So, the breakdown I had to have occurred.

In fact, I was beginning to worry that it hadn't yet. After my first foray into the world of medical work, I had a wonderfully relevant supervisor who confided to me that she cried by the Thursday of any new job. Once she realised that this was normal, it wasn't nearly so disturbing when it happened.

So, the second week of the job, I worked 60 hours, went to 4 hours of lectures, bought some textbooks, got scratched by a patient, helped pick up the pieces after several young people tried to kill themselves, told a family their perfect new baby has a scary lifelong diagnosis, and I was still cruising. Exhausted, yes, but relatively intact. To the point where I was wondering how numb I had become.

But this Tuesday, meltdown occurred. I held it together for the first hour of work before the floodgates opened. The poor temporary receptionist in our office crept away from my soggy blathering, however my current supervisor was wonderful. And it all came out - the wierdness of hospitalising patients for being 10kg heavier than most of my previous patient base, not knowing anything, the emotional strain of battling people who don't want to be helped, being behind everyone else in study, forgetting how to talk Medical, my renewed doubts about decisions last year the more experience I get...

By the afternoon, I had almost recovered. Able to go to a lecture and actually absorb something. And the major benefit of a study group is already apparent: the others feel that they are behind & don't know anything either.

So, this weekend will involve sleep, newspapers, walking in the sunshine and cooking. And maybe a little study, of the reading for interest's sake kind.

Hospital shock

How do 4 patients manage to take up my entire day?

Why are radiologists not scary any more, but medical students are evidently terrified of me?

Who dared to invent the pager, and can I have their address?

Why do all the cars stop between Burke and Warrigul roads?

How on earth do I correct a calcium?

And just what is a normal weight, anyway? 35kg may get you into hospital here, but it was half my previous population!

Settling in 2: boxes

The process of unpacking is one that I've never been much good at. I still have boxes that have been untouched for at least 8 years. I always have the best of intentions, but...

This time, I have a strategy. The house has an enormous shed, a corner of which I can use for that elusive thing: storage! I have visions of a clear room - floor space, no pile of boxes in the corner, no jam-packed assortment spilling out from under the bed.

But, in order to achieve this, there's a lot of work to be done. Nothing goes into the shed without being sorted first. This has worked so far - but I start work next week. Methinks it could be a long-term project.

In recognition of the others who helped me with all this Stuff in the past year, another round of thanks, for use of sheds and attics and garages: B, T, D, D & L, J, and C for fish sitting.

Settling in

Well, am well and truly back in Melbourne now. Have a house (my room full of boxes), a job to start next week, and am started on the round of catch-ups. Have managed not to bite off too many peoples' heads in response to inappropriate comments (mostly along the lines of, "How was Thailand, pretty filthy?) and have only brought up the subject of AIDS deaths at a cocktail party once (in my defence, the just-met acquaintance asked me. She'd just told me about working in rural Africa. So I took her interest to be genuine - and answered truthfully. Still a wonderful conversation stopper). I've had far too many conversations about housing prices, done my tax return, slept a lot and started stocking the pantry.

So, let me thank the C family for generously allowing me to stay at their place for a couple of weeks, D for lots of support and drives to and from the airport, and R & C for the unenviable task of helping me move on a rainy day. Many thanks, or as I would say for the last 9 months but will be understood by nobody, Tanguna pomelon rahao.

Been thinking...

I have ongoing uneasiness about the recent posts, and what I had been planning. I've discussed this with a few people, most of whom have encouraged me to continue, but the feeling has remained.

So, I'm not going to tell you about those people after all. Perhaps later. Or never, I don't know.

My main issue is the potential impact it might have. I'm not paranoid, but I'm realistic about how Burma operates. In reality, I'm probably typing to a small groups of friends and acquaintances (hello out there!) which is lost in the overwhelming dross of cyberspace. But there's the miniscule chances that someone else may be reading (Mingalaba to you) and that what I say could be taken in the wrong spirit, and dramatically affect someone else.

If so, I might never know. And there's absolutely nothing I could do about it. So, I'll put on hold any further discussions until I've had time to consider further, fictionalise a little and gained a little more perspective. Until then, I'll have to think of other diversions.

Telling people's stories part 1

I am nine years old. I don't remember my mother. My father is a vague blur, he died when I was 3. I have been living here, in the clinic, since then. The staff look after me - give me food and make sure I am polite when the doctor arrives. I have my own plate and cup, which we keep separate from the others, and I have to take medicine every day. The staff are nice but they built a wall so I don't accidentally touch them when we sleep, and the kids at school won't play with me. They say that I have a disease, something very bad. I don't feel sick, I don't understand.

Recently, another lady came to the clinic and she looks after me. I can sleep in her house and share her food. She brushes my hair and likes my drawings. She tells me stories in the language of my father. I've never had a mother before.

But she says that she can't keep looking after me. It is too much for her, she can't take me back to live with her family. I will have to go to stay somewhere else. I am growing up. And everyone is scared.

Flowing on from the previous post...

Why?

These people have told me their stories, and I have not had express permission from all of them to use them. They are living in a restricted, oppressive society that could see them being persecuted. But exactly because of this, I have been asked many times - what do you hear about Burma? why doesn't the world do something? do they know what happens here?

So, I am protecting people by changing names, places, and in some cases blending elements from different people. This doesn't make it any less true, just less identifiable. I believe that these people want their stories told. There are others, whose stories may be more shocking, about whom I will stay silent.

I'm about to start telling you a bit about some people I've met over the last 10 months. It's going to be tough. Read them if you want, don't read them if you don't. But these are people whose faces I see perfectly in my head as I write. Above all, don't dismiss them.

Yay! I can finally get the photos to work! So you know what that means...

Angkor was amazing. Here's a small selection. This guy above is one of the guardians of the Royal City (Angkor Thom). At the south gate, huge buses squeeze through the gate intended for elephants with only millimetres to spare. But if you cycle north, this one stands in the forest, with a few cows for company. 

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...