Tricky Wondalund…

I started running as way to feel close to a person that I didn’t want to forget. It seemed like as good a reason as any to start running, fitness aside. Months down the road, I think I have started to make running my own, my own little experiment and the results have been heartening. The past months of being in a nebulous state of unemployment, watching one’s friends graduate business school and already out and about in the workforce, has left a lot of self-doubt and frankly, days where I really wondered, what the hell I was doing.

Running made it all better. Long weekend runs where all i can hear is the sound of my breathing, my heart pounding and the gentle sea breeze help clear my mind. Life is pretty simple, one doesn’t need much to feel fulfilled. It is only in those two hours with my feet beating on the ground, where I am truly at peace. Nothing about this body is made for running, I am a round and big girl, I am flat-footed, I have 15 stiches on my right knee and three stitches on my left knee from a debilitating motorcycle accident years ago. It takes me twice as much training just to achieve the same run times as other normals. And yet, there is such a wonderful satisfaction to this humdrum in-stepping.

I have become more serious and educated about running. I pay attention to my shoes, I practice feet care, I take isotonic and electrolyte replacement drinks. I buy pressure absorbing socks, which are obviously seamless, to prevent any abrasions. I have finally gotten onto the bandwagon of taking gel fluids while running too, which gives me a loopy sense of caffeinated high, where I can continously keep running, inspite of the pain in my knee joints. It’s weird…when you get to a point of exhaustion, and sweat doesn’t just drip, it’s like having a reverse bath. My mouth is dry and all I can taste is the liquid gel — a weird blackberry aftertaste, artificial flavoring no doubt and my mind is thinking how wonderful it would be to take a very, very long drink.

It’s 4.15am and my alarm rings. I have been sleeping early all week to allow my body to cycle down to get up early. I have also been alcohol free for 2 weeks now. This is how serious I am about completing my first ever half-marathon. I haven’t had a bunch of time to train and really only began my running journey some six months ago. Ramping up to a half was a big step, but a necessary one — especially since I was searching for goals, having had everything else in my life kind put on a standstill. Having sporty friends has been great, I get all sorts of advice around tapering off my training schedules, training for the right amount of distance and terrain, and investing in fancy training gear and training foods.

5.30am — the sky is dark and the Fullerton Hotel looks eerily over the 70,000 running hopefuls. I don’t think i have ever ran in the dark. The start line is packed and I find myself somewhere far down the start line — not good. That just meant, it took me an additional 10 minutes just to get to the start line! I had put together a special running mix for this run of my life. I will share with all for sure, but the secret key to music and running is that, the music has got to be fresh. So, if you do make a mix, don’t sneakily listen to it before running. The music alone will keep you focused away from the pain and the crazily loud feet shuffling of thousands of shoes pounding on the pavement.

Starting out has never been more challenging with all the human traffic!

The trail for this run is pretty. I get shots of East Coast park in the darkness, bits of the city, and the Singapore Flyer. In darkness, Singapore does feel cool and the effort to push each additional step out of my body seems less difficult than normal. Somwhere around 7.30am, the sun starts rising and I feel the relentless heat rise. Everyone around me is sweating profusely.

Singapore has its pretty moments. On Nicoll Highway on route to City Hall.

10km is the mental mark for me...halfway through and hanging on!

What did one expect?? My shirt is completely soaked and my ears are ringing. I finally get to listen to La Roux’s Bulletproof, a song that is just too fucking good and I get my stride in step.

The Flyer on my way to the Finish Line...so close to victory!

The finish line is only another 4km away. I feel elation, as I realize that my feet are still moving and I am still humanly intact. This is a good sign. Approaching the rounding of the bridge, my last kilometer, I spot the FINISH sign and I up my pace. My heart is beating and my legs are burning. I pass the Finish sign, look at the time clock and burst into tears. I feel good. I feel complete and I feel like I won one back for me.

Happy and sweaty in my Running Skirt!

If you think these are a string of lucky numbers, it’s not. Runner #3560 (that’s me), out of 11,000 others, what i termed “motivateds”, who decided that there is nothing better than getting up at 6am for a 15km run. Did i ever think in my life that I would be able to run a race? Never. Did i think that if i did run a race, that i could pull a 15 click run for my first virgin run? Also never. So, 24 May 2009 is a special day. Definitely. At a timing that I am glad to say, I am not totally embarressed about too 1:53:32. 

Me and Eunice Hi-5 eachother at the finish line!

Numbers aside, there is nothing more fun than the feeling of doing the impossible. While the last few months of my life have been a consistent reminder of “Pauline doesn’t have” and even worst, “No, Pauline doesn’t get”, it’s great to know that there are some things where democracy still persists and input becomes output, very simply. No excuses about external market factors, no laments about “I should have done things differently” and best of all, no b.s having to deal with someone elses’ tantrums and moods. It’s all on you (or me, in this case).

I learnt a couple of things today. That the body is pretty resilient. 3 kilometers in, i literally run into a branch. Not so glamourous. But not serious enough to get outted of the race. I persist. 8km in, I am seriously regretting not bringing my ipod because there is this T-pain track that is absolutely running-licious. Somewhere along the 11km mark, I feel my shoulders aching. Aiks. The mind is bored but can be easily trained to just focus on hardbodies on the running track. Nice. That despite the heat and the dry throat and the heavy legs, one can keep going. Much like an analogy for life. There was even a couple that insisted on running holding hands. 

Branched, but not benched :)

Past the initial fanfare of the crowd and the high school cheerleaders who had to fulfill school credits by performing forced volunteer duties, the final bits of the race are pretty silent. It’s just humans, sweat and bodies persisting. There is a silent shuffle of feet as shoes hit the pavement and heavy breathing. It’s all very insular i suppose. There is a silent nod when someone overtakes. Past the 10km mark, the runners are as one, strangers in real life but united in a common cause. There is some camaraderie as people swap stories and ask each other about their run times. Much congratulations are sent around. 

I am excited to see the 13km mark and a big sign that shouts out “one more mile”. This is great! I am waaaayyy ahead of my timing, except…I don’t recall the finish line being anywhere even close to where i am. It is pure providence that i decide to stop at the water station because it wasn’t 2km to the finish line and i would seriously died of dehydration. It was more like 5km. Somone obviously couldnt count and put up the signboards wrongly. Bleah…still, pyschologically, it’s always better to know you are 2km from the finish line than not.

On y va!

Even better is to have your best friends take you out for a stinky brunch after. Audrey is absolutely distraught about her fine leather seats in her bmw smelling like dog. i would be too.

a fine treat

where is the food?

Running IS the new democracy. It doesn’t matter if you are short, or thin or plump, it’s about getting a pair of good shoes and just drilling the mental mind to accept pain, fatigue and absolute satisfaction. I salute everyone that did it! I am totally addicted and can’t wait to train up for my next half-marathon (at a better timing). The time has come and all those painful sessions of boot camp has paid off!

Run with me!!

Happy, happy finisher

From the industrial setting of Chonburi province to the local flavor of Bang San beach, Lea drags me out to Pattaya for a night out on the town. Again, I speak of divine intervention. Foreign city, no particular agenda, I meet Lea, who has spent the last three years living in Cambodia, with some of the craziest stories about sleaze, sex, corruption and the high life. I believe the word is probably Serendipity that we meet.

That's all I need to know...Sexy Friendly Girls....

Lea comments that if you want to make money, Pattaya is the place to be, screw Bangkok. It’s fast cash and dirty money. From the neon-lit strip malls, that house all sorts of brands from Starbucks to Mango, to the dingy back alley lanes that feature thuggish brutes playing open-air billards, Pattaya is a electro-clash mix of lights, dirt, sex and a trying sophistication. Kinda of when you are 15 years old and trying to act all adult, wearing these poorly fitted clothes, that’s Pattaya for you. Ill-fitting, poorly formed.

But what one cannot get over is the sense of desperation. The numerous white men with their Thai girls in tow. At the classy malls, these are settled Europeans who now speak fluent Thai, with Thai wife and kid in tow. On Walking Street, the epitome of sleaze and what Nat calls – “sin city”, the men are walking around grabbing women’s asses. Girls or ladyboys walk around in nothing but their lingerie. Nat laughs and says, ‘Where else in the world can you see people walking around in their underwear!?!?!?!” It’s an oddball scene. Army and sailor sorts float around, dragging skinny thai girls that don’t look older than 16 years old. There is awkward dancing and some body grabbing. Every club has sad looking women sitting out front, some are talking to weird white men, some are doing a sleepy form of bartop dancing. All this set against young children running around at 2am, selling neon glo-sticks and breakdancing in the streets. But what I don’t get – are the people selling roses. What would possess you to sell roses on a street where people go to pick up hookers? I mean, would you ever buy a rose for a hooker? Or toys for that matter? Would you blow your last pile of hard-earned cash buying a Doraemon? heh.

someone needs to figure out their customer segments...seriously

Standing cool...amongst tigers...

We swap sleaze stories and Nat laments how she constantly gets asked,” How much for short time?” Wow, the economic recession has really hit hard. She is upset that it’s almost impossible to be taken seriously in Pattaya and have a normal job. I completely understand. Pattaya attracts the very sort of human that is not interested in conversation, a high life, sophistication or personality. It’s highly transactional, it’s highly transient – one has to believe that not all these men act like jerks back in their home country. Lea hugs Nat in the middle of the streets, only to feel a huge hand grab her ass cheek. Such is the spirit of Pattaya. We all come here to behave badly. The next person who tells me they are spending the weekend in Pattaya will be treated with grave suspicion for sure.

One thing’s for sure, we are the only group of girls walking around. Everyone else is simply…coupled or waiting to hook up. There is something surreal about watching these girls flaunt their siliconed chest and staring lasciviously at these bald, white boys. It’s not just mating, it’s hunting. There is tons of gawking happening. Girls are huddling smiling at prospective men, men are amazed at all this attention and constant stream of girls walking up to them with gentle caresses, body pressed against hips. Pretty lurid. We laugh through it all, as girls with brave hearts do.

And to survive Pattaya in a well-adjusted manner does require a brave heart. Hiaks…the only way to get through it in one piece is to first get drunk at an Ice Bar. Like the decadence of any party town, the Ice Bar is a thai oddity, partying a la Finland or Sweden where the bar, the seats, the cups even are made of ice. I never really thought I would have to don a winter parka to head out drinking. But never say no to unlimited drinks! Nat is our bartender of choice and we get a stable stream of vodka shots. Aiaks!

if you ever wanted a mix of bed supperclub in an ice environment...you got it.

ice ice baby

chug chug chug

I leave Pattaya and it is now 5am. It’s far too late and my mind is tired, in so many ways. There is a niggling sense of lost and not being sure what I had just experienced. Weird. Kinda like being hit by a truck but wondering what just happened. Maybe it’s coming face to face with human depravity. It can leave a bitter taste now that we have met and shook hands.

goodnight and goodbye

You know your life is kinda topsy turvy, possessing little more than a semblance of structure when after one random phone call, two even more random discussions that I find myself on a flight to Thailand to visit a chicken farm. A distressed chicken farm no less. For those lesser beings that don’t know any better (like me…), the world of chicken farming is extremely high-tech. Chickens are not kept in high-rise cages, that is so 1970s. Some millions of eggs are brought to a hatchery, incubated and chicks are then placed into longhouses to freely run around for 6 weeks, before heading into the slaughterhouse. It’s a free buffet meal “All you can eat” for 6 weeks. Lights are kept on for as long as 24 hours a day to encourage the chickens to keep eating. Sounds like my life! Sounds like a good life too. Feeding is completely mechanical, and water pipes are dropped down to varying heights to allow the chickens to suck water nipples. It’s all very surreal.

Sunset along Bang San Beach with some really fresh seafood

None as surreal as the further processing of chicken. I stand around a cold room (in my biological warfare-ready suit and balaclava), watching an entire assembly line of professional chicken cutters fillet breast meat into nice squares to make chicken katsu pieces for the Japanese market. The chicken pieces are weighed, checked for consistency, floured, dipped into egg, floured, breaded and checked again, before it all moves along the assembly line and dropped into oil and fried. And fried again.

Life with a chicken company is no joke. Due to health and safety reasons, many of the staff live on-site. Housing is provided. Imagine this is the extent of your life. Chopping chicken, working at a factory hours from nowhere, and well, having to wash your hands 36 times a day. I find out that some 20% of the staff are married to each other. Seriously, that’s real company pride. And kinda cultish. That of the poulet cult. That’s pretty mad. And scary…but I already said that.

This is when I realize, I am such a big city girl. The idea of not having options around food, restaurants (I ate at the same restaurant everyday) and with no starbucks in sight, is kinda scary.

But hey, moo moo and I are happy because we manage to book ourselves into the only 5-star hotel on Bang San beach (which is nowhere near the chicken factory), but I can’t complain. Making financial models by the beach is pretty fun. And moo moo gets to pose out.

Moo moo relaxing while i work!

This is the million dollar shot – I actually had 17 varieties of fried chicken for lunch. Yes…17!!! i definitely have sworn off KFC for life!

Talk about having a one-dimensional lunch menu

If you want to invest in the chicken business, you got to get serious about your chicken. The factory turns out more than 500 chicken recipes, across the entire steam, roasted and fried spectrum. Behind this all – an entire infrastructure of R&D and science that goes into your crappy 7-11 Taquitos. Madness.

The thing about learning how one’s food gets made is that one comes to realization on the ins and outs, and in particular, the issues on death and killing one’s meat for food. That the nice neat cuts of meat at Whole Foods doesnt miraculously appear as such, that some Thai person stood around on a long assembly line, cutting, cleaning and weighing, in a room that smelt less than nice. makes on almost want to turn vegan.

At least, I now know more about something, which can’t be said about the other facets of my life

Interesting. I re-read The Prince recently, in part hoping to understand the politics and motivations of a Machiavellian mind. Nothing about the Machiavellian mind is ‘nice’. The Machiavellian is an absolute realist, an individual who understands that the end goal is power, political clout, self-preservation (at any or all costs) and is self-motivated to be practical, cruel as necessitated, unemotional about the realist choices made and driven by logic, objectives and personal self-glory.

In the corporate world, a world in which I play in most often, these traits are admired. Some slavishly attempt their best to employ these strategies and portray these traits. A Machiavellian mind is brilliant, the individual is always able to see two steps ahead, this person is able to make the right connections with the people that matter (the endless argument around who do you sleep with – the nobles or the people?), and discard or annihilate those that don’t matter. Machiavellians create a sense of fear in those that interact with them, leading to a fogged or begrudged sense of respect. An air of mystery protects the shiny exterior of a confident, self-possessed Machiavellian individual. Nobody can break the secret shield, the Machiavellian person keeps it all in, they are silent, quiet and any information shared will belie weakness. Trust no one, only those that need you more or if you pay for it. Really?

I am increasingly certain that I am a realist. That practicality has its place in our lives, if not anything, it makes decision-making faster and more effective. Business school is full of ‘Ts’, in accordance to the Myers-Briggs test. This is no surprise. We do what we have to do to achieve certain goals. Millions of self-help books these days talk about increasing your effectiveness, that drive themes of “Me, Myself and I” as a penultimate goal. That control, having a self-vision is all important. It is almost as if the world is shouting to me that if you are not Machiavellian, how can you succeed?

Even more interestingly, even if I assumed I could be Machiavellian in a world that would love me more for making the harder choices and being the person that nobody else dares to be, how would one gel this persona with a personal, private and emotional being? That is certainly not possible, is it? Machiavellians are detestable! One might get “killed” especially if there is a political tussle between the both of you. That you might actually get discarded over their personal needs?

If the base motivation of a Machiavellian lover is self-love, self-preservation, and will always make decisions based on their own agenda, then there can be no such ideas of selfless love, of compromise (unless there is a trade-up involved), that you hold some intrinsic value to your partner, else there is no point in being saddled in a relationship. In fact, I will just honestly say that this is not love, not a relationship, but a partnership, much like a business.  Certainly, we can all throw the idea of THE ONE out the window. And as long as we are willing to admit that there is the world in which we live in, expectations can be pruned down accordingly. This is not saying that we cannot have expectations about relationships nor of our partners, but rather, these are adjusted to the realities that if timing permits and everything works out conveniently, then you have a partnership that works. It is almost like dating Dr. Manhattan…I reckon. In fact, I am almost certain. The Machiavellian individual may not ever understand free love, because his or her mind (although female Machiavellians are rare) is oriented to seek power and self-fulfillment of their personal goals. It is being with someone that will always be removed, far, internalized and frankly emotionally dangerous. I won’t say emotionally broken, because people are built differently. I am not saying that this doesn’t work, in fact, it might work amazingly, as long as you walk into such a situation with eyes wide open and be totally self-confident and well-adjusted. Again, I bring up the idea of a “full glass” – all by yourself J

A true Machiavellian mind can be read, understood and even loved for its intricacies. A Machiavellian heart can be loved and appreciated once one adjusts expectations and understands that a Machiavellian person is limited in his/ her ability to really love, but if they choose to be with you, they are pushing their personal limits to do so. And effort is everything, correct?? What is truly a joke is if it’s a confused individual who is still trying to play Mr. Nice Guy and not sure if he is truly Machiavellian. In general, it is probably best to just avoid all confused individuals, but in particular, the messed up Machiavellian! A messed up Machiavellian [and any other confused person] (to quote someone I spoke with recently) will end up projecting their issues on you. Like financial markets, volatility messes up predictions. Black swan events occur as a result. Give me a good, predictable Machiavellian anytime.

My thoughts: Stay away from the Machiavellian lover if you think love is all about being together, equality, carefree love, mutual dependence (or gasp! Dependence) and emotional connection. Be with a Machiavellian lover if your value set allows you to understand how inspite of their cold aloof nature, if you fit into their life puzzle, then you have a shot at it. Nobody ever admits it but Machiavellians are pretty sexy and emote the air of ungettable, so if you are into that, the Machiavellian presents a possible target market for you!

Do I think two Machiavellians can ever be together? Definitely not. It would be world chaos, and certainly, one would think involves a lot of violence and pot-throwing. Nothing about a true Machiavellian allows for another Prince/ Princess in the chicken coup. So, if you are a Machiavellian reading this post, understand that you have two choices in love: suck it up and learn to be with someone non-Machiavellian (which would take some adjustment, tears, and time) or go at it alone and pay for services as required.

Actually, there are books out there dissecting Machiavellian lovers, this blog post is nothing new. Some articles are funnier than others. But definitely a reflection of how much time I actually have on my hands to think about rubbish like that. 

What do modern day girls do? Sure, they text a lot, they go shopping, they do their nails more frequently, they wake up at 6am for fitness Boot Camp and put themselves through some seriously rigorous muscular pain.

I just woke up look...

Underlying it all, modern day girls are learning to be empowered with a sense of self and identity. This is not an insult to our mothers in any way, but rather, an evolution of self-image, societal roles and what is simply deemed “cool” and “with it”. I don’t think I have had a conversation with another woman in the last 6 months over the age of 28 that isn’t taking some form of language lessons, training for triathlons, reading cookery books or taking on really difficult things like sewing or car maintenance.

A good cheese plate is also worth a love affair

Eating...but of course! No girl's night is complete without food!

Nadia leads with the amazing salad

What I think of all this? It’s clear that modern women are spending more time alone, hence the ability to invest time and effort in themselves. It is not clear to me which is the chicken or the egg in this particular scenario. It is also not clear to me if we are truly happy, but I think we are learning. And if not anything, it makes the resume quite breathtaking (and muscular). For some reason, the pace of modern living and modern love requires that people “not need” each other. That we find true satisfaction in one-self. That we invest in our own “empty glasses” to “make them full”. I am not an all out proponent, but I am quickly learning that this is a non-negotiable. For some reason, for those with ambition, we inch closer and closer to being as good as men. Which gives us a great sense of satisfaction, but also immediately forces serious flight of male birds. Ironic. So what does a girl do then?  

On some nights, it’s important for girls to hang out together, because modern women still need to share our hopes, our dreams, our fears and our inanimate soft-toy replacement boyfriends. To the theme of Gossip Girl no less, because the fashion is simply inspiring. Headbands rock! We pile into Jenny’s house and munch, goss, winge about how ridiculous that some of us have received more than a handful of marriage proposals within the LAST week and how none are palatable. Hiaks. We live vicariously through each other’s lives, careers and dating life so that there is a cumulative sense of achievement. Any night with the girl’s is also a learning night. Veron is flipping through this totally old-skool text of “The Joy of Sex” and reading out random definitions to us. It’s hysterical, especially since the first random flipping results in the paragraph on FIGHTING.

The Definition of Fighting in Sexual Relations. Hmmmm.

Donkey, Moo Moo and BJ - friends for life and replacement boyfriends

“The occasional arguments that all couples experience would have nothing to do with sex if some couples weren’t directly excited by them” Heyo. That’s rich. I really didn’t reckon that. I am starting to think the Joy of Sex holds answers to life, the universe and everything and that reading Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy was a waste of time. Reading Brian Greene’s The Elegant Universe was equally a waste of time. We should all just read The Joy of Sex. J

Beyond the sharing, the hugging and the promises to stay strong for each other or trying to figure out which of our male friends is worthy to be pawned off to the very awesome women that we know, a gossip girl night is about certain lessons, no less in the dating realm. Because some people are obviously better at it than others! I am told that it is best to listen on dates. Perhaps. That men gain greater satisfaction from leading the way. Hrm. That a bit of helplessness can be quite attractive. Ahhh. No wonder I am so hopeless at this particular piece of fabric within our universe.

Ultimately, it’s a wonderful way to spend an evening with our friends. Because beyond the racing around and search for the meaning and purpose of life and love, it’s pretty nice just to switch off, let others do the crying for you and we all hold hands while watching Serena Van Der Woodsen reel through the Upper East Side in her chauffeured black car.

In bed with the right people

I think we should have totally worn our Armanis and done our hair to make this a truly fabulous night, as opposed to our grungy PJs. But, I ain’t complaining. Cos there is no price for friendship and good vibes.

goodnight, goodbye!

Removed from the dusty streets of Timor, I arrive in Bali, where holiday-making is everything art, science and pure decadence. No more complaints about mosquitoes, or failed air conditioning. Taxis throng the streets, long-stay foreigners meld into the Balinese landscape, zooming around on their scooters, most with some form of protective headgear on. There is fashion, art, culture, haute-couture food. Chilean wines, Italian dessert wines, British lagers…German bratwursts and French bistros.

I roll with decadence. Against the better side of me, I book myself into a 1 bedroom villa, with a private pool. Just me and moo moo, enjoying time alone and contemplating what happens when I go back to the realities of living with the parentals. Yikes! At the reception, I employ the best of Negotiation 101 and get myself upgraded to a 2 bedroom villa, with an even larger private pool. Not bad for a jobless schlep, huh?

My own private pool...sweet!

It’s hard not to love Bali. Ironically, I never used to like it. I have been here as a hungry backpacker, packed into unattractive accommodation in the sleaze of Kuta beach. Life is therefore minging, although warung chow is something to behold indeed. But today, sitting out on the beach, watching the waves and feeling the clean sand certainly has a magical feel to it. Love is found in the form of decadent villa-living now, with gentle water features that pour trickles of liquid into the pool; open-plan living, large-sized tubs with open showers. Love is found in the sun-beds that have thick bedded cushions and not crappy wooden platforms. Love is found in the multitude of fashion designers, hand-crafted ornaments and tasteful, modern furniture.

Me and Moo Moo enjoy our King-sized bed

I find myself having breakfast at The Tuck Shop, a canteen-like setting whose clean outlooks and modern lines remind me of Dean and Deluca in New York. Breakfast is a goat’s cheese crostini, with vinaigrette salad. The coffee is excellent, strong in taste and large in size. My idea of love.

I get into a deep discussion with Sabine, a beautiful Dutch model-turned-designer, whose love affair with Bali began several years ago after she ditched her European life and decided to end up in Asia on a one-way ticket. She says, “Everyone has a story with this island.” She is right. We are all here for one reason or another. I tell her that I am here to heal, she laughs and recommends me a couple of books and movies to watch. She gives me a kiss and says, “You will be strong. We all are. The men cannot be pressured. They cannot know that we know their flaws. We have to pretend silence. We go on with our life and they will come around.” Really? Sabine is right, that is why we all have to learn to let go. Because nobody really wants to know their flaws. People wish to have inklings about it, but not be confronted with a headmaster’s dressing down on their imperfections. She tells me that her boyfriend and her have broken up seven times over the last nine years. “He always comes back. Because I am strong for him. Because I wait for him. I could be with anyone, but nobody is as attractive to me as he is.” Wow, dedication. With that, she recommends a good dose of yoga, which releases the mind of pressures and the heart of want. I suppose, we all have our own ways of owning our life and taking things within stride. Some involve alcohol, others involve back-breaking triathlons, some employ moving on and meeting someone new, while others simply just choose to block the bad stuff out. Some just do all of the above and more. Whatever flies your kite, mate.

We banter about life in Bali, about her design work, the frustrations of communicating with the artisans here. Sabine is upset. “They always say they can do it. And the pink purse comes out green. Why?!” J Another one of those things that make this island a place that reminds us, we do have to work for some things. Not everything is that easy like ready air-conditioning.

It’s a place where one makes friends in an easy fashion. Where it is possible to spend hours exchanging life stories, sharing commonalities and enjoying fresh lime and pomelo juice. All this set against cotton shirts, straw fedoras and light-colored scarves.

The good duck...with the crispiest skin and yellow rice...almost like Confit!

Being in Bali is like being somewhere in a fantasy but with a reality backdropped into it. People are free to be whoever they want to be here. Bankers turn surfers, European families running away for the summer, models, artists, musicians, designers…everyone comes here because they were someone else in another world. Perhaps, that is the attraction for me, that I am spoilt for choice about where I can be, what I want to do and how I would like to play. But life can be good, with a good book (DH Lawrence – The first woman in love accompanies me), with good friends/ pets (moo moo on standby), a comfortable bed, wireless internet and a good music playlist.  

where tourists are a whole different breed of people

No better time than to start tackling the tough issues of life’s bigger purpose. But first, I eat more.  

Mee Goreng...yeah yeah! and Keropok! Yeah!

In such times, at the cross-roads of my life, I never thought that as an adult I would have to go through the raging soul-searching that I have been undertaking in the last two months. My confusion around what job I ought to be in, what type of life I wanted for myself, how I wished to be loved and cared for…at times, I felt really weak. At times, I felt – god, why can’t it all be simpler? And then, I see these children, who possess the agility, fortitude and impassive strength that I can’t even muster up. We often don’t give children enough credit, that even at their young age, can handle some serious scars. They are able to see what happens in the adult world, decompose it into their child-like existence and speak truths such as, “ Mummy and Daddy always fight.” Just like that. I know many other people who had to pay thousands of dollars in therapy just to come to that minute, simple conclusion.

Say it like how it is. I wish I was a child again. That my biggest worry would be whether I got my favorite soccer ball for Christmas. (Of course, if you were a destitute child, you would worry a lot more than that.) I AM humbled by how amazing these kids are. They are learning how to count today, through song. English is difficult for them but they smile, learn and sing, without grudge, without complaints. As adults, we could be slumped in a corner, down on prozac, unable to get out of bed, while these kids never let anything get them down, not even the flu.

Coloring time for the kids :)

All smiles...

Therefore, my biggest lesson from all this – is to embrace life with a tenacity that cannot be bought, sold or traded. That if one was a orphan child from Timor, that child would be fighting for a place at the dinner table, a chance to push the Enter key on the computer and hoping to learn how to sing Three Blind Mice with gusto. That if some stranger took your photo, it can make your day. That having clean water to drink is pretty darn good. I learn, through all this, underlies confidence. The confidence to be unapologetic about your background and just go on, in the best way possible. The idea of self-care is often marred in the fast modernity of our lives. We travel too much, we eat too fast and we love too quickly. And then, it’s all gone. And we never have the opportunity to ask, “What did I want?” The furthest we ever seem to get to is “Now I know what I don’t want!” True dat.

I speak with Nunci and Yuli, both teen girls who were abandoned by their families out of poverty. I ask them, “Are you happy here?” They smile and laugh, they say, “Yes. We have friends and we are very happy.” Both want to be teachers when they grow up. They are bright-eyed and earnest as they say this. Right now, they help with the younger kids, with feeding, care-taking and general discipline. I have great hopes for them. I may, even have great hopes for myself.

When people say to me, you got it good, I don’t disagree. I am unafraid to admit that I belong to a select group of people in this world that pretty much gets what I want. Either I work my ass of for it or I get it gratis. In any case, I don’t think there is any glass ceiling. Working with these children who have all the reasons to give up or fail, well… they don’t. They enjoy every moment of what they have, they don’t crave or ask for anything more than just a smile, a meal, some attention and your time to listen to them sing or talk. They ask for nothing and they trust implicitly. That is something that we all need to learn, or rather, we need to unlearn distrust and follow our hearts. Looking at them and how they interact with us the blocky adults, I see that one can choose how you wish to love and how you express that love. We can all choose.

we work we work!

Follow our hearts. That might come harder for some than others. But I can learn. We all can. 

Ciao! Yes with the toys!

I look up and see an almost full moon tonight. It has a yellow brilliance quite unlike any other night that I have seen it before. There are few clouds, only a few thin tresses that scatter about the skyline. I see a million stars. They look just like sprinkles that belong on top of an ice cream sundae, except these are yellow studs and not chocolate flakes, like how I am used to.

 I look down at my feet. They are covered in a thin film of dust. I see heat streaks in front of my eyes. I burrow deeper under my oddly large straw hat. The sun shines mercilessly. As I wait for my ride, I dig my feet deeper into the burning concrete and native sand of West Timor. I had arrived in the capital city of West Timor, Kupang, after 7 hours of transit and flights.

 It is just a day after the Easter weekend and there is still an aftermath of celebrations on the streets. Young teenage bands with home-made hi-fi systems drive through the streets in their open top lorries, blasting rock music. I like this town, they love rock. Who doesn’t love rock music?

Sunset on the waters

 West Timor is a large island – about 275 km in length (approx 600km if you count East Timor), housing some 800,000 inhabitants. It is also one of the most impoverished regions in Indonesia. Yet, the rolling green hills, the large expanse of blue ocean that is lined with dark sandy beaches make this a breathtaking place, in a rugged but forgotten fashion. As I drive out of the airport, I see two bush fires raging; the sun and parched grass all together, doing nature’s work. It is harvesting season now. Most of the rice farmers are gathering all their produce for storage. There is only a window of another month for them to complete their work. And then…nothing. Nothing till November when the weather turns. In these interims months, there is no water, no rain, the grounds crack and the soils turn porous. Nothing grows. There is no lack of drought. If there could be an analogy to my life presently, this was probably it. There is no lack of drought.

 My kind host, Pak Budi, tells me how grateful he is to God that they now have a paved road leading up to the orphanage. Small wonders make people’s day. The population here is 95% Christian. Easter is a huge holiday. There is much singing. The children sing songs of praise, churches are full and the smell of barbeque pork fills the air. The city center is unattractive, dusty, run down. Salvation comes in the form of a full-sized KFC outlet (there is only one in the whole of Kupang) and one air-conditioned mall. Good to know. A city girl like me must always know where I can buy a made in china handbag while eating KFC of course.

 I hear stories about how difficult life here is. That the government does not support its inhabitants, that the owners of the orphanage I am visiting picked up children who were left by the side of the streets, left to beg or die after the war in Timor, discarded by their mothers just hours after they are born. These are sad stories and all of my years of economic training and analysis, belief in free-market theories cannot stop me from thinking…why is capital allocation so inefficient? How hard is it to build irrigation systems to this part of the world? Why does our capitalistic system make no room for humanitarian causes? And why do humanitarian causes always have to involve high net worth individuals whose dark and secret world will never be able to shine a light on good operators such as Pak Budi? If free markets are really not free, then the markets for the NGO world are certainly tied. The group has spent a tireless 2 days, chopping, grinding, cooking for 700 poor villagers and children. In the goodwill spirit of Easter, there is nothing greater than being able to share in the simple joys of food.

 I take all this in. I take it all in. I look up at the moon, it’s now been obscured by clouds. Bright lights get blocked out by dark spots too. Everyone has gone to sleep. It’s me and moo moo. Sitting out in the veranda, taunting the errant mosquitoes. There is no running water, no air-conditioning, no fans, no flush systems. Showers are a luxury. I am back to using a pail, a scoop and taking two minute baths. The last time I did that was in Mongolia – that was far more desperate since showers really just meant that I was washing my hair with water out of a 2 litre water bottle (I left 0.5 litres for a quick face wash).

Me and moo moo hit the beach

Moo moo and me like being with each other….they say pets and owners often look alike.

Nonetheless, it is liberating, because the payoff is great food like this…I in particular, really love the magi mee with French beans. What a recipe. Over-the-top saltiness coupled with good dose of fiber. Heh. My mother would be so proud.

Salty noodles and beans...soooo good.

And yet, I recognize that I am glad, that I have the opportunity to be here, to make a difference and if not anything, eat 100 kinds of keropok, devourer bbq pork, ikan bakar, play with the kids, and hope to help this orphanage. I try to remind myself that yes, brights lights get blocked out by dark spots too. That is what the last few months of my life has been. And the skies will clear and the moon tomorrow will look larger than ever, much like a very edible lollipop. There are people out there that love me and want me to be happy; there are people out there that I love but will not love me, and beyond all this, I realize I have much love, energy and strength to give. And through this all, I will receive much love and kindness back in return. I think, I found a genuine smile today. And there is no finer time to do that than starting with 50 kids, 1 orphanage, and the amazingly beautiful island of Timor.

 Selamat malam…. 

Ever so often, good friends come together to celebrate. We just did such a thing tonight. The girls and I had our first…Pity Party, to celebrate and bond over all the terrible and worstful things that have happened to us in the last months, for some, years, for others just the last 24 hours. A Pity Party involves sinful food, like fried chicken of the KFC variety, and a large bottle of wine, drunk from heavy glasses but held by firm hands. After all, that is all the reality we are holding on to, no? Whoever said you can’t find happiness at the bottom of a wineglass was definitely high or wrong.

Conversation topics at a Pity Party are difficult, intense and intimate. We all bemoan our jobs (for some of us who have no jobs, we bemoan how love is not ours to hold), our careers. We spin crazy tales and theories about the plight of the Asian Male and why they behave like robot blocks and have strange need for women who have been socialized to be stupid.  (omg! I am going to get so much backlash for this) but trust me, there is such a stereotype! We take all the bad things that have happened to us to make reasons, rationales and thereafter factoids, based on many small samples that lead us to truth…that voila! this is the answer. This is why bad things happen to us, because erhm…well, he simply couldnt stomach my brillance and my spark. Right.

But hang on, that is exactly why we have Pity Parties. Because sometimes, deluding oneself is great. at least for the moment. And when we all look back at this 6 mths from now, we laugh at our naviety and our silliness, for believing the very things that we told ourselves tonight.

Hope can be so evil, especially if one is in the losing position. Hope creates false optimism when there can be no hope. I spent the night telling the girls about Paula - a character from Simone de Beauvoir’s The Mandarins. For those who have read The Mandarins, Paula is a my favorite character. Because resolute hope drove her mad. Everyone laughs hysterically at my story, because I just might be Paula?? 

Oh Pity Parties…how we love them and how we so cannot have too many of these. But I love you guys…how could I not? So Aye to Pity Parties and good hugs.

xoxo.