Apsara - or Celestial Dancers. We hired a guide for the first day whose approach and evident dislike of both the Thai and the French didn't endear him to us. The story is that these beautiful sprites were created during the battle between Gods and Demons for the Milk of Immortality. They effectively had a tug-of-war, each group holding half of the Naga, and in the process twirled the central mountain (Mt Mara?) with Vishnu presiding. This twirling stirred up the Sea of Milk, and the spray became the Apsara. My unfamiliarity with this story and the accent of the guide - and by this stage, I'm not so bad with accents - meant that it took an inordinate amount of time for me to figure out what the hell "churnintsi ovmilt" meant. 

The photo I had to have. Yes, Tomb Raider fans, this is the place.

Sunset from the top of the hill, the name of which escapes me at the moment. Succesfully avoided including any of the several hundred other people up there at the same time. 

Walkway around the southern side of Angkor Wat. 

Apsara dancer's hand. 

All may seem tranquil and contemplative, but they're really hiding from their supervisor to have a smoke.

A certain airline...

There's an airline, which may or may not be the only realistic competitor in Australia, that I've always been a little unsure of. Perhap's it's the rumours of their staff employment policies, or just the flagrant self-promotion of their owner. Anyway, I've found them a tad irritating.

Nevertheless, I was a little surprised when one of their employees informed me that the guitar, made in Burma, given to a colleague and subsequently to me (being my colour and all), lovingly wrapped in several sarongs and carried from Bangkok to Sydney, wasn't allowed on the plane.

It's a dangerous weapon.

Thankfully the ground staff were a little less concerned. And since the most recent flight attendant told us to inflate the life jacket and use the whistle to attract mermaids, I might just forgive them.

I went to the movies today, for the first time since February.

I am not in the mood for fantasy (Hollywood romance), violence (Hollywood humour) or product placement (Hollywood hair). So a historical dramatisation in black and white was perfect. It was not used to entertain, amuse, distract or insulate. And it was used well.

So, on the day David Hicks might actually get British citizenship, and therefore be protected by a country that upholds the right of its citizens to a fair trial, rather than our own, I was reminded of the culture of suspicion that existed in 50s America and exists now. The perfect rendition of the announcers voice, the raised eyebrow and the severity of the presentation speak more directly than the glitz and gaudy graphics of today. And the message – of the power of the media and the exploitation of the public’s fears by those in power – was a wonderful antidote to the tinsel of the last few days.

Thanks, George.

Good night, and good luck.

A child is born.

The world changes.

We grow, learn, teach, love, die.

May the innocence of Christmas enter your heart.

Safe and sound.

Just a little time-shocked. Culture - let's not go there yet.

Just checking in

Thanks for your messages of support recently. It's been a challenging few weeks, with lots of reflection and frustration but not much of it that i'm going to discuss publically - at least anytime soon.

Am one third of the way home - that is, in Paris. The obvious way back to Australia from Thailand. Eating confit du canard and tarte tartin, and wearing 5 layers of borrowed clothing. The swelter of Bangkok is calling me back...

Crappy TV analogy

I watched a few series of Survivor. They have all started to seem the same.

During a period of intense challenge, people with no shared history are thrown together. Generally there's a lot of teamwork, but also a hell of a lot of politics. Alliances are formed and become the underlying assumptions for a lot of decisions made. But underneath, the alliances may not be as strong as they seem.

Then the big meeting, where all speak - some idealistic, some tough, some with absolutely no clue. The decision is made. As the result comes out, we are sometimes able to see the expectant face of one who is doomed, but has no idea.

The votes tally up, and - bam - there it is. Blindsided.

But in Survivor Burma the stakes are higher than on a beach in fucking Guatemala.

Slight posting hitch

Have tried several times to share my (of course, brilliant and completely original) photos of Angkor, I'm giving up.

Yesterday, I spent several hours traipsing around a village, doing a house-to-house survey. This was rather like my first week here, and prompted some reflections:

I can wear a sarong! I even got complemented on the fact that I wear it properly (by a woman in the street, who had no idea that I could understand her). Admittedly, I use a safety pin - a fact I kept to myself.

I can speak - a little. I certainly can't say "safety pin".

The houses still seem precarious.

It's still bloody hot.

The level of community still impresses me, but I also know it's not as idyllic as it looks.

But the biggest change was that I feel at home. I can walk up the hills without nearly collapsing. I can happily thread amongst the herd of buffalo. And most of all - I don't keep falling over. Yes, I've managed to recover my instincts to negotiate this most challenging of environments: a village road. And, given my usual level of clumsiness-induced injuries, I'm proud of this fact.

So proud, I mentioned it to my friend over dinner.

And promptly spilt scalding soup down my front.

Tell me how long is a short time
Is it longer than 2 hours?
Or a bit less than a weekend?
Is it shorter than a year?
Is it the time it takes to not complete your business with a person?
- Tiddas, For a Short Time

This is my question of the week. As others prepare to go away, as I prepare myself, and as I pass another year marker (thanks to everyone who sent their wishes for me!). Knowing that, when I leave, life will go on, I try to see what else I should do to enable that process before I go. This is particularly relevant for my patients with HIV - how can I enable them to see their children go to school, grow up? What haven't I done that I can? What should I acknowledge that I can't?

I feel that there are many with whom my business is not complete.

The Hug

The people here don't hug. They hold hands. They rest their heads on another's lap as they sit and chat. They touch knees and squash into small spaces when required. But they don't hug.

Readers of Shantaram will know the type of hug that I mean.

So, after a really difficult morning, I was seeing a patient I met 2 weeks before. We share no language. She is in a lot of pain, for which I can't do much. She might have quite a serious disease and is justifiably worried. I didn't have any answers for her.

Instead of leaving, she hugged me. A proper, warm, close hug. A hug that was held for several seconds. A hug that was exactly what I needed. A hug that enveloped me and transferred so much energy and strength that I nearly cried for the second time that day.

Because the people here don't hug.

Developments

The past month has been more of a rollercoaster than previously. The ride has not yet ended, nor are we coasting into the stop any time soon. But is has put me into more of a reflective mood, and here's the result.

What has changed for me this year?

I've learnt that this work is very rewarding, and very exhausting. Perhaps the two are necessarily entwined.

I've learnt what it's like to have no backup.

I've become more tolerant of people (I hope) but less tolerant of bullshit.

I've learnt to be less Ozily direct, and more evasive (and hence more culturally appropriate).

I've been reminded how irrelevant most world events are to most of the world.

I've learnt how important my own home is to me.

Full Moon Festival

The crowd is out for the evening. Music bounces through the concrete of the market and the smells of sticky rice and barbecues drift across the street. Familiar faces emerge from the crowd with smiles in leiu of shared language. I hit three balloons with darts and am rewarded with a bottle of orange cordial. Hawkers carry baskets of newspaper pages, bought to reserve patches of ground before the film. At one end, couples twirl in traditional costume; at the other the white canvas is ready for the blood of the boxers.

A few flashes, a stir in the air. We seek food, and perhaps it is better to be inside as the slightest of raindrops begin to fall.

As we sit, the sky falls.

Sheets of water hit the papers, cigarette sellers, samosas. The umbrellas blossom and are abandoned just as quickly. Carts are shut, wheeled crazily away; the dart boards vanish, the film screen billows. The floods from the sky merge with those on the ground.

The crowds sit inside the market, the party having left the guests behind. Someone starts the music again. The long tile benches, cleaned from the day of fish and pork, house exhausted children on bamboo mats. Women feed the babies hanging in sarongs around their shoulders. Teenage boys in army disposals gather in the passageways, less tough under the glaring of fluorescent lights and their parents. The people wait, robbed yet expectant.

There will be no boxing tonight.

One thing I should have learnt earlier in life

Having a shower at the same time as eating peanut-butter toast is nigh impossible.

Furthermore, it somewhat defeats the purpose of the shower.

Oh, the festivities

Cup Day has a bit of history for me. We used to have a long-weekend family-and-friends 4 day Cup Competition, involving various party games, paper flowers, apple bobbing and its own trophy with yearly thematic additions. In retropsect, a booze-up while the kids were kept busy. But still one of those childhood memories to smile at.

Then, after several years, the frantic last minute cramming of exam time. One year I had two on the Monday and two on the Wednesday. I at least turned on the TV in the background.

Yesterday, I was unexpectedly in the office. This fact alone had me frustrated enough to turn into a nasty snapping bitchy person who periodically slammed anything within reach. I remembered at 10, and thought I should set my alarm.

I remembered again at 11:10, raced down to the house, flicked the TV on...
to see the victory lap. Crap. The weigh-in wasn't so exciting after not having seen the race itself.

Oh well, I guess I didn't completely miss the Greatest Day in Australian Sporting History.

and another...

glad to have had my measles vaccinations. it appears to be virus season.