving up the "off I go at the drop of a hat" mentality but they also promise something more than transient happiness.

I like where I am at in life in terms of achievements and my career but not too much. And that is the point. Liking it too much would have meant a lot of investment and thus maybe, God forbid, a reluctance to up and leave. If our past trip has taught me one thing it is that man do I love sitting on the beach, but if it has taught me two things, then the second one is that shit, these things always end, invariably washing you onto shore somewhere. You are a bit more broke, a bit more tan and in dire need to take a liking to your daily life because else there is not all that much to look forward to other than the next trip.

Most options that offer the possibility of maybe liking life in one single place involve either more school or some serious entrepreneurial effort that might have to stretch over more than one year and sure as hell will ruin some perfectly good vacation opportunities. It frightens me but I think it might be time to consider those options. At the moment the idea of housing a cat is cramping my style because what if I want to go to KL for a week to work from there, just because, and then to Brunei for a weekend, I mean holy crap, my life would be positively bogged down if I did not have the knowledge that I can do those things. Now imagine giving a shit about the work I do and I might and up sitting somewhere holed up with my cat too busy and possibly too involved with something to think about how many Indonesian islands one could hit on one season.

La Casa

2008-10-05T02:36:00.005+01:00

Picture fancy peeking out behind IKEA boxes somewhere on the 7th floor around a bay window, while I am perched on our 4th floor friend's doorstep stealing the wireless.

So far working from home has been made interesting by construction workers flooding, then fixing, then breaking, then re-fixing our apartment. All day I am busy giving home-making kinds of orders to men in dirty overalls. It's exciting. So is the discovery of a Starbucks next door and our Belgium neighbor who boasts both wireless and a seeming endless supply of bubbly water along with an intense hatred of the Dutch to which he makes only one exception. ECONOMISTA has been incorporated and now all I need is a frilly art school or the courage to carry my impressively heavy Porsche camera around in this heat in order to get my fix of feeling creative.

I didn't want to....

2008-09-15T22:26:00.003+01:00

...but I could not keep it in any longer.

Most everybody has already voiced their shock/horror/exhileration at the appointment of Ms Palin as vice presidential candidate, read: presidential candiate. Let me share with you why I am horrified, and actually, finally, really worried about the future of the good old US of A.

I don't agree with most everything McCain seems to have chosen to represent for the upcoming election, starting from his proposed immigration policy and ending with his sanctitiy of life/pro life views. However, I do not think McCain is completely unqualified for the job. I don't want him to get the job, but I don't equate McCain with the end of the America as we know it.

Palin as president makes me quiver. A redneck, backwoods lady with extensive PTA experience and a slight knack for abusing her power even on a small level packaged in a charming mother of four (with a fabulous hairdo?), a grandmother to be who believes it a good idea to re-institute prayer in schools, an avid abstinance teacher (see the part on being a grandmother) and a creationist. The kind of creationist nevertheless who likes to shove her views down other peoples throats.

My very personal and very subjectibve view is that she is a person who I judge to be unable due to her own tightly held world views to understand anybody else's point of view. A person who completely lacks any, call it cosmopolitan, ability to relate to the rest of the world on how they view the mess we have created. She IS America and she stands and defends the mess we have created. I think America needs now more than ever somebody who has both the experience to confront and play hardball with leaders of some countries (you know who you are) whose hardassed leader will not be impressed by her PTA credentials, extensive foreign policy experience and the ability to also employ some diplomacy when needed. No bulldog. Not even with lipstick. What we need is somebody with some experience, now that I think about it, sort of like Joe Biden, realistically probably the most qualified person to be president. Too bad that as soon as he entered the picture Obama stopped grabbing the headlines and now it's Palin, Palin, Palin. And I am doing it too.

America is already loosing ground on the rights that were won forty years ago. Do we really want to go back to the good old days of coat hangers and butcher knieves. Does it really seem like a good time and place to mix state and religion? Yikes, I am starting to think Obama HAS to win. Or else.

I'd be moving to Canada....

Lets talk about Cindy

2008-09-13T07:05:00.004+01:00

Biggest liability? His wife

Best demonstration of his lack of judgement? His wife

Avoiding responsibility/not doing "the right thing"/family values in the gutter/bad Christian? Leaving his ex wife

Why are the demos playing fair all of a sudden? Cindy McCain has enormous potential.

...and I am back

2008-09-11T07:40:00.002+01:00

53/365 transport for London
Originally uploaded by Christiane B

London transport is still shit and people still call 16C weather summer but I am gorging myself on non-curry foods and cheap wine. Best of all is the feeling of fitting in completely. Nobody is looking at me, I don't have the feeling that I am representing anything other than myself. Even in Singapore I am something, either a tourist or an expat, but here I am nothing. I am just like the other free metro-grabbing, Costa-coffee chugging girls rushing around town.

In Quadruples

2008-09-01T11:44:00.005+01:00

Death it appears does not come alone.

A few weeks ago my grandfather passed away after a short but painful bout with cancer. Next a friend's father, then a friend and colleague of the newly acquired husband and now, probably most shocking, the sister of another friend. I feel like I am standing on the sidelines helpless as some of the people I love the most struggle to come to terms with what they know is best in some cases and what they know is not in others. Those are the moments when I wish I was not so far away.

Condo Heaven Condo Hell

2008-09-01T11:33:00.002+01:00

Arriving at the fancy Changi airport, making my way down the fancy escalator to the fancy immigration desk where the pretty regular, non-fancy sweets await the eager visitor I did feel a strange sense of deja-vu. Fifteen years is a long time though and somehow the past few days were spent quite differently from last time.

No moping around huge marble floor condo with giant swimming pool and maid bringing a parade of moon cakes home to make friends with the bratty daughter of her employer. Nope. It's me condo shopping (after a none-moping swim in the pool and stealing moon cakes from the lobby of our current residence) and I am about to throw all caution to the wind and sign up for a tiny place that is nothing special, does not even have the otherwise customary 50m lap pool or a gym, simply because it has the biggest roof terrace in history. Else I blow our yet to be earned income on an ugly as hell condo park that resembles a glorified Harlem block except for the price tag. Brand new it is with a view of all of Singapore from the 22nd floor and best of all, the whole thing is pretty much a water park. If you can overlook the industrial feel, you are spoilt for tropical, lounging and exercise pool choices and as the real estate lady assured me, I will be the envy of all my friends. Super. Does she know who she is talking to? Oh and the whole thing is built around the old US ambassador's mansion which is now the function room. Ha, functions?

I am sorry, this is boring and I am indecisive. Why can't I have the roof garden with the water park and then maybe a more central location close to the cute and uncharacteristically atmospheric Kampung Glam area where there are Jazz cafes and Turkish eateries in old Chinese houses with the pretty Chinese lanterns I so adore?

Expectations

2008-08-23T08:45:00.004+01:00

With four days to go until we have to shed our dirty backpacker skins I am starting to dread having to give a thought to anything that does not involve transport, food and fun. From what I recall there are other things one does have to worry about (haircuts? paying rent?) or maybe one worries about those unnecessarily. I shall find out.

I am having a hard time not wanting to write up to do lists that would scare the besus out of me. God knows there have been a million issues involving every public and private institution in three countries that we have been blissfully ignoring, unable to get our heart rate up enough to create the kind of care or concern that would possibly induce action.

What does get my heart rate up however is the thought of how our lives will be once in Singapore, or really, lets be honest, what my life will look like.

First off, fancy and I will be separated. I don't think him and I have not been sitting directly next to each other for more than maybe four hours (and that is an outlier) in the past three months. I like to think myself an independent person, but I have gotten awfully used to backing every major step (buy green or red dolphin sarong?) with a nod from him. I got used to wasting endless hours sitting by the ocean sipping mango drinks, reading the exact same books, meeting the exact same people, listening to all the same conversations, spending an identical day so that we are pretty much the same person.

So lets presume I can manage to survive all on my own without developing phobias or anxiety attacks and manage to make my very own decisions about breakfast choices, the next big issue is, what do I do with the rest of the day? I am torn between two conflicting visions of my free-lance Singapore life.

After spending an amazing day on the beach or on a boat, filled with nothing but happy endorphins I envisions this amazing life of mine as follows: getting up, going for a swim in our luxurious condo (haha! real estate prices are not quite there yet!), making myself that mango lassi, working at home during the noon heat, meeting some lunching lady for well, lunch, with a glass of chilled chardonnay, working a bit more, going for a swim in the afternoon and soon enough the weekend will roll around when we will go to Thailand or Indonesia or Malaysia for beach fun. On the side I will dapple in photography, building up an impressive fashion-y portfolio that will then make the first part of the day redundant - the work bit, not the mango bit.

On less optimistic days I wonder why on earth I thought it would be a good idea to move to a city where I know nobody except possibly the girl I was mean to when I lived there during 9th grade (and her two baby sons cause yay I love babies), in order to work at home, give up any contact with colleagues and clients except the odd instance when I will fly out to meet the team in some obscure location in the Middle East, give up any motivation to further my career via being stimulated by being around other people, only to spend weekends on a tropical island that lacks even a decent beach and boasts cocktail prices about the same level as London.

Which one will it be?

Euphorically 'Narked"

2008-08-23T07:07:00.005+01:00

I have finally reached the point where diving is more fun than terrifying and where I am more relaxed and enjoying the underwater waddle than in constant readiness to spring into a panic. Diving IS relaxing but all the tubes flowing around me, the swishing sound of breathing bottled air, the thought of those vital tubes disconnecting or me running out of air or being left behind or last but not least the possibility of an underwater creatures dragging me down into their dark holes has kept my heart rate up until now.

Yesterday fancy and I completed our advanced open water dive course and in the process I got to love all the things I had anticipated with a bit of fearful dread: deep dives and night dives. Maybe nitrogen narcosis is real at 30m but in any case, I felt completely at ease maybe even a mild bit euphoric as we slowly make our way past colorful fishies gently hanging out sideways in the current and even the thought of encountering shark, in my book a dreaded event but somehow hailed by most divers as the ultimate goal of a dive, no longer freaked me out. And the evil suckers stayed away. Hallelujah.

I felt so fabulous about the whole thing that I singed up to do it five more times over the next week. Yes, we really did abandon the whole travel thing and decided to stay our last two weeks in one single place, vacationing. The idea of making it to the Andaman side of Thailand has been abandoned due to reports of bad weather but mostly due to our unwillingness to pack and shoulder our bags again. It's pretty perfect right here.

Full Mooners

2008-08-19T05:23:00.009+01:00

She done dancing and she is DONE dancing and dancing done her.

A little pre-dancing snorkel had done in her sinuses which she then numbed with some chuck a buck whisky bucket, which held her over to admire the highlights of the full moon party: 18 year olds everywhere, 18 year old humping in the water, 18 year olds being dragged out of the water where they passed out while vomiting, 18 year olds climbing up scaffolding that hosted the various sound stages, 18 year olds as far as the eye could see.

The party was fabulous and grand but if you are not 18 and if you have traveled alone before or lived in Miami or if you have stayed out all night before (like, totally all night without like a curfew) or if you have been to beach parties before, then maybe there is that little part of you that says, this was cool but no, I won't be telling my grandchildren all about it. And actually that is a nice feeling: this one is now happy to relax on the beach and she won't be crying for more and more and more dancing for a little while.

The fabulous side effect of our last crazy bash was that now we are friends with everyone from our little island (Koh Tao) who took the boat with us to and from the party - the return journey at 5am deafening affair of Puff Daddy and Madonna.

Most everyone also took a souvenir back home from Koh Phangan: some guys a black eye, someone a gash on their arm, me and fancy a cold and then there are the numerous multi day hangovers to cure. Now we are sitting first row beach side during the day, commiserating about the toughness of life and at night wander down along the beach visiting the various establishments that offer fire shows and candle lit beach dinners.

Tomorrow the diving will begin.

She Will Dance

2008-08-14T07:31:00.002+01:00

Full Moon Party, Thailand
Originally uploaded by Brendan H

The past three months I have been living the tragic life of a a Broadway musical lead character. She scrubs the floors, she smiles and bows at her evil step sisters, she works day and night for a fat mean uncle who tries to seduce her, and all that because she always wanted to be a dancer. However, her path is littered with obstacles, reasons why she cannot dance, things she must overcome and disappointments she must learn to accept gracefully.

Maybe a slight exaggeration you say? Hardly. Until now there have been many obstacles cutting short my dancing career.

Sometimes there is no dancing because there is no electricity. Sometimes there is no dancing because there are no people. Sometimes there is no dancing because her beloved husband is nursing a peg leg.
Sometimes there is no dancing because there are curfews, strikes or blackouts.
Sometimes there is no dancing because she showed up too early or too late or not at all.
Sometimes there is no dancing because she is too tired to dance.
Other times there is a little bit of dancing but she still goes home wanting to dance more.

But as the 11th hour nears, she will dance like she has never danced before. She will be danced into the ground by many a pill popping nineteen year old, she will be tired and she will be cursing the dancing, but there will be sand, people, electricity and there will be music. All night. Every night.

Full Moon Party August 2008. Here we come.

No, I will not post a picture of my fists...

2008-08-13T08:50:00.005+01:00

"Whatever keeps my skin the purest white" is the slogan of the wealthy woman in Thailand. Luxurious lily whiteness much like the Mom in "Little House on the Prairie" preaches is still all the rage. I suppose with most of the population living in the country side, working manual jobs and with urbanization a relatively new phenomena, whiteness is power, whiteness is luxury, whiteness means you have AC. I am searching the pharmacies in vain for some face cream that does not also have a bleaching agent. People, why do you think I sit and suffer in the scorching sun for? Maybe I should be grateful for the reminder that a leather face is not attractive ever. So given our next permanent residency's proximity to the equator, maybe I should lap up the spf 50+.

As you can tell, our hard core travel has ended and now we are on vacation. We sleep till noon, we plan lunch while we eat breakfast, we shop for fake Rolexes, we nap, we drink, we observe big white guys getting it on with petite Thai girls. We rest a lot. And we are not the only ones.

Sleeping unashamedly in public is a very sanctioned activity in general. This includes sleeping on your desk at work even while visible through the all glass store front from the street, it includes sleeping in a brand new Mercedes in the show room, even if visible from the street, it includes sleeping on the sidewalk on top of all your "same, same, but different" t-shirts you are trying to sell. Sleeping is always ok. As long as it is in the shade. See above.
The city of angels has once again created a wholesomely happy existence for us with none of the perversions and skankiness that we had hoped for readily coming our way. So, thank you Defender74RAB for your creepy request via flickr which I'll ignore but only after sharing it with the world. Watch yo'self:

Truck Stuck Mud

2008-08-07T13:10:00.002+01:00

DSC12130 - Sawngthaew truck stuck in mud (Laos)
Originally uploaded by loupiote (Old Skool)

If you type "truck, stuck, mud" into flickr, the first shots that come up are all from Laos and there is a reason why!

Today we saw a new variation of the truck stuck mud phenomena. Our optimistically named VIP vehicle called King Bus came to a screetching halt about three hours into the journey behind a line of other vehicles which I am estimating represent about half of all vehicles driving around in Laos. In other words, maybe about 15. It turns out we had a double attraction. A giant truck carrying a bulldozer got stuck, which pushed a minivan to try to pass said truck, in turn also getting stuck, balancing near the drop off that begins about 2 feet away from the road and leads down into the rainforest. Nobody was hurt but the clusterfuck of the van and truck were blocking the entire mud bath road. Always clever, the driver of the truck decided to drive the brand spankign new bulldozer off a make shift ramp off his truck to lighten the load. It did not appear that he had ever done such a thing and a took a good hour for him to lift the shovels, play with the engine and work up the courage to go ahead with the plan. With some effort he managed to plunge the bulldozer off the truck, manuever the vehicle through the lake of mud past the truck, attached his own truck and pulled himself out of the mud. In the meantime about 20 people had managed to get the minibus unstuck by vigorously shaking it and simultaniously pushing it away from the drop off that it was hanging out on and within two hours we were back on our merry way to Vang Vien.

I was upset that unlike the way one would expect it in India no little lady had set up a sandwich or curry stand to capitalize off the gauking crowds, tourists and locals alike.

Minus some AC drip in the latter part of the ride and having the dubious honor to sit bitch in the last row on what is known to be a motion sickness inducing road, we have no complaints or accidents to report.

Vang Vien is rich in so called "happy" shakes, "happy" pizzas (and no they don't mean extra pineapple) and other "poppy seed" infused items. Given my big plan for tubing tomorrow I may have to pass. Girl's got to get her priorities straight and I hear Laon jails aren't so hot, or rather they are pretty hot but not so well equipped with food and things like that.

Afternoon Near Death Experience

2008-08-06T15:56:00.008+01:00

So, today we decided to set off for some waterfall action and thus we made our way down the main street of Luang Prubang to find the suitable rickshaw driver to take us. He was promptly located and we started off on the 30km drive into the country side. As we were rolling away we were talking about why don't we take rickshaws all the way to Vang Vien, 150km away, a drive that will take another nine hours due to random stoppage and other inexplicable events. After the drive both of us also admitted also thinking in private just how shit it would be to get into an accident with a vehicle like that regardless how fast and freeing the travel may be. Maybe hindsight is always 20:20 or maybe the driver was more crap than the average, leaning hard into the turns and swerving all over the road, giving us a good intuitive idea of what was to come.

Sure enough, 25km into the drive we came upon a vehicle parked on the side of the road. We came a bit closer, and a bit closer, as someone on the back of a glorified pickup one would and we did pay attention to the road and both kept staring at that parked truck coming closer and closer. As we got just to that point where one is close enough to start thinking about swerving out off the way, I saw the driver drop a tissue out of the window of his little cabin and I thought to myself, oh that is littering, bohoo! Three split seconds I had a whole different dilemma on my mind. There was still this pickup truck parked on the road and we were getting closer, definitely now having arrived at the moment where now one has to crank the wheel hard to avoid a nice little crash, an unnerving situation as a passenger. Does the driver dude really not see this truck? It turns out, he does not. He must still be hanging out the window blowing snot or littering or who knows, because we keep going, going, going, straight for it, all of a sudden it's not longer, holy shit, we are getting too close, it's fucking hell, we are crashing right into it and there is nothing we can do in our little metal cage to prevent it. There are bars stopping me from flying straight off the truck and there are bars holding up a rain cover in the middle of the truck and shit, which ones do I hold on to first?

As we slam into the truck, there is that scary second where I think we are going to slip and flip and then the driver wakes up and manuevers us into a ditch, thankfully without a drop off into any major abyss. We come to a halt. A giant piece of metal had come loose from the truck that we hit and cut up the entire side where newly acquired husband is sitting, slicing the seat he was on in half, without cutting him. He too apparently opted to hold on to the middle rail as had I. I only have a mark on my arm where I must have slammed into the railing and newly acquired husband is miraculaously completely uninjured, but both of us and mostly the driver are a mess. Not that anything happened, it's more the realization of how close we came to flipping over and flying out of a truck in a rural, poor, isolated country that has not a single medical facility up to snuff and just how fast fun and games and adventures can turn into a medical disaster. God knows we have ridden on a multitude of unsafe, overloaded vehicles cruising into night and fog without lights or seat belts to comfort one and it has been fun all the way.

With slightly shaky legs we were climbed into a new tuck tuck already loaded high with tourists which drove us to the amazing waterfalls where we wallowed in icy floods slightly shell shocked at how closely we diverted disaster. Our tuck tuck man deserted back to the city to bemoan his scratched and dented up vehicle.

We just had one more beer Laos and booked ourselves on a bus ride to Vang Vien on a VIP bus in hopes that that somehow means an increase in the safety precautions. Funny how it only takes a little jolt to remind one of one's own mortality.

Euro Snobbery

2008-08-05T07:12:00.012+01:00

I realize how Americanized I have become when I get angry at the Euro snobbery that in principle I too am guilty of. There is this attitude in Europe, especially the old west (Germany, France, Spain, Italy...) that somehow the European system is a bit superior to the American one. After all, everyone has health care and we are not some money and power hungry capitalist system, letting it's weakest members rot in the gutter while bombing the shit out of the rest of the world.

Of course it is the same people who like to come visit America, bitch about the shitty system, American superficiality and stupidity and lack of worldliness (is it true only 5% of Americans have passport? Is it true Americans can't even find Americn on a map?) but then are too cheap to tip their non-healh insured waiter who has never had the privilege of travel or study abroad while they are trying to split a bill of four coca colas (with endless refills) that allowed them to sit in some cafe for hours thus depriving the creature they pity so much of his income. Apparently it is the Euro view that the state is somehow responsible for taking care of people and they often refuse to take any individual action.

Traveling, there are a lot of beer induced discussions with other travelers about the world system and how things are here and there and everywhere. Interestingly it is usually those nice middle class European kids, who have nice parents, who bough them nice little cars, helped them pay the rent and those who at the age of 28 have never worked a day in their life while studying social sciences and philosophy who complain about the US. If they ever held a job then it's to supplement their drinking or travel budget but at the same time they seem to think that this luxury life of theirs should and could be available to everyone. Sure, that would be nice but they are missing the point: The reason they can have what they have is that other people work for nothing, the reason they can take their nice vacations is because other people are poor. I am not saying that is right or good, but it is hypocrisy to believe one above all that just because one is a socialist at heart. It's the same person who won't pay 1 dollar to that rickshaw guy and who will haggle over 2 cents when buying snacks from the market lady who believes himself or herself a bleeding heart liberal.

Also there is usually an American kid at the table who at 13 or 14 has been put to work in his pop's friend's restaurant or truck rental and not to get himself a boost to his allowance, but in order to pay rent for the family house. This kid is exactly the uninsured poor bastard who did not go to college or enjoy any of the Euro perks. However, he already got street wise, knows how to negotiate with the locals, can communicate even with the language barrier, smiles while crammed into a small overheated minibus with 30 other smelly people and knows to survive on bread and rice without complaining. Also this person has by the age of 20 figured out some business, usually very blue collar and unsexy that involves getting your hands dirty that allows him to travel in his own dime, and surely in 10 years from now that kid will be a huge success while us Euro snobs will still debate the merits of socialism and how unfair the wold is to the poor while we order another cocktail in a poor rural country with the money that the strong Euro and daddy's bank account afforded us.

Maybe we won't. Maybe the Euro snobbery will end soon as there is less and less money to divide up between more and more people who feel entitled to it without pulling their own weight. And of course not everyone in Europe grows up rich, by no means, but more often than not it's the true poverty and scrappyness of those poor uninsured American (and of course also European, Asian etc) bastards that gets them motivated and ultimately successful, uncomplaining of their lot, but instead getting ahead and out of their situation while not loosing their ability to live cheaply and show consideration towards other people who are struggling.

So maybe this middle class Euro snob has learned to appreciate at least one aspect of American culture: the ability to take responsibility of one's own life and the knowledge that life will not be served up on a silver platter. Do I think everyone should enjoy a happy life with free health care and education and throw in some vacations for good measure? I do, I do, but do I think that is in the cards? No. So maybe the greatest thing to learn is not to rely on some ever present nanny state but instead get busy helping more people help themselves instead of propagating that things should be free.

Maybe I am getting excited to get back to work and actually DO something again, not just talk about it. That said, there are some reasons why I am thinking the new freelance situation I had worked out may turn out not to be the golden opportunity I had anticipated but for now I will stick with it. Well, actually for now I am still lazing the day away in pretty Luang Prabang with some river tubing and waterfalling on the agenda for the next few days.

Dien Bien Phu and into the Wild

2008-08-05T05:51:00.006+01:00

Last Friday we made our way to Dien Bien Phu, where most notably the French lost Vietnam before the Americans tried a few decades later with the same results. It's a beautiful little town in the hills and rain forest where we promptly got stuck for a day because of our usual lack of planning. We had intended to take a taxi to the border to Laos and then maybe hitch a ride from there. Thankfully we were not able to negotiate the taxi price down enough for our liking which really was a blessing because it turns out there is nothing near that border and even catching a ride with a moto or a truck would have been an unlikely scenario. Instead we wondered around town in our new colorful plastic bag ponchos (the monsoon has really started now) in search of mosquito spray. I have learned that one can buy anything and everything is SE Asia, but the only items to bring from home are a) malarone b) mosquito spray and c) a device to purify water that does not give you silver cloride poisoning.

In the end we found our mosquito spray and booked ourselves a seat on a mini bus that is really more of a cargo truck that was due to leave at 5:30 am the next morning.

In the pouring rain in pitch black country side darkness we hiked to the bus station to be met by the angriest man in Vietnamese history. He ripped up our ticket, threw them on the counter, yelled and stomped around, finally pretty much dragging me onto the bus my my hair and shoving me onto some rice bags that had been piled near and far onto the seats, the floor, the roof and were hanging out the windows. All of this because we were five minutes late. I have never truly appreciated just how much cargo can fit into a minibus and how into physical abuse rural non-gentlemen can be. We were 25 people or so, perching with our knees slung over our shoulders or by our chins on anything and everything large and poky that one might want to transport. Five minutes into the ride, the angry man stopped the bus and we took a one hour break. This pattern set the tone for the rest of the trip. Extreme excitement, shoving, driving off in a hurry and then stopping, sometimes for hours for no discernable reason.

We found our non beaten trek alright. Against the advice we had received in Hanoi, one can cross the border at Dien Bien Phu without getting a prior Laos visa. In my case getting that visa ahead of time was a bit of a mistake because I got it in my German passport because that is cheaper, however I had traveled on my American passport in Vietnam and the border guards did not look kindly upon that situation and tried to convince me to buy a new visa for 37 USD which is what it costs to get the visa at the border. Thankfully the angry bus driver decided to take what turned into a four hour break for a nap at the border and that was enough time to convince the border guys to let me through.

We had picked up a few other felangs (gringos around here) on the way and now our cargo truck machine turned into a party bus - everyone trying to make the best out of the crammed, delayed affair. In the end it took us 12 hours to move a full 88 km. But what fun we had. The countryside is spectacular and the roads are spectacular rivers. More than once did the bus begin to lean dangerously towards the drop off that separated us from the jungly basin below and as the locals started scurrying off the bus, so did we, watching in awe as our overloaded machine balanced along the abyss. Trucks stuck in the mud had to be pushed and pulled out on numerous occasions to let us pass and by the time we arrived in Muang Kua we had made good friends with the now 8 man strong Spanish, British and American posse. Everyone on this group ironically had tried to get away from the masses only to find each other and accordingly everyone was fun, adventurous and took the debacles in good humor.

The last stop on our way to a cold Beer Laos was a precarious river crossing in motorboat that had to go full power upstream to deliver us to our landing point straight across. A small hike along the muddy river bank and we descended up a bamboo latter and voila, clean little huts and cold drinks abound.

Sometimes the best part of traveling really is the travel. I did't see any reason to stay in Muang Kua for very long, but just getting there got us an amazing view of the northern Laos country side, transport system and people. Also we learned to never ever ever set off without a bag full of goodies because it turns out there is nothing, absolutely nothing in terms of a town or a stand or a hut out there in the boonies. At 9:45 the electricity was cut and after some candle light salsa lessons by the Spanish couple we called it quits, killed a few spiders in our hut and went to bed.

The next morning we failed in our negotiation with a boating man to take us down river to Luang Prabang, so we all piled back in a bus, which to everyone's large surprise sort of kept driving most of the time without any four hours stops and the driver seemed to be in very good humor, blasting some awesome Laos pop on repeat. And here we are: back in the land of chocolate croissants and paved roads.

This is how we roll

2008-08-01T15:04:00.002+01:00

This is how we roll
Originally uploaded by Christiane B

Over the past two months I have noticed just how wide the beaten path around SE Asia really is. It's a paved highway packed with gap years, summer tourists, pensioners and midlife crisis folks (just like us? Just when does a quarter life crisis turn half life?) trudging contently between Phnom Penh's "breezy balconies" to Battambang's "creamiest shake shop" and onto Saigon's authentic northern Italian corner shop run by the friendly Mr. Z, learning worlds like "local brew" before their hello's and thank you's. It is done by clutching tightly their yellow SE Asia on a shoestring Lonely Planet guide if they are long timers; short timers hold individual LP books having granted one single county enough visiting credit to warrant an entire vacation.

The by-product is that those breezy cafes "meant to linger" or oddly even the "best linoleum covered" hotels with a "backpacker vibe" are always packed while their neighbors with the identical breeze and linoleum stay empty. With many travelers virtually living by "the bible" every time you stumble upon a bible recommended haunt, even if by accident, you see people you first met on a different continent two months earlier. That's actually quite nice. It is also laughable what cattle we are, us independent travelers, too cool for the package tours, we created our own that spans entire continents.

I have been composing a letter to Lonely Planet in my head for a while and it's quit difficult to figure out what to say. It is not so much LP's doing, but rather what people make of it that creates this wide wide beaten path. Ten years ago I did not notice the ghettorization of so called independent travelers. Maybe I was younger and more in need to guidance or maybe there were less LP toting tourists with most students sticking to Paris and Rome for their semester abroad and older people being more of a Frommer's crowd. Now if LP speaks of a quite cave, 2 years after the edition went to print, there is an internet cafe, a hostel , cold beer and a scooter stand where there once was a quiet cave. That is a huge impact of a few written words. The local economy is rallying around the Lonely Planet, creating a right and a wrong way of traveling. The right way to "do"Angkor Wat for example is to rent a rickshaw guy who you will pay 12 dollars for the day. This is what is says in the bible and thus you will not get a ride for cheaper and the thought of doing a half day confuses the rickshaw guy and well, while you may be asked to pay more, in the end, everyone let you negotiate the price back down to 12 dollars. That is the law. Everyone knows that.

The right way to "do" Halong Bay is to go to Hanoi, check into an independent hostel and there book an independent tour which puts you on a boat with every other independent traveler. As we found out, anything else is not sanctioned. It took a nudge and some Vietnamese flash cards from our hotel owner to get a taxi driver to take us to the bus stop in Hanoi, a bribe to the bus driver to Haiphong to take us there and finally a stick figure drawing of a boat and us on it and a nice optitian and his pregnant wife to convince a cabbie in Haiphong to take us to the ferry, where we more or less easily got ourselves a ticket to Cat Ba. There clearly is a gentlemen agreement in effect to protect the local tour agencies, who as we found out are all owned by the same few guys who own the boats.

So we did go alone in the end and it was not difficult just time consuming. I have to admit - the tour would have been better: same price, less time wasted, better food (better than bus stop meat on a bun that is), more time looking out on the bay but the price of course is your independence. You cannot choose when to eat, when to swim, when to sleep, when to pick your nose in peace. So with plenty of time for nose picking we rented a motorcycle and lived out our freedom by cruising around Cat Ba island before, you guessed it, we had to join a tour for a few hours in order to get to see the actual bay area.

So what would my advice to Lonely Plant be. It's hard to give constructive advice because the LP really is a great resource. There is a reason why it's in everyone's backpack. And despite my annoyance at being that wide path cattle I have not thrown it off the highly recommended slow boat on the Mekong Riverbecause I love the quick history and cultural background lessons, I love that it promotes ethical and as much as that is possible sustainable tourism. It is full of valuable advice on medical things, on scams to avoid, on border crossings, cities that boast ATMs and those that don't. I would not want to miss that.

So maybe the answer is to make the path even wider. One option would be to eliminate specific recommendations of anything. Simple pointers and maps where to find bus stations, train stations and cross streets with cheap hotels or restaurants. Maybe in order to force people to choose their own path and find their own unique experience, it could be the setup of a scavenger hunt: Go to the local market located here and talk to three local people in sign language and by pointing and drawing; find out three great things to do in that city, do one of them, then ask other locals for their favorite food, make them write it down for you, go to the river/beach/food part of town and try to find that dish. And so it goes.

Else, maybe recommendations can be made less glowing. It IS nice to have a specific name of a hotel when you arrive in a town at 3 am, tired with your luggage and an upset stomach. Maybe recommendation can be only names and directions without the beautiful adjectives. I am personally very susceptible to a recommendation that sounds like a scene out of a novel involving fruity beverages, breeze, music, specific mention of just how wonderful and cool it is, how authentic the lighting and how one really would miss out by missing out, let alone not experience the "wow, where did the time go" sentiment that the writer himself experienced. Pathetically maybe we do all like to be told what to do, including when and how to loose track of time.

Going Rogue in 'Nam

2008-07-29T13:09:00.006+01:00

That's right. So really, now bad can malaria be?

I am turning into a pink sow out of nowhere, a blotchy one at that. Apparently the malaria meds I am on, doxycycline, decided after two weeks of being uncomplicated, to act up and demand attention. Through last night's tinted bus window I have received enough sun to acquired the skin color so prominantly displayed on Spanish beaches once the Welsh and the Germans go on their first holiday of the year. I am essentially glow in the dark and I don't like it. We have been giving the big M the finger all through India and Nepal but had every intention on being responsible citizen through Cambodia, Laos and thus by default also Vietnam but responsibility has just come to an end. There is much resistence in the area against Lariam and Malarone, whose $800 price tag so deterred us in London, is unavailable in the region. Go figure. Where are knock off meds when you need them?

I COULD totally sit in my little hotel room, watch American TV, eat those wonderful baguettes with cheese and ask to be put into self imposed purdah, being transported around in a nice black box carried on newly aquired husband's back, BUT instead we are going to Halong Bay tomorrow to climb and beach ourselves and guess what, the doxycycline has to go. Don't tell my Mom.

Also, who wants to have condomed up teenage sex? On vacation? I mean that is why I got married in the first place. Right?

Bejewled Pigs and Tigers

2008-07-27T16:00:00.001+01:00

double hats, originally uploaded by Christiane B.

This is the second day in a row that I am sitting in my hotel room using wireless internet. Vietnam rocks. Also, I have a SIT DOWN toilet complete with a seat and a lid in the bathroom, I have a shower that is contained in it's own boundaries and does not spill into the whole abode, I have clean sheets, yes, they are white, they are starched, I have pillows and I cannot see the moldy, nasty matress and there are no cigarette butts nor gum, nor insects, nor grime stains in my room. In fact the floor is not made out of bumpy half concrete, half dirt, instead we are looking at white tiles, we have electricity at all times, we even have AC! AND hot water which really we only need because we have AC. It is a perk of the sweaty hole in the ground hotel room that does not have AC that also makes it redundant to have a hot shower because that is the last thing you want.

It's amazing. And already the second time in a row.

Cruising north from Saigon we made blissful contact with an ocean and a beach hut in Mui Ne, where beach strolls and big waves are the major attractions. I would once again have ended the trip right there, confirming what I already know: we are beach bums and no glorified temple tours or museum trip will hide that truth.

Further north, Hoi An was quaint, peaceful and beautiful, there our main preoccupation shifted from strolling and bathing to strolling and eating: A gorgeous small town full of old architecture and restaurants by a river walk, complete with Chinese lanterns and humble fishing rigs.

Today we continued on to Hue where it seems everything is named something something DMZ although the DMZ is rather empty these days. Everyone is playing old Vietnam era tunes such as sweet home alabama and a lot of creedence clearwater revival. Our lives are pretty much filled with the Forest Gump sound track.

And to make things too good to be true: Vietnam is getting prettier as we go north. Furthermore, upon our recent evaluations, the backpacker scene has changed too. No more cheese cloth pants and nasty attitudes, more smiles, more Danes, less pretentiousness, more tans: generally speaking SE Asia attracts the happy crowd.

Surely everyone takes a vacation to get away from it all but around here people seem to have a place to go back to; they don't seem such unhappy souls marching along as if on their way to jail, viewing their vacation as punishment and just maybe that is why they don't seem like such a stingy, nasty bunch and we make friends at last. Maybe people in Vietnam are better at disguising their dislike at the stomping herds of tourists which just maybe makes the stomping herds kinder and easier to like.

And on a final note, don't think I am trashing India. India in my humble opinion is complex; India is amazing. Amazing in every way: the good, the bad, the ugly. SE Asia is wonderful, it's kind, it's gently, it's polite, it has a dark past, it could maybe be dangerous but it's contained and it's not prissy. One is a holy bejewled pig, the other a graceful tiger. You know just because you like tigers does not mean you don't love bacon too.

Saigon on Crack

2008-07-21T08:43:00.003+01:00

Looking Back, originally uploaded by Christiane B.

Vietnam is Cambodia on crack. Traffic is a clusterfuck of motor scooters. Red lights seem like starting blocks for a 100 man deep field in a marathon race. It's daunting to be in the intersection when Saigon turns green and wizzes by.

Nobody we had met so far seemed very enthusiastic about Vietnam. It was sort of the Luxemburg of the region, people did not tell you not to go, but the place got a lot of shrugs and then conversation turned back to the Krabi's of the world. Saigon is not a tourist trap but a booming city, slam packed with extremely cute and curious kids who all sport American accents including when they pronounce the world Vietnam. I love it. Also sugary drinks are abound and tomorrow we will head to the old war era tunnels that were used to hide out in and smuggle arms to Cambodia back in the good old days of American carpet bombings.

A lot of older American gentlemen in pairs (not couples) in spiffy sunglasses and Nikes are running around the place as well trying to converse in Vietnamese with the shoe polishers who try desperately to convince them to get their sneakers polished for the third time before breakfast. War vets I am assuming.

Oh and do I love pho with beef or pho with chicken or pho with duck and do I love baguettes with everything under the sun but mostly bacon on them? Yes, I do!

Tonight holds a special treat: A Vietnamese country cover band. I am hoping for Johnny Cash interpretations.

Torture Prison - Tuol Sleng

2008-07-17T16:19:00.002+01:00

Torture Prison - Tuol Sleng, originally uploaded by Christiane B.

Amazingly now I understand what everyone arond me said when the Berlin wall fell: what it would change the world. As a matter of fact, so much has changed that it took me a good while to even remember and piece together the geopolitical strategies that used to dominate this region and that have helped create the amazing cockup of the Kemer Rouge revolution.

The UN supported the Kemer Rouge's seat in its midst until 1990. The somewhat legitimate and certainly less murderous, yet Vietnam backed, government was shoved aside from the 1979 invasion until that date. Even until now there is no closure, there are no trials and only slowly are details of personal misfortunes coming to light. All in all there are 2 million corpses and relatives of those victims are still living in the same villages as the perpetrators while the former glorious kingdom that brought us Angkor Wat is returned to the Stone Age. A population decimated and missing the brightest and most educated in its ranks, a country that is collectively suffering from PTSD and mistrust. A country that is slam packed with phat SUVs driven by NGO workers, UN personal and the kids of those guys who bought their way back into power, who once in a blue moon seem to take fancy to crashing those vehicles into ancient ruins. The foreign correspondence is jam packed with NGO ladies drinking lychee martinis and guys in polo shirts trying to give the impression they were the ones who shot some cutting edge footage back in 1978. All this in a country that brought us Angkor Wat a thousand years ago. Corruption is the name of the game and there is a tension oozing out from under the laughs that are used to cover up anything from shame to a feeling of having gotten caught to general unhappiness. It seems the giggles, the unexplicible giggles that followed us from a hotel concierge not understanding to the rickshaw man overcharging to the prison guard in the Kemer Rouge video re-telling how he used to club prisoners but never, ever was the one cutting their throats. There is a denial as powerful as I have ever seen it, a smile the way to cover any feeling that is not a smile.

Coming from a country with a history that is generous to those craving a feeling of guilt and equally generous to the printing of text books, novels and biographies retelling and working through the horrors of the holocaust, I am perplexed at the complete absence of remorse and guilt let alone reconciliation and punishment of perpetrators of the Kemer Rouge years. The only people in the museums and holding virgil next to the killing fields are foreigners. Land mine victims linger in the parking lot to milk a bit of our guilt, but other than that, no Cambodian in sight.

Happy Campers

2008-07-15T14:32:00.001+01:00

Boating Lady, originally uploaded by Christiane B.

We have been having some fabulous days. We left Siam Reap on a river boat for a small town called Battambang yesterday. We sat on the sunny roof on all our luggage along with a mix of Spanish engineers and a brigade of Dutch girls for eight hours as the little boat slowly crept up the river through small fishing towns, which are really bamboo huts on stilts right in the river. Lots of expert canoe ladies rowed on up to sell things or collect husbands off the boat and kids, naked and unashamedly so, were jumping into the water from their little "houses". It felt just like a vacation should. In the end I had built myself a tent out of the various scarf purchases and was sincerely understanding the usefulness of a nice burka, albeit maybe in white. It was hot! And we loved it.

Today, in an attempt to recreate my new favorite dish, Amok, we took a Cambodian cooking class. The class included a trip the market - nothing for weak stomachs. We watched a fish loose his or her life life on a bloody wood chopping board and a variety of people poking their finger in some chunks of beef selecting the most tender parts before fondling salad leafs, handling money, shaking hands...no washing hands involved.

As we were chopping our lemongrass leaves, grinding curry garlic ginger pastes and chugging Angkor beer in the heat I overheard a group of 30-something Americans on a table in the restaurant discuss their travels and their dreams, as one does. It suddenly occurred to me why we have had such a hard time connecting with long term travelers which there are so many off in India: We are simply too happy. Unlike say your normal 21 day European vacation troop, or unlike us say, or our average gap year kid, these people are some truly pained souls, running away from their lives, trying to find balance in Ashrams, discussing pressure points, inner silence, the benefits of no sugar diets, meditation, light and auras while their slightly worn faces show that they are not running towards anything, they are not trying to see the world they are running away from something trying to find somewhere that will give them answers. Very different crowd from the rowdy South American booze and beach stampede that I am so used to.

Fighting the Cambodian Jungle

2008-07-12T16:33:00.001+01:00

Tree vs. Temple, originally uploaded by Christiane B.

We left BKK with much left undone. Most prominantly featured on the outstanding items list is the vagina ping pong, an event I will like to take part in as a spectator rather than a participant, because oouch.

Our time was mostly taken up by
a) trying to get up in time to see some tourist attraction involving gold domes or temples or buddhas, which was largely unsuccessful
b) trying to eat at least a few bits of every meat group for every meal such as maybe beef satay, chicken coconut soup and then some nice pork balls to round things off, which was very successful
c) sitting in AC rooms
d) eating drinks with ice cubes in them

All in all I am disappointed at our wholesomeness when BKK is just oozing raunchy raunchness according to everyone and their mother and all I could think of how clean and wonderful it was. But we will be back.

Crossing the border into Cambodia was like going to East Germany in 1989. Baaam, you hit pot holes large enough to house entire villages, the road is one solid mud bath the color of pumpkin soup, the ride knocks your brain against your skull and the motor rickshaws are once again abound and lawless. The major difference to India is that here a bike rickshaw really is a motorbike that has a fancy plywood carriage strapped onto the seat where the second person would sit or the seventh person really. In India the vehicle has been permanently fused but here one can take the carriage part off much like small scale white trash caravan can be disconnected from a 1959 el camono. I will try to demonstrate the difference photographically as soon as I can. The skill of balancing large items, entire families, ice blocks, pigs in crates, infants and rice sacks stacked high into the sky on motobikes is perfected in Cambodia as well. And maybe because they are piled so high with stuff there is something colonial and decadent in sitting in that plywood rickshaw fanning oneself gently whiel passing those heavy burdened motor beasts.

The vendors are communists I must say. It is almost insulting how half heartedly they are trying to sell you a t-shirt. They cannot really be bothered to raise their voices, let alone chase us around the block with their flutes and guide books. It makes me want to buy something. I think the bangles ear is over and I must expand into the sarong market.

The border crossing itself was littered with dark souls wanting our dollars as it is notorious to be, but I have heavily invested in the local snack foods industry which churns out brilliant homemade snacks that are sold on every corner so that I can outwait even the laziest commi to get his price right and then hop into this vehicle and demand he peddal faster. As I was lucky enough to get the front seat for the second half of our four hour journey from the border, along the blvd of broken backsides to Siem Reap, I even had the pleasure of starting the car for the douche commi who decided that he did not want to take us to our hotel. In unimpressive passive agressive manner he pulled over and tried to pawn us off to a bike rickshaw but I did not spend seven weeks in India and Nepal for nothing, so no way was I getting out of his car. Especially not because it was airconditioned. So I turn the key in his ignition, he shrieks, turns it back off and explains he has to go back to the border now and varies excuses from the road is closed to he does not understand English to he does not know where the hotel is. I shriek and turn the key again and so it continues until he drives us the three minutes to our hotel, which apparently does not give him a commission. Poor bastard.

Now in Siem Reap I am loving Cambodia. The food and is devine, or shall we say, amok: the best concoction of coconut, chicken, egg, tomato, various spices and then some more. The Angkor Wat temple ruins are amazing and there is nothing much to do other than eat amazing food, fan oneself in plywood rickshaws, wander around temples and call it a day.

Stingy, Angry and Haughty

2008-07-07T16:52:00.003+01:00

As the plane touched down in BKK I was struck by the lack of grazing cows, lack of dirt and amazingly ordered driving behaviour as well as mild manered touts. They are the kind of touts one can easilty tune out, ignore and shake off without feeling how one's face turns into a bright red, angry mask and fuck becomes an adjective, verb, name and surname.

To make things even better, after six weeks of not eating anything meat, I started the day with some filthy, filthy bacon and oh, how wonderful those little shit rooting creatures taste. The day took on epic proportions as, for the first time in this millenium, probably for the first time since freshmen year dining hall dollars, I settled for a burder at MacDonalds in a snazzy shopping mall filled with healthy, blond expat kids and their daddies in relaxed tennis gear. The experience filled a void inside me. As I was chowing down on mother Goodess I started trying to put India into perspective.

I am approaching the big 50 on the country count but I don't think I have been to a place that is as difficult to categorize, describe, package and sell as India. India is everything that it's also not: poor and rich, inclusive yet prejudiced, amazing and revolting, cruel and kind, spiritual and lacking soul, repulsive and attractive and everything in between. My understanding of India as a soft, quiet spiritual place of tranquility and hushed words in air conditioned Yoga studios is the farthest from the truth. India at best is a chaotic whirlwind of praying, eating, shitting and the spiritual aspects are mostly displayed via the worship of everything ranging from plastic elephants, Maria and Jesus for good measure, cows, giant Buddha statues and the obvious major Hindi Gods. None of it is quiet and none of it feels serene. None of it takes place in an ashram and "namste" is a battle cry not a demure hush. India's spirituality is loud, obnoxious, practical, overcrowded, screeching like a banshee, sacrilegious looking, involving neon lights, inflatable plastic figures and a lot of diesel exhaust.

What I don't comprehend are the other travelers in India who somehow do not seem to see that. Never in my life have I met so many people who on one hand try to pretend to be "natives" and dress in rags to lower themselves presumably to fit in but put on airs of superiority when something costs more than 50 cents, mistreat every waiter, rickshaw driver and shop keeper and generally act like little spoilt fuckers. India is a country kissing the feet of movie stars, wearing Levis, desiring Prada and gold bangles while holding on to family honor and values at every level of society. Yoga is reserved for American girls wanting to find their sexual center which some soft eyed Indian boy will only too gladly help them find.

Despite that, it appears that most travelers we met seem to think they have found a way to assimilate and be "Indian" by wearing potato sack trousers not washed since the obligatory trip and dip in the holy shit filled Ganges and sporting hemp tank tops exposing a curry fattened mid rift and tattooed shoulders sporting the ever so original cluster of stars in various colors. Their look insults the beautifully, clean ladies in their ever fresh saris, their Moms who eye the excessive flesh, and the entire population in general by being angry and ugly. Angry and ugly is the way not to be. They seem to have created a caste for themselves: stingy, angry and haughty.

I think we left just in time before we too joined that angry and filthy club. Many happy returns I hope but only after some coconut curry in the land of smiles.

Camelz rule,...

2008-07-02T15:43:00.002+01:00

...roar like lions and fart up a storm.

As promised, we spend the past two days camel safarying, sleeping in sand dunes during a sandstorm, huddling together with the camels while lightening crashes down in the distance, seeing lots of stars and spending the hot mid day in the shade of some bushes, drinking water that had reached boiling temperatures simply by being in a bottle. My attempt to try to ride in Pakistan was met with resistance by the guide unfortunately. The long ride back this afternoon had us fantasising about the amount, timing and refrigeration status of the mangoes we will eat just as soon as we get to a Thai beach. I am thinking this camel safari was my happiest moment on this trip so far, but we are ready for the beaches. So I am thinking as soon as we get to some beach, the first chilled mangoes will be administered at around ten, after a dip in the water, then continue the same dose in hourly intervals until evening. After a siesta around three maybe some frozen mangoes to mix it up.

Hardcore backpackers we are.

A Fine Balance or Me and Ma Camel

2008-06-30T13:53:00.002+01:00

cool camel Cappadocia, originally uploaded by Christiane B.

Have been discussing the point where filth and pain cease being quaint and become nothing more than filth and pain. I realized I am in the in-between stage where I am perfectly aware of the fact that yes, it's ridiculous to be sitting in a stuffy box in a bus made out of bug infested cloth that has not been disinfected since 1982, the year the bus was made. Yes, it is hilarious especially when we and our now slightly decimated bags are juggled around like dominoes at every bump in the road (and lucky us got the baaaaaack compartment) while our only protection from the outside world is a shabby glass wall, but I do love it just a little bit, enough to do it again. And it does feel just a little bit quaint and awesome to be cruising through the night in a chaos of women in gorgeous saris, bags, stern looking men, music blasting, people jumping on and off, the smell of spicy rotis and samosas while watching the night roll by with the windows open and the bugs swarming. Yeah, it's pretty great.

In that spirit, we have decided to give a whole different style of dirt and pain a go. Camel safari here we come: cooking over a bonfire, starry starry nights, sleeping in more filthy, buggy blankets in the sand and lots of ass pain, yay, I can't wait. Especially the part where newly acquired husband will be smashing his balls on the camel saddle. He has no idea what he is in for.

Beasts Unrestrained

2008-06-29T06:31:00.001+01:00

, originally uploaded by Christiane B.

Anything is possible in India and you only have to learn to play the game and know when to grin and say "bite me". You arrive in a town, any town and amazingly you will end up with the "most best and most honest and most fast and most good English speaking" rickshaw driver every time. He might be so much good that he even has a little travel journal where he has asked other travelers to underwrite his general goodness in every language, thus you feel refreshed and happy you found the one man on the block you can trust. If you don't pay attention he will drive you straight to his friends gem shop without batting an eyelash and later explain how he is not ripping you off, he is only showing you options, you decide what to buy, what to eat and what to do. He will be outraged that you hold him responsible in any way and he will say "if anything one my part not good, I appologize (and now give me my tip mothefuckers)", his voice will become lamenting like a widows and he will add something about him not being your babysitter, him just showing you good place, good price, saving you much money. Ha.

However, you can also make him into your personal bitch for everything. Certainly use him as a tour guide, make him find you an internet cafe, make him wait, then make him drive you to a palace for some touristing, then make him find you a place to buy mangos, a place for flip flops, make him wait while you have lunch and make him store your bags at his friends hotel for some easy frolicking around the city before re-boarding a train to somewhere. The reason for our trust on the latter is that we have too much shit so in a "let-kharma decide" moment we figured, if it all gets stolen minus passport and my porsche camera, at least we don't have to carry it anymore. I don't want to loose all my bangles and dirty tank tops but it would be a bit of a relief! And it turned out nobody wanted my bangles or my dirty tank tops so we are stil loaded high. In the end you pay him five dollars and that was probably double what his servics were worth, but who cares.

Our current location by the way is desert town Udaipur, Rajasthan. The town is prominantly featued in the slightly outdated James Bond film: Octopussy, which, for good measure, we re-watched last night. James Bond was so much better when sexism was less taboo. Unfortunately our abode is less glamorous and our autorickshaw drivers are less skilled than James'.

Now onto the beasts. All beasts in India are living unrestrained lives. Goats and cows obviously roam freely. Cows due to their holy status even sleep in the middle of the highway and won't budge and traffic swerves around them. Cows trampel through shops because they can whereas dogs get kicked if they only approach a puddle of dirty water in the proximity of a shop. Donkeys are hereded along the road without reins, without any way to realistically lead them to where they are destind to be going, yet they do seem to end up where they are supposed to go. Yesterday I even saw the biggest elephant I have ever seen gently waddle down the small road wearing no head piece, making all traffic come to a halt while perched atop her was a little man with tiny bamboos stick and nothing else to make her stop or go.

There must be something about the laws of chaos that allow the beasts in India to be themselves. And so newly acquired husband and I shall be on the loose.

Everything is Better in Agra

2008-06-26T09:10:00.004+01:00

Things have turned a lot peachier since we managed to escape Varanasi. Not that that was easy. On a previous escapade around town our unfortunate auto rickshaw driver lost his front tire and we cycle rickshawed our way back home, not without paying him a bundle because he looked quite gaunt and scrawny and promising him he could take us to the train station the next day. Needless to say the latter was not a gesture from my personal bleeding heart, but we travel in a democracy and newly acquired husband does have the added gravitas of two crutches (that are too short for him).

On the fateful night of our departure out guy did show up on time but without a working rickshaw. Apparently him or better yet, his boss/pimp saw it fit to have us hang out in the mayhem of evening traffic (when everyone hauls everything they own back home on every imaginable vehicle in the midst of ear-splitting honking) shining our flashlights into his toy bike motor. Protests and shouting matches ensued when we made our exit. But oh, just in time, his brother did manage to show up in a working auto rickshaw. Not until we are 20 minutes down the road do we notice the unfortunate fact that this particular vehicle has no lights. Our 2 hour drive resembled an advertising run on how to become road kill as we were dodging trucks, cows, bikes, pedestrians and more rickshaws, some of which also had no lights, slowly but yet too fast bumping our way along the pitch black country road.

The train station was dire. People even tried to steal newly acquired husband’s crutches and I managed to get in a fight over luggage space complete with throwing a bunch of teenagers their one hundred bags straight out of my seat and into their laps. It appears Varanasi unleashed a beast in me and I forgot all the chill I may have acquired over the month and change and the fact that actually all that goes wrong really just makes for a better story and adds hilarity to mundane things. Hanging over us was also the knowledge that unless the leg situation of the husband improves we may be send home early, only where home is, that is not entirely clear. Hauling bags on crutches and a peg leg is no future!

But now we are in Agra, sipping mango lassis on a rooftop overlooking the Taj Mahal, Germany made it to the European Cup final and even the parasites seem to have died off and life is a happy beach again. I pretty much forgot for a few days that I am on vacation and that I am happy. And most imprtantly that I am NOT doing spreadsheets right now. Now, we figure worst leg case scenario we can still sit on Thai beaches, pouring Pina Coladas over the effected area, throwing mango chunks to the monkey and frying our brains, so the future is bright.

The major insight of the past few days is that whereas living and traveling in South America some years back really turned me on to economic development and sustainability and all that wonderful stuff that I made into my career, this makes me want to be a fashion photographer. It pains me to see the pretty saris be laid out to dry in the dirt and cow dung, I want to take pictures of the pretty bejeweled girls and boys who wear the glitter and the colors and have the pretty faces (maybe in front of their scenic, ragged home town well and always with lots of happy cows) and I just wish all the non-bejeweled ragged ones would already be happy and taken care of. Call me impatient but I feel like working in economic development for what, three years, should have done the trick and there should be no more sad poor people out there.

Off to the Desert

2008-06-25T14:46:00.001+01:00

Street Corner, originally uploaded by Christiane B.

After three days of cow patty jumping, watching the river rise to spill all it's gooey goodness upon the holy sidewalks and picking up the odd stomach parasite at every meal, we have decided to move on, albeit at a different formation. Newly acquired husband will lead, loaded high with souvenir stuffed bags, on crutches, his leg in an oversized wrap, (which on the packaging was modeled by a very happy Indian girl in a light blue negligee so there is hope) and me following, crouching over every few minutes giving my parasites a moment to reshuffle asking newly acquired husband about the behaviour and status of his parasites.

We are picking up the pace now, giving ourselves a full 24 hrs in Agra to oogle the Taj Mahal at which point we are guaranteed to be saturated with more souvenirs, having learned more scams, made more random friends. The street kids stick to us quite literally speaking like flies to shit in the alleys that we have been roaming. Without a doubt the most entrepreneurial generation in an already amasingly entrepreneurial nation.

This weekend should have us in Rajasthan, more specifically in 50C weather by a lake in the desert. Hopefully we will make it without having to invest in a peg leg or declaring outselves post-eating in the most post modern way possible.

AHOY

Varanasi

2008-06-23T11:52:00.004+01:00

We are in Varanasi. It takes dirty to a whole new level. Bombay is overwhelming and sweaty, the Everest trek was not exactly littered with comforts but here there are bodies burning by the river, bodies being carried through town, bodies being washed in the Ganges while cows and goats hang out, eating a concoction that is half human and animal shit and the other half just regular garbage like chicken bones, potato peels and plastic bags. In the midst of all the shit, people are praying and the Ganges, filthy with dead fish, more garbage has mourners dipping in between all that mess, tasting the river on their tongues, then going for a swim. Kids are diving in, laughing, oblivious to the mourners. That is if they are not busy catching giant dying fish with scarfs and tarps straight out of the water. I'd say this is the most 'Indian' and insane place we have yet seen. People are crouching down in all of is, stuffing food into their mouths from their dirty hands. Impromptu crickets matches make you run for cover. I am amazed what filth humanity can survive in.

I literally feel sick just looking at it.

Also we just managed to get out of Kathmandu before major riots started over fuel prices. There had been lots of strikes and general tension but on the way we left it all came to a head. "No going to airport today" we were told. We did manage to get there though despite the fact that everything was shut down. The streets were full of people walking, with what seemed a purpose, at 8am, no taxis or public transport but lots of anger mounting. One cab dude said, ok, fine, I take you, but we got to go right now. Apparently they get pulled out of the cabs and get their asses kicked if they break the strike. So we sat around the airport for 8 hrs, then our plane miraculously showed up, a huge airbus. There were only 8 passengers who had made it to the airport. Well, here we are.

My Postcard to You

2008-06-20T08:18:00.002+01:00

My Postcard to You, originally uploaded by Christiane B.

Everest is the peak in the background to the right that you can't really see.

More peaks than you will ever want to see here: www.flickr.com/drunkenponies

Victorious at Everest Basecamp

2008-06-20T08:14:00.001+01:00

Victorious, originally uploaded by Christiane B.

EVEREST

2008-06-20T07:53:00.001+01:00

EVEREST , originally uploaded by Christiane B.

Back from the Bottom of the Top of the World

2008-06-19T08:17:00.000+01:00

I just took my first shower after 10 days. I put my clothes into a nuclear holocaust resistant bag and burned them/dropped them off at the laundry facility in Kathmandu. Then I looked at a map and realized we have hiked 70 miles roundtrip spanning an altitude of 2,200m to 5,400m. The latter is 17,600 feet for you people to think non-metric.

My dilapidated ankle held up amazingly and no altitude sickness to report except the odd headache. I guess coming from the absolute flat marshy parts of Germany really does prepare one for mountaineering. Newly acquired husband managed to acquire a nice war injury from the trek, but that is his story to tell. All I want to add is that he walked the last five days holding hands tightly with a lovely, older Nepali man who managed to carry about 40 kg load strapped to his head and felt adapt to rescue A on his long and arduous hobble down the mountain in which he realized he did not like cold weather, or trekking. Bless the Cuban.

I have come back to the world of electricity, running water and fresh produce this morning only to realize that if I ever have to eat fried eggs, fried rice, fried noodles or fried bread ever, ever, ever again I will vomit. I don't mind walking around the dark with a flashlight on my head (very coal miner-ish), don't mind washing my face in a cold bucket and only partly mind freezing my butt off at night when covered by five moldy blankets, I can even handle that A declares publicly he no more wishes to take my clothes off with a 10 foot pole then he wishes to be gagged, bound and drowned but I just can't eat any more fried eggs. Never. Again.

The basecamp trek was amazing though and we even saw Everest. You laugh, but it's not a given. We did not see more than its chunky mid section when we were standing right below it while balancing on an ice fall that moves it's sweet 3 inches a day and in the process throws huge ice chunks around in a playful manner that can kill the casual observer, but on the way up and down we saw the Mother Goddess in all her beauty. That was a run on sentence if I have ever written one. As we were walking we were sometimes above, in the middle and below the clouds and every morning we woke up to a clear sky only to start seeing little clouds sweep in like a parade of cotton balls through the valleys. I could get excited about how pretty that looks that every single day and I did. It's now summer/monsoon season, meaning it's warmer, wetter and less crowded, which is a good thing, minus the wetter maybe. With the exception of the last day we were very lucky. Yesterday we did walk in the pouring and I mean pouring rain for about nine hours. I was forced to leave Lukla, the town where our trek ended and we boarded a dinky plane back to Kathmandu, in short short red shorts, my soaking clothes over one arm, some prayer scarfs over the other. Due to the dinkyness of the plane I felt it was unwise to discard the scarfs and alas, we made it. On the short walk to the "airport" I made many and oogling man happy too, which seems like a nice way to give back to the community. Note: short shorts and not appropriate mountaineering gear or culturally acceptable in any way.

While walking for eight hours a day for thirteen days, crossing various ridiculous rivers, breathing almost non-existent air at 5,400meters and squatting over overflowing holes in the ground for entertainment I realized something that somehow most travel until now has failed to really hammer home: I am so lucky that I can visit this place and then leave. I am so lucky my husband neither smells like Yak cheese nor shit. I am so lucky I don't live in a damp hut with a smoky fire place high up in the mountains where every single thing, be it rice, rocks, wood, sinks, roofs, chairs, must be carried up on some one's back. Literally there are half constructed houses walking along small windy paths from 1,500m up to 5,400m. Thank the UNDP and as it turns out the German government for building some decent bridges, that while resembling those fun wobbly bridges on playgrounds, span canyons with waterfalls 200m below, buit at least they hold up. On our return trip from basecamp we were forced a different route however because one of the non UNDP bridges that we had crossed on the way there, had simply collapsed. A great feeling. Other crossings were made with eyes closed, boots in hand and frozen feet finding boulders to hop on while the glacier waters crashes on by. The time has come now to put those feet up and have that first sip of something that is not water or fried and catch up on what's been happening in the world.

The only news that reached me on this trek was that Germany made it to the quarter finals of the euro cup. I will now have to look up if Obama has a running mate, whether anyone has started WWIII and ponder whose birthday I am forgetting.

Pictures to follow.

The Underbelly

2008-06-04T06:25:00.004+01:00

I have been walking around the dusty streets of Kathmandu looking at the mountains surrounding us and I am excited we are going to get out of the city. It’s a good place - temples, Nirvana cover bands, Italian trekking legends, monkeys and chanting monks.

However, I am at that point in the journey where I am feeling half immune and half cynical towards all real and faux friendly encounters.

The first part is the haggling. Today I managed to buy a necklace for 120 rupees that was originally offered to me for 900 rupees. It’s dumbfounding how low one can go and still I was probably still taken for a fool, but that is par for the course. Makes me feel like an idiot for all the other times where I started the haggling process at half the original offer price. I sincerely don’t mind paying a few rupees extra because it simply does not hurt me, but I don’t like the idea of being ripped off quite so severely.

What is harder to deal with than being a silly white girl in a bazaar are the people who at first sight don’t want to sell you anything but who still on this white girl like flies on shit. We have met so many great souls on temple steps, cafes, half way up windy mountain roads and last but not least we recruited a bunch of guys we met in an internet café to storm into the Air India office with us to help resolve some ticketing issues which turned out to be unresolveable. But the staunch “by the bible” and no room for thinking bureaucracy is a whole different, hilarious topic. So, generally I would say the people we have met on this trip have been my favorite part of our travels so far. For all the greatness though we have also been cheated, hassled, taken advantage off and then taken for the scenic route some more. It is tiring to go through conversations about where we are from, where they are from, how many cousins they have, how we met and our romance history in detail for hours on end sometimes only to find out in the end the person really just wanted some cash. Now I don’t blame anyone for trying to get a dollar out of us. Afterall we have a dollar and it shows, but it’s hard to differentiate between people who want to chat and people who want to cheat. In half the cases where someone talks to us, at some point they will pull me aside (maybe because I am a girl they think I am nicer? They are wrong) and say with a serious and pained face that they are really strapped for cash and can’t I shell some out. I do believe they are strapped for cash but I don’t believe my one dollar charity will solve their problems.

Then there are the fake sadhu’s and the million street kids. Today in an attempt to be nice to some kids who were hanging out with us and who were pretty smart, scrappy and generally great we took them to a store to buy them some cookies and water. The whole store was full of candy and crackers and little packets of chocolates. However, because we were treating the kids asked for this ginormous dusty Quality Street box of chocolates the size of a tractor wheel which must have been sitting on the top shelf of the store since 1964 and in all seriousness thought we’d buy it for them. They probably could not even have carried it. I bend over laughing and then bought them some stale lemon cookies as revenge.

Now I am sure they too were strapped for cash and I am also sure they would have shared with their brothers or cousins, but I could not help feeling irked at once again being taken for a cash dispenser at the slightest gesture of good will. Maybe because there are so many kids who look like they could use a truckload of cookies and there are so many open hands directed towards me, there is so much need and poverty and so many people who are smiling yet desperately need help, I feel tempted to just shut my eyes towards the whole thing, shut it and them out and keep walking.

I won’t because that means I’d miss the good parts and the great people too, but it’s getting to me.

Nepal

2008-06-03T15:33:00.001+01:00

Prayer Flags
Originally uploaded by Christiane B

We are going to attempt Everest. The base camp at least.

Lets get out the prayer flags and hope for the best.

Beef with the local Cobra Man

2008-05-31T17:59:00.001+01:00

Cobra charmer
Originally uploaded by Christiane B

So I am being run out of town by an angry man with his cobra in a basket. Looks nice and peaceful but he is not a happy photo model. At least not unless you want to pay him a hundred million rupees (approx. number).

Missing the Beach

2008-05-31T10:19:00.002+01:00

Boats II
Originally uploaded by Christiane B

So it turns out we are not really travelers, instead we are beach bums. The city's mango lassis are less fruity, the streets are about as sandy as the beaches but the dogs are less friendly and more mangy and well, we are scrapping Delhi for now and are heading out to a zen garden/Yoga retreat high up in the mountains.

Must branch out afterall and can't sit in Goa for the next three months. Goa did make me a published photographer though: shameless self-promotion here we go.

Delhi

2008-05-30T18:26:00.002+01:00

Reporting from Delhi. It was 37c when we landed at 6pm but since Delhi pretty much rises out of the desert, there humidity is low and thus I am feeling quite good.

Delhi seems even more chaotic than Bombay: the baggage thing broke and some dudes were lining up wildly throwing bags all over the airport. We got ours. Then traffic no longer really gets to me: I am used to sharing the road with rickshaws fueled by bikes carrying their entire family, rickshaws motorized who carry an entire wood working shop, suitcases, and the entire family, bikes a la pride and joy who navigate traffic and carry at least a wife holding a baby. And then there are the cows. I think in India being a cow is the way to go. Traffic swerves around you, people feed you, nobody bothers you and you can trample through anyone's garden/yard/stall without repercussions.

The fist introduction to the city was a cab driver who tried to convince get out somewhere random with all our bags with the intention of pawning us off to his buddy in a rickshaw to cash in on a double fare which we of course refused. We then proceeded to crawl through dirty lively bustling alleys that may have been exploding of traffic even in donkey days.

The last few days in Goa where the opposite of Delhi: we stayed on lonely off-season beaches. Every night we had to navigate our paths back to our huts with wild packs of dogs running along side. Last night we sat in a beach hut bar having dinner and Indian rum with the waves crashing in huge and in the moonlight all you could see was the white foam and they were playing old Prince songs that mixed with the roaring of the monsoon winds. Over the past days we have also picked up a circus crew. Three girls from Europe and the US who are working in a Indian circus. They are very awesome and we are sad to have them return to their elephant and fire throwing acts.

Pictures still in camera.

Banana Hammock

2008-05-28T15:48:00.001+01:00

Banana Hammock, originally uploaded by Christiane B.

The antithesis of the wet sari contest. I can see how the women prefer to maintain their dignity

Goa Life

2008-05-28T15:44:00.001+01:00

Beach Scene, originally uploaded by Christiane B.

Women in the water in saris, motor scootering around the island, dodging insane traffic on windy roads Bourne Supremacy style, sitting in beach cafes drinking lassis, being harassed to buy trinkets, dog gangs roaming the beach. That's life in Goa.

Boat party India

2008-05-26T15:50:00.001+01:00

Boat party, originally uploaded by Christiane B.

On to Goa

2008-05-26T15:37:00.004+01:00

I think India will soon run the world. Every Indian we have met has bubbled over with curiosity and obviously amazing English skills. People are sharp and no bullshit on how they view the world and have big dreams and good educations. Also they are super duper amazingly nice. I think an Indian world domination would be the way to go.

We got to Goa during off season. Whole beach towns are empty save for the two hostels right by the sea and one of two bars each. Lovely. I can't imagine the little windy roads completely packed and every hostel booked and bursting with travelers in those wide hemp pants that make one's ass look like a donkey's. As much as the Indians we have met have been fantastic company and gringos have not so much. In every group larger than three there is at least one blond dread carrying a guitar wearing donkey ass pants and sporting a holier than thou disinterested, on the road of five years sort of expression. The coolest accessory is a love child with blond locks equally outfitted but drinking milk from a Nalgene bottle. The gringos we have seen both sport and attitude of too cool for school and can't possibly smile when passing other gringo or anyone for that matter on the street but somehow are unaware that they themselves are traveling in a pack of five which sort of kills the authenticity of the experience they must be craving ("yeah man, was in the back country where no other white man has ever set foot, strumming my guitar and the locals totally thought I was the long lost sadhu God of X. It was cause of my locks man").

On second thought: we will have to come back to Goa one day when the German, Italian and Israeli ravers are in full force. It seems wrong to miss that.

Blue Sky Mumbai

2008-05-24T15:13:00.002+01:00

Dharavi II, originally uploaded by Christiane B.

Late last night we stumbled home from our favorite watering hole Leopold's (just buy a copy of Shantaram and start reading it already, ok?), surrounded by rats the size of those trendy rat dogs Paris Hilton carries in her purse, but furrier. In every alley men are stretched out sleeping on the floor, one holding on tightly to his peg leg. We met the most amazing couple who were a good dozen pints into the night: she is an ancient and I mean ancient lady in a tight pink plastic tank top with the added nice touch of diamond clad straps, carrying a diamond studded purse and bling. She is in her 60s and from England - a self-described country girl- and her Indian beau is a bit rough around the edges and his eyes constantly try to pull the cleavage of her tank top up to cover the chest area that has seen many a hot summer on a sunny English beach. Goan beach goers they are and they are delighted that we will be going that way as well. Parties have been planned and I am equally thrilled and horrified.

I think I may have found my travel chill by now and we are basking in groups of kids and non-kids who are our temporary friends. A group of cousins from Pune tracked us down last night on Chapatti beach exuding the same confidence and curiosity that most everyone we have met seems to naturally own. "Please come sit and meet my family" leads to a 2 hr chat about the advantages of arranged versus love marriages. There seems to be a trust in the parents ability to get the dirty work done: make sure the guy is from a good family of the same caste, makes good money and seems healthy and able. Then the girls themselves are asked for their yay or nay. It's more romantic that way they say. Also they don't have a choice, I cynically add. The bratty 15 year old cousin is determined to do the love marriage gig, which his girl cousins tell him is out of the question. The oldest has just left her home and moved in with her husband's family. Her husband is not out with the group but calls her every thirty minutes. "He loves her so" the other girls comment. They are the most beautiful and outgoing bunch.

The boys have pictures of scantly dressed Bollywood stars on their cell phones and are trying to convince me to go swimming in the polluted bay without blinking and eye, I punish them and make them inwardly throw up when I tell them about my swine eating tendencies. Our LP India is filled with email addresses and phone numbers because we are so out of touch not to carry our cell phones with us. Our London addresses are firmly entered into their cell phones.

The girls wave goodbye not without asking whether I can cook, if I wear mini skirts and please please please to write them and to come visit. I do want to but where the hell is Pune?

Tomorrow we are off to Goa on a 12 hour train journey that I hope will be filled with much chai and road side sweets. So far the monsoon rains are holding off and the heat is letting up a bit. It feels like the whole city is waiting for the downpour that will allow them to relax and breath.

Da Ghetto

2008-05-23T12:16:00.003+01:00

Untitled
Originally uploaded by Christiane B

It appears that my Bollywood career will be cut short. The good news is that it's not due to my stye problem which has resolved itself. I am suffering from "blue of the arm" brought on by excessive blue glittery bangles that don't seem pre-monsoon season safe (did I mention that I have lived at least a quarter of my life in sunny climates, but this is fucking hooootttttt?), but mainly we are unsure whether it's worth getting up at 6am to be bossed around by a Bollywood diva when we are not even important or anything. Then again, we'd make the equivalent of 5 bucks and generally it does sound awesome but so does taking a boat out to see some triple headed Shiva on ancient cave walls.

Today we went to the ghetto. I want to say it was impressive but in some weird way it was not, simply because it did not seem real. There are some million plus people living in what is the largest slum of Asia (Dharavi), crowding them in tight into 1.7 sq km. When I imagine a slum I imagine squalor and open sewers and kids running around naked and women squatting in dirt and mosquitoes and flies and mostly lots of shit. And that is about right. But that is not the whole story. Dharavi is also a huge business buzzing of entrepreneurship that would get you and I a scholarship to business school in two seconds flat. For one, all our wonderful recycling is done in Dharavi. Probably not all, but a good chunk. The people of Dharavi buy the shit and I am using the term loosely now when I was not before, i.e. plastic, cardboard, metal scraps from the US and Europe and without goggles and running around barefoot, they recycle those products to be exported again. I stood in front of the machine spinning around, chopping up metal strips covering me eyes - hello! safety! while everyone else seemed chill and somewhat in charge, meanwhile the flies buzzed and dudes next door pushed with bare hands nasty chunk of used plastic cups, plates and general garbage into a madly buzzing compactor that spit out see-through plastic pebbles that looked like marbles. So pretty.

I did almost fall into the sewage canal that is so clogged up that it looks like solid ground. The whole experience was like watching a documentary: it just did not seem real. I felt safer than I do walking around London at night and nobody asked us for money, nobody tried to take our stuff (never mind that the proceeds from the camera in my backpack which I was not allowed to use could have fed the entire compound for weeks) so it seems very incomprehensible that these people cannot just hop on the train with us but instead are stuck there for life and their children's lives are not likely much more promising. By the way a whole different amazing experience is this whole riding trains thing and yes, people really do overcrowd and overrun the trains and hang on by every nook they can and also make running starts and exits, which is a good exercise in acrobatics.

Back to the slums. When some disillusioned Brit (cash rich from an accounting career) came to Mumbai on a backpacking trip he figured that lets raise some awareness that these people are single handedly recycling all our western crap and in the worst conditions and no goggles and kids literally play in poop cause there is one loo for every 1500 people. So he met a guy from Mumbai and together they set up a business that takes tourists to the slums to raise awareness of what is going on there (the government is threatening to tear the whole things down) and the proceeds to go teaching the kids English and computer classes. Still sounds exploitative, does it not? I did have a hard time coming to grips with that but I met the guys, went on the tour and I feel reasonably good about it.

The afternoon was rounded off by a picture opp at the largest outdoor laundry facility which may I add is color coordinatd in it's drying locals thus presenting the viewer with an amazing range of pastels rolling down what looks a garbage mountain decorated with laundry lines. Following that some high noon beers were had with a gringo (Indian Californian = half gringo) and our poor tour guide who was overcome by his desire to nibble on beer and equally worried about how bad his family would think of him. I am hoping the theory that alcohol reduces the chance food poisoning will hold true. Thus theoretically it's medicine.

Sunset Chowpatty

2008-05-22T06:12:00.002+01:00

Sunset Chowpatty
Originally uploaded by Christiane B

Air India treated us well. The same families we saw check in with four bags a person, rolling nine wide, were delighted to find out that in an empty plane they could spread out and unaccustomed to the space, were sharing their delight and suspense (of the Bollywood movie showing on the monitors) by yelling and shouting delightfully across the isles. That is except the old guy in front of us. He just discovered headphones. He may or may not have been aware that his high notes (singing the lead female parts?) were, unlike the music on his headphones, very well inaudible to all around. We were the only non-Indians on the plane and as such treated with excessive booze and numerous bags of spicy crackers that made my throat scream and my eyes water. On that note: As a bonus I may already have picked up my first disease from the pillows: stye

Since our arrival we have been asked to pose for numerous pictures, been recruited for bollywood movies (as extras), walked to Chowpatty beach, where the locals watch the sunset and to my great joy found the bar featured in my favorite book ever, Shantaram, called Leopold’s. I will spare you the details of what great things happen at Leopold’s in the book, but will only say that the veggie kurma is a hell of a lot spicier than on Brick Lane.

Off to Elephant Island and then some Sari Shopping. I am suffering from sari envy. In this million degree weather I am not exactly dying to put myself into an outfit with long sleeves, but it is probably is the way to go and oh so pretty and glittery.

How We Will Be Missed

2008-05-19T11:26:00.003+01:00

Help me craft the add for craigslist that will yield a replacement model of us for our two friends after our departure (TOMORROW!!! Departing TOMORROW):

"Female platonic life partners, Canado-US origins with strong UK presence, literary and scientific, seeking heterosexual couple, extremely good looking, late 20s, for friendship, Sunday pub lunches, inspirational relationship advice, monkey talk, wine talk, men talk and company for major Jew-Tianity holidays. E. London location preferred or must travel. Equal opportunity employer"

Quakes, storms and bombs

2008-05-15T12:25:00.002+01:00

How about the quakes, storms and bombs on the eastern front stop right now? I am getting annoyed.

The things of ours are in the able hands of two English lads with a pickup truck. Newly acquired husband is gently keeping the parentals in check, the parentals are sure we're heading into a continent that is more or less a disaster zone and are on the verge of "forbidding" us to go, the newly acquired husband has pretty much lost every item that would allow him to acquire some cash on this upcoming journey, the male part of the parental unit is sitting on the couch, reading coffee table books and telling me to take out half the items in my travel backpack while the matriarch is telling me to up the warm sweaters and better yet not go at all. I fled to work and that is probably the best place to be at the moment.

I do hope to return home and find that our passports were packed with the socks.

JHE Blue Session

2008-05-12T12:46:00.001+01:00

Untitled, originally uploaded by Christiane B.

Blue Session

2008-05-12T12:45:00.001+01:00

Mermaid, originally uploaded by Christiane B.

Big Books Wanted

2008-05-09T14:42:00.002+01:00

56/365
Originally uploaded by Christiane B

Before commencing the journey I am in dire need of a book fitting the following qualifications:

1000 pages plus

paperback

fun enough to keep me from jumping out of the window of some shitty bus after hour 19 of journey which may only have transported us 20 miles away from starting point but which did include two blown tires and maybe an average of nine screaming babies plus some chickens on my lap.

Ideas please.

Grand European Life

2008-05-08T08:31:00.002+01:00

I have been living a grand European life the past weeks and month. Work trips, weekend trips, family trips, friends visiting and walks through sunny, springy, sparkly streets. There is something unique about Europe in the spring. The misery of the past months gives way to a mindset where everything is wonderful: pints on the sidewalk outside the pub, a morning walk to work, wearing a summer skirt, being cold in your summer skirt at night but not too cold to need a jacket, yummy mummy's sitting in cafes all day long, construction workers getting back to cat calling after a long hard winter of not having anything to look at but girls in big North Face jackets. It's a great time and it feels so much more special than a sunny day in a place where sunny days are a dime a dozen.

To some extend I feel like I have been living the very life which in theory is exactly the life I envision. In other words if it was your life or the life of some darling girl in an airport news stand novel, I'd be just a little bit envious. I am living in a big diverse city, jet setting everywhere all the time, being at home in pretty much all those places I visit because I visit them so much, carrying four currencies in my wallet (yeah, somehow the euro has not gone all the way yet), being able to hop on a flight last minute to see family in random seaside towns in Eastern Europe just because, having friends pop in from all over the world at a day's notice, living in the greatest little neighborhood, knowing all kinds of interesting people who make me do interesting things, having the money to harvest those cute flowery dresses on Portobello Road, trying the food in all the ridiculously overpriced yet enticing looking restaurants, being young enough not to need much money to have fun, biking to work and did I mention all the fun weekend trips? Yes, so life is pretty damn good. I could totally see newly acquired husband and I live like this from now until the cows come home. However, despite the fact that it IS all very great and fun, it seems just a little bit boring. Maybe because it is so easy or maybe because there is a routine to it?

I am a bit upset that less friends will pop in en route to somewhere when we are in Singapore, and that we are pretty much half way across the globe from our families and that Singapore is not known for it's Italian food, but somehow the thought of staying in Europe and continuing this grand European life seems dull. Maybe once I have conquered Singapore in a similar way, 'Asia' will seem a bit boring and easy and obviously there will be a routine. Maybe I will want that ease and routine then or else we'll have to move on. I just hope we don't ever run out of continents.

Final Count Down

2008-05-07T11:24:00.002+01:00

It's on.

Two weeks till we land in Mumbai. Two more more Mondays in the office but only one more Tuesday. This is the perfect distance from now till D-day as to maximize the Vorfreude.

The sweet feeling of emails flying around that should say: "could you please do this awful and boring thing for us and rather fast, but be aware this will be your life from now until this pointless and mind numbing project ends" but instead they say "since you will be gone, do you mind finding a victim whom to bore to tears with these mind numbing tasks that you will be unable to do".

That's the opposite of the "yay, it's my birthday in three weeks and we are doing the most amazing things ever and it will be sunny and will you please come along" email to which I need to respond "sorry and damn the man for your birthday being when it is and not a week earlier". Given that I am researching beaches in Goa I am not too bummed but there are some major events this summer with the high point being a wedding in Italy that I am thoroughly upset to miss, but there you go again with that cake and eating it too.

1. May

2008-05-01T14:49:00.006+01:00

In the homeland and I dare say across the old continent and some of them new continents, the 1st of May is a holiday designed to celebrate worker's rights. In the homeland the 1st of May is also father's day. Combined that somehow is a go-ahead to smash windows, beat up other dudes and rally through the city with open containers of booze as far as the eye can see.

Surely that was what those lawmakers and union leaders had in mind when they fought for workers to have Saturdays off and made the 1st of May a holiday to celebrate that.

Using amazing restraint and foresight regarding the upcoming drunkenness, in the homeland a super amazing contraption is traditionally used by the inebriated fathers and non-fathers to transport enough booze to last them all day as they explore the city: it's the so-called Bollerwagen. I am not joking. Early on the 1st of May my male German friends load up the Becks or Astra (=the ghetto version), iron the Lederhosen and off they go. And come to think of it, surely any good father will bring his young son or daughter along for a solid day of boozing because after all, someone will have to pull the Bollerwagen.

Here is to work and fatherhood.

Cheers

Who wants to live forever?

2008-04-27T23:58:00.005+01:00

"Wouldn't it suck" newly acquired husband asked, "if we were the last generation of people to die?"

The Lure of Dirt and Disease

2008-04-24T22:01:00.013+01:00

I was exchanging emails with a friend on malaria prophylaxis and its ugly side effects, when she finished off the conversation saying that all this talk of loosing one's mind on Lariam, puking one's guts out in general, loosing all power of birth control pills on doxycycline and getting various girly infections due to being on antibiotics for a long time really got her jealous and itchy footed to go somewhere. Strangely I know what she means. When friends of ours shipped off to do the Peace Corps in Peru a few years ago when I had just returned from a longer stay in South America, thus still clued in to all the different amoebas awaiting one there, I was actually jealous too of the bottles and tubes of things they had lined up on their table. Arguably it is the point and the merit of living in the western world is that one does not have to worry about drinking the tab water and eat antibiotics every day in order to keep a minimum level of health. However, there is something exciting about travel that does necessitate all these precautions. Maybe that is the difference between travel and a vacation. The latter is striving for comfort, maybe some adventure, maybe some relaxation, but the former is all about the inconveniences of leaving the sanitized mother ship. A good vacation is one where shit works out, an interesting trip is something where shit does not work out and from shit not working out one is confronted with something that is also not covered by Lonely Planet or The Rough Guide and it is then when things get interesting. Maybe that is the nostalgia about malaria prophylaxis. Also, lets be clear here: in theory it's adventurous to pull some nasty worm out of your leg while taking a swig of your whisky bottle while outside a small African nation is staging its third revolt against everyone foreign especially whitie you, but in practice of course it's a lot nicer to eat your malaria pills and just miss (by a hair so it's a good story) true disaster and disease. Knock on wood. On a side note: Lariam makes for amazing dreams. I recall Wednesday night, malaria pill night on a previous trip being my favorite night ever, every week a new treat. Some people do freak out though like on a bad acid trip, so be aware. The problem beyond that is that in SE Asia most malaria strands are already resistant, so the other option are those antibiotics. And on more of a side note: the nurse who prescribed them to me quickly clicked close on the little window that popped up when she put the prescription in the computer. I made her go back because I thought I saw the world "pregnant" floating in there somewhere...and yep, as I already mentioned doxycycline makes the pill useless. Well now, isn't that nice to know. The competence of a medical professional is never to be underestimated. Instead of worrying about whether Thai curry is nicer than Indian curry, we'd be worrying about whether it will be Little Jonny or Little Jane. Phew. Saved by the bell.

Singapore Sling

2008-04-21T19:52:00.002+01:00

A quick search on flickr did not yield much bloggable stuff in terms of Singapore slings. Either that means they are waiting for little me to become the officious photographer of Singapore, or it really is as boring as I remember!

Lets go with option 1 and hurrah, here we come.

Passover

2008-04-18T10:18:00.003+01:00

There is something so amazing about the calm and righteousness of a true believer. The stoic ability to stand their ground and say outragious things with a clarity and complete conviction. It also scares the shit out of me.

The economizing office in the the absence of the British Jewish boss celebrating passover on a sunny island somewhere, is manned by a Pakistani Muslim, an Australian Christian and little me. Inevitably we talk about passover. I talk about my favorites, the excessive wine and the Charoses (sp?) when Australian economist pops his head over the cubicle barrier and says with conviction that I am not understanding the whole story and its important message at which point he launches into an explanation of the whole story and its important message.

The true meaning you see is the parallel between the suffering of the Israelites in Egyptian captivity and the message of Jesus Christ. The fact that the Israelite's first born son's were spared due to their obedience to God's wish and their putting blood of the sacrificial lamb on the door of their house shows the mercy of God and Christ and the need for you and me to believe and obey.

The escape of the Israelites from Egypt with the red sea parting for the Israelites but crashing down on the Egyptians that chase them is the meaning of believing some more: Jesus saves those who believe in him and becomes brings death upon those that do not. Here I can barely contain a smirk. Is this guy truly telling me he literally believes in the actual sea parting, as in water masses moving to the sides? We are not talking a random flash flood due to some insane moon activity, we are talking a purposeful parting of the waves in order to reward and punish respectively (WAIT A SECOND! The Asian tsunami of 2006 did happen the day after Christmas..). Moving on.

Being in captivity in Egypt is like having to fight Satan. As any Christian will tell you (according to Australian economist) just when Jesus has found his way into your heart, Satan will come after you. He will tempt you. He will try to make you do crazy things like jump off the balcony. Satan will try to enslave you, make you his. Just like the Egyptians tried to do with the Israelites.

Now onto faith: The lamb that was slain and whose blood had to be used to mark the houses where the Israelites lived is quite obviously Jesus' blood and the angel of death out searching for first born sons to kill will spare you if you believe and thus slay the lamb and mark your house.

Fun fact: The Israelites were instructed not to break the bones of the lamb when they killed it. This instruction only make sense if you know the lamb is Jesus because apparently when people got crucified they did not die for a long time and to hurry up the process people would show up at night and break their bones to make them die faster. Don't ask me if and how that works. However, in Jesus' case when they came to break his bones, he was already dead. Thus in order for the parallel to work out perfectly in its foresight, the lamb's bones should stay intact as well.

I pointed out that in fact the current Israelites are not so hot on Jesus at which point Australian economist jumped off his chair, shouting and pointing "and that is the tragedy! But they will! One day they will believe! The old testament is predicting that they will deny the symbolism of the sacrifice that Jesus made and they will try to tell their children that passover is not about a sacrifice" but here he pulls out Exodus 12:26 and quotes that in fact they ought to be telling their children that passover is celebrated to honor this sacrifice and by doing so they will be implicitly telling their children to believe in Jesus Christ.

Without meaning too much disrespect to anyone, it's pretty hard for me to follow how back in the days all these amazing things happened like parting seas, angles swooping down killing first born sons and bread that should have run out a long time ago just replenishing itself over and over. I mean if that sort of stuff were to happen today, maybe I would be a believer too but it's been pretty calm on the eastern front as of late.

Freemale

2008-04-16T23:00:00.012+01:00

There was a piece in a Sunday paper that gave the label spinster a new twist: the twist of freedom. It turns out that a woman who possesses everything a man has ever wanted, say education, skill and determination to succeed, can, despite her nearing her late 20s or *gasp* 30s, be OK. That's right. She may actually take a break from her sleepless nights agonizing over her singleness and be ok. Yes, just like that. There you have it. New research shows. She might even like it. This is when a spinster turns freemale.

Let me say that I did not actually read this article, I just heard about it. In any case the champagne fueled discussion with two highly successful and as far as a casual observation can tell, ok-seeming single female friends of mine got me all upset that I could not be both a freemale and married. The way being a freemale was described was so decidedly what I think any girl strives to be: happy, independent, successful, oozing rock 'n roll. Does anyone not want that? My ok-seeming spinster friends now upgraded to freemales were not at all thrilled about their new label. Why, they argued, is it necessary to point out that a single girl can actually be happy and enjoy her life? Why is that even newsworthy? There are no articles written about males approaching their 30s, unmarried, rich, successful, happy AND better yet, ok. It seems obvious they would be ok.

Looking at the article from that perspective I get their negative reaction. I guess my first reaction is similar: why categorize a woman by her relationship status at all. I mean is the next big insight that women in relationships also can be happy about their life outside their relationship? Or is that obvious, because after all they are in a relationship, so why would they not be ok? Can one separate their ok-ness that is due to being a successful, independent individual and their ok-ness due to being a married woman? Yeah, yeah, yeah, I am being a bit self-righteous here. Sometimes it is really tough. I mean, am I happy right now that I get to go to India in a month or am I happy that I am a married girl whose husband will carry her large ass backpack all through India in a month? I just don't know.

I did learn from the primate studying freemale that unmarried folks die earlier than married folks but we were unable to determine if that is due to some great emotional strength acquired during marriage or if it's simply due to the fact that someone else is around to dial 911 during your first heart attack. So on that note I am happy that newly acquired husband will be in India with me to open and close the window of whatever topsy turvey bus I may have to learn out of after ingesting whatever food makes one sick in India. I hear the options are plentiful.

Quarter Life Crisis

2008-04-15T22:27:00.005+01:00

So I am a bit of a wreck.

In order to work in Singapore I need to become an entrepreneur. I am not an entrepreneur. I don't write business plans. I don't envision any direction for any company. I don't get giddy at growth opportunities. I just want to do my thing (see the next five paragraphs on how I don't even know what the hell that thing is supposed to be - but lets keep the whining nicely in order). Unfortunately, in order to do my thing however defined, I need to be able to have a work permit. Given that my employer remains in London and I am a de facto freelancer, (a concept that is lost on Singaporean bureaucracy), this means I need to create my own company; Little Me Incorporated so to speak. Before I dwell on why that is complicated lets get right to little me's dilemma.

I don't even like my job, why should I write up business plans and grander visions for the future? It seems sweet fate cracking itself up: Me, the person who thinks the whole damn exercise called my job is pointless, is supposed to write up ten pages on why it will help Singapore become even more awesome for businesses like Little Me Incorporated to move there and make more money so that more people can do it all over. Wow. I know. I do this to all my friends and even strangers on a plane about every three months. I need to shut up and either get a new job, one that I do like, or suck it up and realize that maybe I am not gutsy enough to do something scary, potentially exciting, potentially disastrous.

So here I am making to-do lists of all the things that need to be disconnected, re-routed, consumed, injected while getting excited about a new beginning because I always get excited about new beginnings. New beginnings are all about the potential, not so much the reality and that is exactly my problem. I stress about this work visa and Incorporated Little Me thing but really I am stressing about my inability to take a real huge fucking risk and go to Singapore or Timbuktu or wherever and ACTUALLY make a change. There is plenty of potential but how about the action?

I don't want to crunch numbers forever, not even for the world bank or the UN or fill in the blank fabulous organization that I have always dreamt of working for. I simply cannot see myself being anything but a number cruncher and report writer because I can't manage to get my heart rate up at even the most exciting number crunching. I really want to, but I just can't. And precisely because I just can't do it will I always stay a number cruncher and report writer, a true and earnest paper shuffler. That's kind of how it goes when you don't give an indirect sumproducts damn about what you do.

That's it on the self-pity front for today. Is it that my quarter life crisis is making it's way into a third life crisis? Will it continue into a midlife crisis at which point I will storm out on newly acquired husband and our nine precious children, take the leash off the golden retriever, piss on the picket fence and THEN do something ridiculous when I could have tried something now at least kept looking for something that really excites me - today, yesterday, last year?

Into the Sunset

2008-04-15T11:22:00.007+01:00

Poster shot - Air India Boeing 747-400 in flight
Originally uploaded by temp13rec.

When: May 20th, 2008

Where to: London - Mumbai

Status: Booked

But before that we will roast a pig. On a stick. And drink mojitos. And you will be invited just as soon as we can get our little selves organized.

Late Night Salami

2008-04-10T19:42:00.002+01:00

Let me recap the highlights of the past 24 hours.

Spent a good chunk of time last night in the apartment of my dear boss. We rent flats instead of hotel rooms cause the mafia owns all the hotels and refuses to invest in them - thus no internet. Anyway, so sitting on a velvet red couch in your bosses temporary home at 2am eating Nutella straight from the glass, becoming completely loopey, already feels like a date gone wrong. And then there was the salami. I knew he bought this awesome Ukrainian salami. The whole thing. At 2 am I really really wanted a piece of awesome Ukrainian salami. I was about to form the words: May I please try a piece of your extra large salami - when I realized the double (or single?) meaning of what I was about to say. So I refrained. And bought my very own large Ukrainian salami today. Good stuff. Ha.

Then today we had a bunch of meetings canceled because the guys who the meetings were with were not allowed to leave their offices. They are only deputy ministers. And this must be the most tightly run ship of ministers I have ever seen. Seriously. Not allowed to leave the office to travel across town to meet a bunch of independent consultants. That blows my mind.

Next up we got the girls who sit in empty offices. The entire ministry of X is filled with huge overheated offices (we try to restructure some markets here but as of now people can't even turn their own heat on or off so that's maybe another indicator of central top down control). There is one girl in glittery heels and a shiny blouse who hides behind a large PC on which she types meeting notes and lookes at pictures of her nieces. At noon she chases everyone out of the room so that she can lock the room and go to lunch. At one she is back. At five she wants to leave and at six she throws you regardless of who you are having a meeting with. Behind this girl on the large PC sits another girl without a PC. She got he second row seat so to speak. She sits there. She twirls her hair and she readjusts her scarf. When the first girl leaves the room for a few minutes, she sits in her chair and presumably holds the responsibility of whatever it is exactly the first girl is responsible for.

That's all I got tonight.

Kiev Chicken

2008-04-09T17:42:00.002+01:00

I have been spending way too many hours running workshops of simulations of reality based on theoretical constructs that start with "assuming x and y are awesome, predictible variables based on rational and unchanging behaviours"...enough of that.

Last time I was so fortunate to stay right by the Kiev furnicular contraption that lead me down to the river and up to the golden dome. I think that might be all the sightseeing I will ever get done here.This time my apartment in the center of all the bling and the ladies parading in dangerous looking diamond studded stilettos. It is being rented out by people who have long retired to their dachas. Good to know capitalism worked for some at least. The little babuchkas who lost their life savings when the currency was devalued in the 90s certainly are not so fortunate. I do buy my apples from them, but I am unsure how they sustain themselves on their little odd jobs.

In any case, the premises are heavily secured and the way in is a bit ardulous. Three garage style doors with different number combinations, then some padlocks and finally a padded (from the outside mind you) door to the flat. Interestingly enough the windows are made out of plywood and don't really lock. I guess one must take a chance somewhere.

So and to all of you world travelers out there. If you had to make a decision between living in Singapore or Dubai, which one would you choose and why? Some short essays please.

All Work No Play

2008-04-03T08:33:00.002+01:00

82/365 Shoot me Now
Originally uploaded by Christiane B

So this is kind of what's been going on over here.

Newly acquired husband will return from his Asian quest today and we'll have to make some decision over the weekend. OHO, the weekend. Going to Belfast. For no particular reason. Mainly to drive around the old conflict hot spots and to stress out my boss because on Monday morning I am off to Kiev but on Sunday it is supposed to snow and you know what happens in London when it snows? Things shut down. Sort of like airports. Like the airport I am flying back into from Belfast?

Well, we'll see. Back to running iterations of economic things that don't work in the first place. I think I am loosing my mind a bit. When I saw the crap weather over the weekend I just told myself, 'no problem. I'll just change the inputs and re-run the model'. If only it was that easy. Oh but wait, it's not easy. And that's why I better hurry on along.

The new Backyard

2008-03-30T14:28:00.002+01:00

Kind Eyes - color
Originally uploaded by Christiane B

Newly acquired husband loves this guy. He is extremely popular with camera toting tourists (like me).

Allergic to the Suburbs

2008-03-30T14:16:00.004+01:00

Last year about this time, fancy and I make a trek out to the suburbs to meet up with our only truly english friends in England, which in itself is a sad admission. Upon returning from where the commuter rail takes you, I got so violently ill as I have never experienced before. No bolivian water or Egyptian Nile fish had been able to keep me in such a spell for so long.

Last Thursday we did our annual pilgrimage to the burbs and now I am sitting on the couch, the window open, feeling the breeze of the very first and potentially last spring day in London, agonizing whether to bother with Day Nurse or just skip right ahead to Night Nurse. It's a different kind of sick, but I think it's official: I am destined to live in large polluted cities, where real estate prices barely allow you more than a studio flat, where the sheer mass of other bodies gobble up the germs, where dogs must trade a backyard for your shoulders and where I get to live in peace.

At least it's the shortest day of the year.

Landmine Victim Beauty Contest

2008-03-28T10:43:00.003Z

Man, this is messed up. Unfortunately it's in German, but I will summarize briefly: apparently someone in Angola is hosting a beauty contest for landmine victims who lost a limb. The first price is a new limb. Maybe I am gullible and someone made this up, but it feels wrong, very wrong. Maybe educational? Maybe a way to make women who lost a limb feel beautiful? I don't know. I think it's a bit sick.

A Real Girl

2008-03-27T12:16:00.005Z

A girl just walked into the office to be interviewed. A real girl. A smiling girl in an awkward suit. Not ancient secretary's caliber, but a real girl. So exciting. If I wasn't getting the hell out of here before the first day of summer or maybe even Memorial Day (make that Spring Bank Holiday for the Euros), I would start dreaming up lunch dates and Starbucks bitching sessions; I would get excited about someone else having a stack of lotions on their desk, someone else talking about nonsense in a eerily quiet office filled with middle aged men (and I am using middle age generously here); I would make sure that girl got hired on her girl credentials only provided she passes the basic test of human kindness. Worse than no girl in the office may be a mean girl in the office. I mean one other than the little self. I may have failed Hilary in her moment of need, but this is closer to home. I would come through.

But it's not quite worth it now, is it? Besides, to share the undivided attention as the only girl, the only kid for that matter which as I have spoken about before, does pay off nicely in piles of chocolates from various foreign countries?

My heartfelt excitement of having a potential work friend walk into the door makes me think I need to come up with an immediate plan of how this whole working from home wherever home is, shall work out. Maybe I need to find an office space full of free lancers, not so much for the copy machine, but to have a place to go to, a reason to put on real clothes, a way to actually have a conversation (other than with the little self), a way to actually meet people. How the hell does one meet people in a new country of residence if not by going to school/work/other non-sitting-on-own-couch-activity? I will not, repeat, will not join the German beerhouse round that surely takes place on Tuesdays in every country in the world and the American budweiser round that is probably on Wednesdays to be rounded up with the "all expats welcome" round on Thursdays.

How do people take advantage of the freedom of the virtual office without drowning in it? How do you motivate yourself to think beyond boundaries the way only a nice person to person discussion can facilitate? How do you stay interested if it's just you and a pile of papers?

I might just need a cat. A smart one that rejects shitty arguments and sweat pants and then we're all set.

That Land by the Equator

2008-03-25T15:55:00.004Z

Still don't want to jinx things, but lets just say we are sending newly acquired husband off to a land by the Equator where little me spent her more turbulent late childhood years and he has strict instructions to come back with a long list of employment opportunities in that city or preferably in a city that I would call the NYC of Asia.

Thinking of this land by the Equator brings back such strange memories. The last time I was present in that country I had just started the phase that is sort of slowing down right now: the drinking too much and running around the city at 4am and always wanting to do one more thing, one last dance, one last shot. I distinctly recall the last week in that city when my family was already shoved into a hotel, awaiting visas for the land of the free, when I was allowed my own room, my own key and for one week only, a curfew beyond whatever pathetic and thoroughly restricting curfew was the norm in those days. Unfortunately I ended up strolling through the breakfast lounge on Sunday morning, on my way back from my big night out, where my parents were finishing omelets, ready to start the day. That morning was the first in a long series of teenage dilemmas of always getting caught no matter how small the mischief. I always have been and always will be the worst liar in the world. In that instance, I was completely unable to come up with a credible story as to why I was not in fact coming home from the bars but instead from my hotel room/the library/the movies/coffee with my grandma. Ah, sweet memories.

In any case, omelets in a hotel restaurant and an all-nighter- that was the life and I could only imagine how much better life was going to get from then on because that land by the Equator was known to be boring, but the land of the free; that land was known for badness and adventures and I could hardly wait. I was so optimistic until I realized that land of the free had curfews and a tight grip on booze for underage seekers and way too many people interested in preserving their virginity.

Woops. How did we end up there? Lets just say, I am not worried about newly acquired husband's virginity and so I am tempted to send him to my old places of worship (hilarious bars called "Fire", "Zouk", "Rayders") to see if those still harbor hoards of expats brats or worse yet, if my old drinking buddies have grown roots back on the corner of Scotts Road and Orchard Road.

Easter Sunday - Vodka and Garlic

2008-03-24T18:59:00.012Z

After just receiving a rather unexpected rebuff by the parents of Miss Chris at the audacity of not having called them to wish a happy easter on easter sunday, no, not today, that's too late, I must say I feel somewhat clueless of what I may have done wrong. I love chocolate easter eggs, I used to love making easter stuff back in the days - like 20 years ago (ouch, I AM old), but I always avoided having to go to church and I have probably spent as many times celebrating passover as I have easter while at university if and when those two holidays fall on the same weekend. It has completely slipped my mind that it's a big deal back in the homeland and a big deal to the parents of miss chris. I am a bit torn between feeling like I should apologize, if nothing else for hurting someone's feeling, and staking my claim to the world of someone approaching the end of their 20s who sees easter as a long weekend to engage in the following activities none of which have any resemblance of what the mother of miss chris may have expected: Good Friday: A day to meet up with a photographer in my area, who does the most awesome, spooky portraits of people who hang out in the coffee shops or who run the little stands of Portobello market and who was so kind to lend me one of his super duper expensive lenses. Unfortunately his pictures are still better than mine, but I take that as inspiration.Better Saturday: Focus on doing very little and some photography with fancy lens and follow that up with pierogis and vodka shots. Sort of goes back to the roots I guess. Easter Sunday: Excessive pub lunch followed up with a march through Soho bars and too drunk to care Chinese food to round up the evening. The result of that can be summed up by the attached photograph. Easter Monday: Another day of focusing on doing very little, but staying off the booze and finishing romance novel 400 of the year while consuming easter candy by the fistful, considering replicating the vodka honey concoction of Saturday. I guess nowhere in that plan is there much space for easter egg painting and solemnity of any kind. Worst of all, I don't even remember what I would have been supposed to be doing in the first place, other than calling the parents of miss chris that is. And on Sunday, not Monday. I guess these little things, although annoying, don't mean too much to me, so I might as well just remember to do them, because they do seem to mean a lot to someone else. Well, off I go to make that vodka honey and keep your fingers crossed for newly acquired husband. More on why later when I don't feel like I am jinxing it.

P.S. Can someone explain to me why every time I try something as daring as paragraph breaks the whole blog neatly divides itself into random sections all in different font? So unfortunately the only other option is one large chunky run-on thought paragraph.

The OTHERS won

2008-03-20T13:52:00.006Z

I am not sure if it's because I got my American passport and then swiftly left the country for what seems to be an undetermined amount of time, but I am all about American politics, especially the kind that goes on in nicely furnished and wine equipped bars in central London.

Yesterday the newly acquired husband, the sex columnist and book nerd friend and the little self attended a Young Democrats vs. Young Republicans debate, proudly desplaying our DEMOCRATS stickers until our fellow Democrats opened their mouths. I drank Malbec and buried my face in shame. How can it be that a young un-Republican looking surfer dude Republican with baggy Jeans and a dirty t-shirt can shut up the two sweater combination wearing banker mom Democrats? How can it be that free points (Gore, environment, drug companies, health care) are laid in front of the not so young Democrats , ready to be picked up and converted into major shrapnel wounds on the part of Republican party policies, but instead they are gently cradled, wiggled around a bit and then thrown out of the window with statements that echo something akin of "but we care about the people". Well, isn't that nice. How about you spit out some idea of how you intend to do something for the people in a way that is better than the people can do themselves (a Republican argument for lowering taxes). I mean it was right there. We were all picturing the old granny on medicare, the evil drug company CEO at his posh mansion looking like Dr. Evil, the dying dolphins, the stolen election of 2001, we had the moral highground, so please do learn to use it.

How can it be that minus the "we must win in Iraq at any cost and if it takes a century to do so" the young Republicans argued as if they had some decent sounding plan, but all we can get out of the not so young Democrats is "but we are nicer". We can do better than that. We need to stop relying on the fact that everyone around us happens to be a bleeding heart liberal of the most left leaning sort and learn to argue with people who fundamentally disagree. Just because we think they are wrong, does not mean they have no good arguments. Come on people, sharpen your claws.

The only highlight of the evening was the following Republican quote (and I am paraphrasing) "yes, it would suck to be a prisoner of Guantanamo bay". Wehaa. I do bet it would suck.

Also, not to go all economist on everyone, but I do wish people would do some math once in a while. Republicans: Lower taxes and spend those 5 billion on Iraq a month? Democrats: Free health care for everyone, while not raising taxes on anyone but the top 1%? Oh AND balancing the budget?

It's nice to have dreams.

Most Awesome Puppy

2008-03-18T12:20:00.002Z

Yeah, so I am a cat person, but this puppy I would take home, brush and pretend he was a cat.

Storm-scape

2008-03-18T11:59:00.005Z

Did some heavy-duty spa-sitting, windy beach dog petting, pre-noon German beer and sausage eating and very little else, except I realized how much I like whisk(e)y and despite my best efforts how little talent I have for telling the good ones apart from the bad ones. I do know that I like to sip it and I like the fact that they come in separate menus.

Now if you'll excuse me, I am a bit too relaxed to keep moving my fingers.

Poor Us

2008-03-12T14:58:00.006Z

What is it about families going abroad, engaging in behaviours they would not engage in while at home and then ending up with a murdered kid while the journos eat it up like bacon?

I won't warm up Maddie, but you know what I am thinking. I see a pattern.

Not trying to discredit a victim or her family here, but come on, do we see a problem with this?

Location: Goa, India
Victim: 15 year old nymphet
Verdict: Murder
Situation: Left alone with 25 year old man (boyfriend) while family travels onwards without her.

Goa, people. What is Goa known for? Partying. Great partying, great beaches and a lot of adult fun. What are 15 year old girls with lip piercings known for? Partying. Loving great beaches. And adult fun. What are 15 year old girls with lip piercings and an affinity for partying to dudes? God's gift from heaven. What will happen when the two meet pina colada in hand on a starry night? A lot of adult fun.

I am not a mother, but I remember vividly making many a great argument when I was 14 years old and situated in Singapore why it would be an awesome idea for my parents to let me go to Thailand for a few weeks with an older boyfriend and all his friends. And he, I assure you, was as decent a dude as they come. But turns out, I didn't get to go. Wanna know why? Cause you don't let a girl who just realized the impact of her sexuality on men and who thinks it's awesome and hilarious to use it cause damn, who knew getting attention could be so easy, but who has no idea that a night of blue balling guys and then going on a beach walk will be interpreted as something other than an innocent, fun end to a night, go somewhere, alone, where people might take her actions as face value and nobody is around to check whether she makes it home or not. As a parent, letting that happen is not murder, but it's certainly stupidity. But that's the fabulous part about these stories. They happened somewhere else, so one does not ask these questions.

First off, the blame may be applied both generally and specifically. This has the welcome side effect of making us feel even better about ourselves and we will go through great lengths to show just how incompetent they are. The locals are all crooks, the police especially, the bartenders too; savages really. After all, all those people are far away and don't scream "libel" as an English investigator/cop/bartender would and could. So that's easy. We got an obvious victim and a truck load of bad guys. I mean, we really do have a victim and there is no excuse for murder, dah, but the story, man, the story is just too easy.

It confirms what we already know. We are good. We are innocent and we just always get shafted. Poor us. Going abroad is dangerous, because them peoples are all savages. Things like this would never happen back home because we are decent and oh, maybe if some kid didn't show up at school for six months because she is living with her adult boyfriend on some beach maybe we'd be like, oh, ooops, lets talk to her parents to see if they are still all checked in. Or maybe we would not, but that is so not the point. The point is the opposite: these stories sell oh so well because we are not to blame. Naha, no blame in sight. Just victims. Poor us.

Sub Point A Section A and a Long Way to Go

2008-03-11T15:58:00.005Z

Wooooow, someone just lit a firecracker under my ass and I have been running around the office like a chicken with its proverbial head cut off, except my head is still on and trying really hard to do the things people do when they actually have to use their head. It's hard man and I have not done it in a while. Juggling the thinking, the list making, the writing, the running around frantically only to be disturbed by the email that negates everything this chicken just started doing, making her have to start over, getting a bit frantic about the output, shit, no work product to show for all those hours, so work has instead of producing a product produced only empty coffee cups and a fit of laughter at the little self for using a gossip magazine on corruption in the coal market as a valid source. Yes, lets stop there. A gossip magazine on coal prices? Yes, but only in the Philippines. This is so great, well, not so great, but pretty great given the general not so greatness of the topic on hand, if only all economizing papers were written in comic style irony with big pictures and bigger margins. They are not and somehow every valid point that I squeeze out of a dry as sherry (and not the one little old ladies drink) sentence splits into thousands of every so relevant sub-points and next thing you know I am on third order bullet points (yes, we have those) and so very far removed from that original overview of all the big and important issues because holy shit how am I agonizing about bullet 19 of subpoint k of point 1 of section A of country 1?

Better drink more coffee cause got lots more sub points to create.

Priorities

2008-03-04T10:07:00.006Z

The route
Originally uploaded by Christiane B

So this is where we are at.

We more or less cancelled our lease as of end of May.

Newly acquired husband left his job preemptively as of the beginning of May.

I got some sort of ok to work somewhere in "Asia" pending newly acquired husbands job prospects.

While it is amazingly ditsy sounding to declare that we are moving in May to no place in particular, but that the place is generally east of London unless it's so far east that it's really more west, it turns out that one can re-route ones container of crap or ideally store it somewhere until one knows where one is going.

So with all this vaguery hanging over our heads we decided to make a hard and fast plan for our vacation because it's important to prioritize. No need to bother with dates, logistics and monsoon seasons when one has a clear picture to guide the way.

So, ehm, Rangoon anyone?

Art credit goes to newly acquired husband and I appologize for the bad photographic quality.

The German Beach Towel Reservation System or Lost Crocodiles

2008-03-03T10:19:00.004Z

Due to my long term status as the German girl abroad I have been target of many German jokes. As long as they are actually funny, I usually take them pretty well.

One stereotype that has been told to me in comical ways many times over is that of the German family hogging the pool in any given resort in any given warm town. Before the great clan of Germans retire to the sanctity of the dining area in order to enjoy a hearty serving of Spanish chorizo or Italian meatballs (one would not want to go overboard on novel food items here) they first calculate the path of the sun in relation to the overhanging palm tree leaf, aptly realizing when the shade will hit what chair and then plop down their towels at the best located beach chairs or a multitude of them just to be sure, thus reserving those for the remainder of their stay. This behavior is known to piss off every laid back, long sleeping, feet dragging tourist from other nations who has not understood that this is a sport and that they are loosing. The Germans are leading by a long shot.

I have known of families who have a rotating, elected family member who is in charge of getting up early, setting up the towels and then guarding the territory while everyone else is having their buffet style breakfast, where they heap as much fake scrambled eggs onto their plates as possible because you know, back home, they really don't have eggs and one better eat ones moneys worth and also one better steal some stale rolls just in case. But I digress.

After a long and warm absence from the homeland Miss Chris' parental unit has now returned to the mothership, thus reversing the route most retirees made. In those years navigating the globe fate had them living in warm, very warm places, gave them an abundance of heat and pools and beach chairs and lazy afternoons by the pool. One could say that the parental unit is saturated by the sun. One could also say that the parental unit has learned to look at their own people in a rather removed way, marveling at the funny, baffling and at times anal retentive habits of their compatriots. Their retirement has been made worthwhile by disregarding that they know how to behave back home(there is a distinct way one is to behave in Germany, there is a true right and wrong you "one" does not do things that one is not supposed to do. As a matter of fact one of the most often uttered phrases in Germany might be "das macht man doch nicht" meaning "one does not do that"). So in order to keep mantally agile the parental unit has made it their grand task in life to push poor German buttons at the small town grocery store (believe me, there IS a right way to wait in line), in a restaurant, at the train station and when gardening in the front yard and especially relating to Mittagsruhe (noon time rest, which means above all else, no mowing your lawn. It's a LAW). Screw Yoga. The joy they have been deriving from other people's anguish over petty incidences is the ultimate Schadenfreude which is keeping them young.

The parental unit is currently on a warm island having realized that winters in Germany sucks. Here they are doing all they can to help teach Germans to be better global citizen. I spoke with the parental unit last night to be told cheerfully that they had to end the call because they had an important task waiting for them. Apparently the German towel reservation system of the pool chairs has been extended and now some super confident Germans are placing towels onto best located chairs in the evenings, complete with the plastic crocodile or dolphin or whatever toy might be the rage in 2008. The parentals self-assigned task is to sneak out during the cover of darkness, remove the crocodiles and dolphins and nicely place them into scenic areas of the well manicured lawns. We may have a crocodile peaking out from behind a palm tree, a dolphin in the shower, and we end up with all the towels in a neat pile on a picnic table. "It is very difficult" the female parental unit informs me "one must be careful because there are stupid people walking around in the evenings when we are hiding the animals". I tell her that the crocodile she may be carrying under her arm at any specific reconnaissance mission could be her crocodile. She paused and then says almost disgusted "we don't look so dumb that anyone would believe we might own a crocodile like that". So apparently the quality standard of beach toys has plummeted along with German towel-pool-reservation behaviors so that the newly Germanized parental unit wishes not be associated with either.

Good to know the unit is doing good for the world: they are goodwill ambassadors in the name of bettering German-European relations. What pisses me off that I would have gotten in trouble for this when I was 14. So not fair.