New Year's goals

So, New Year, new changes, all that.
Although my ones are old changes - or at least old intentions. Just a new commitment to them.

My overarching goal for this year is: Simplify.

I know this is a bit of a catch phrase at the moment. Or at least it is on the blogs I've been reading.

But I'm a good public health trained girl & I know that goals must be SMART. And "simplify" doesn't quite cut it.

So I'm working on micro-goals. Bit by bit. 15 minutes at a time. And making myself publically accoutable (at least, to the 3 people I know drop by here occasionally - hello & that means you)! These are things that I know I can do because I've been doing them in little bits for a while. I've already decided not to study externally next year (full-time work is enough, thank-you), have come a long way in decluttering "stuff" (despite what my mother may say) and have started to learn how to meditate. So it's really just working at integration. Sounds simple.

Gretchen at the Happiness Project has put out a 2010 Happiness Challenge, which for me ties in with Simplify. Her suggested focus for January is Energy.

So, for January: my micro-goal is...

Lights out at 10:30 on a school night.

I need at least 7.5 hours sleep a night, preferably more. The nights I get it I can get out of bed, get moving & stand in the shower wondering what the day will hold, rather than internally moaning. I enjoy work more. I get less frustrated and cranky. I get more done. And I'm overall a much nicer person to be around, including for myself.

In order to do this, I will:
Do my teeth, take out my contacts & wash my face after dinner.
In theory this should mean I'm ready for bed when I need to be.

I'm toying with the idea of setting an alarm to remind me. Hmm. Perhaps an automatic shut-down for my computer may be better.

I'll be tracking my success using my trusty gold stars (yes, there's a reason I work with kids, people!).

Update: weekly.

Is that specific, measurable, attainable, relevant & time-bound enough?

I think so. Sounds simple, right?

But the fact that setting it out here is giving me palpitations means it's going to be a challenge...

Tiny lives

Today was the second time this year that I've had to certify someone deceased.

A tiny body, lying in her mother's arms.
It was expected, but nonetheless...
She went well. We could provide that comfort.
Her parents wrapped her and she spent the day surrounded by a big, subdued family.
After they left her with us, I went to say goodbye - and, as always happens, farewelled all the others again at the same time.

For the first time that I've been doing this, I didn't need to call my mother. (Tomorrow, perhaps).

Audrey reminded me of the bounty of life instead.

What can I say, when the worst is happening to a close friend?
Not much.
It won't change anything.

I can listen.
Which won't change anything.

I'm praying for you.
Not for the obvious, although if that happens, I'll be sending up gratitude.
But for peace.
For you all.

Pre-night shift planning

Get up early - tick.
Go for walk - tick.
Do something useful - tick.
Have a beer - tick.
Have a good meal - tick.
Clean up room - tick.
Brush teeth - tick.
Turn on airconditioner - tick.
Turn off mobile - tick.
Get earplugs - tick.
Actually go to bed at 2pm -

New engine

I've been contemplating one for years. Sleek steel or cherry red. With accessories. The growl of the motor bringing interested glances. The expense had been putting me off but I was quietly working to justify it to myself. Today, I finally jumped in, but I went vintage instead.

I bought myself a mixmaster.

A Sunbeam mixer, 2 beater, creamy glass bowls, shiny black controller etched with the settings. It's older than my mother's, I'm sure. Perhaps has already passed through two generations. But it goes, and goes well.

Today, I made banana cake, adding my baking to a wealth that has gone before. Stephanie's recipe (naturally), new silicone muffin tray. Perfection.

And wholeheartedly licked the beaters.

Crossroads

Another decision to make. One that may define my life for several years.

Next year's jobs are in the air. Having just extended, do I stay or do I go?

More & more I feel it's not about the work. Up here, the job's great, the town's great, the lifestyle's great, the weather's great. I've got a fun network and feel healthier than in a long time. Down there, are friends & family. The ones who are important will stay in touch.

So comes down to a mythical possibility, one which is feeling more important than the mere issue of where I work. One which must be the basis of decision making but which is completely unpredictable.

And so I ache.

I'm thinking that getting a new housemate that I am more than a teensy bit attracted to may not be the best decision.

I've just become entranced by yet another website. However, this one is mightily impressive.

Microfinance is the process whereby an individual or group receive a small loan in order to start a business. In many countries, only a few dollars can buy a sewing machine, a breeding pair of pigs or seeds for the farm. This process has been shown to assist in lifting people out of poverty and is much more effective than handouts. In particular, women tend to run businesses in local communities and put the profits back into education, nutrition and health care for themselves and their children.

I have seen this in action. In the Philippines, I stayed with a family who sold fish at the market and used microcredit to purchase stock. In India, we had chai with a woman whose loan had bought a pair of goats, and the kids were running around beneath our feet. In Zambia, I bought sarongs from a woman whose market stall was set up with a micro-loan.

And now I have just found a site that lets those of us in positions of affluence lend to those who are not. It's a loan - so the money will be repaid (and is, in 98.5% 0f cases). And in the meantime, it'll be put to work well.

www.kiva.org

You can choose to whom you lend. You can search by region or type of project. And you will be making a big difference.

Can you help?

A new friend's mother passed away due to cancer last year. Well timed around Mother's Day, we are doing Relay for Life to raise money for the Cancer Council. Please think about making a donation here to support our team and research into cancer prevention and treatment.

3 good things

Chatting with family.
Warmth.
Let's build a spaceship.

Simple pleasures

A sleep in.
Fresh brewed Earl Grey tea.
Hot cross buns with melting butter.
A floral plate.
Last week's sudoku.

Again, I am led to consider the difference between a good death and a bad death. Today's was a good one.

A little girl, trapped in her own body for over a year.
Up and about yesterday.
Her dad here all weekend.
Her mum here today.
Softly and quietly. Quickly.
Surrounded by love.

We all sewed butterfly crystals on to her dress. We said goodbye.
Rest in peace.

So how was your trip?

How does one answer this question?

"Good, how's your last six weeks of work been?"
"Great, I missed the economic meltdown?"
"Awesome!" (...)

It's always hard to express a holiday, beyond, "Great!". Most people don't really want to hear, or are jealous, don't really care, or just forget you've ever been away. One of the girls on my trip told us of an exchange with her workmate:
"I'm going to South America!"
"Where's that?"

But I'm finding it difficult to answer because my trip WAS great. I feel rested. I feel that I saw amazing parts of the world, got a little insight into a new culture, met some fun people. I got to push myself mentally and physically, process and grow a bit, learn some new skills. I ate wonderful food and lost weight. I caught up with a close friend.

I loved it.

And I'm not a gusher. Saying positive things is something that I sometimes struggle with. So translating my trip into a catch-up setting is challenging me a little. But - it was great.

Trailing the Incas

It was bloody tough. Walking up 900m in a few hours, walking down steps in the rain, puffing and sweating and plodding. But, I kept going. I kept going up, not looking at the top. I kept taking the next step down, looking for the drier rock, the concavity in the ledge that suggests you're less likely to slip. I told my muscles that one more step could not possibly be too hard. I chatted. I chewed coca toffee. I refused to look over the edge. I listened to my novel. I bonded with my walking sticks. I wore my purple plastic rain poncho with my sunhat. I saw the tiny flowers and the mountaintops. I stood in temples and houses and saw fountains that still run. I ate three course meals and slept in tents that someone else carried. And, after 4 days, I looked down into Machu Picchu and decided to climb another mountain.

Is wasn't as hard as I expected. I kept going, and that's all that was required.

Salty

The white salt crunches under the wheels, flat as far as the eye can see. We get out and climb, between cacti flowering for the only time in a century, pausing to catch breath in the thin air. Reaching the top, my Spanish friend & I avoid the hungover Brits and stare - out at the whiteness, its nothingness drawing us in. The shrine to Pachamama, the earth, has coca leaves & cigarettes left at it and in the midst of nowhere, we stop, and give thanks.

Poor little rich girl*

So, I planned ahead. For the first time, no traveler's cheques. However, ATM card, Visa, US$600 and, at the last minute in Sydney aiport, a prepaid visa that can be used in ATMs too. Activated online immediately & away we go.

In Auckland airport, change my last aussie $20 to buy a drink & sudoku.

In Buenos Aires airport, wander around for a while, looking for an ATM. I want to call La Paz & confirm my room, since I will arrive at 5am.
- ¿Por favor, donde esta la... la... machina por pesos?
- No, no hay. (Points downstairs to arrivals lounge, which, after careful consideration, I decide is insufficient reason to officially enter Argentina for 10 minutes).
Find Casa di Cambio (exchange booth). No pesos on credit cards.
Try the internet cafe, who take Visa, but reject my prepaid card.
Try the "no change required" phones. My Visa doesn´t work. My prepaid Visa doesn´t work.
Finally give up on keeping my US$ until I actually arrive, change $20, and buy small things at different shops to get enough coins for the phone. Ah, booking is confirmed.

Only I don't get to La Paz. After my first night at the Sheraton in Lima, thanks to the airline, I am relieved to find an ATM in the lobby. However
- Your card is invalid for this transaction.
Check the sign: Plus. My card is a Plus card.
Try again. Invalid.
Try the prepaid. Invalid.
Ask the bored Peruana sitting at the change booth.
- But it is a Plus card!
- Yes.
- So it should work.
Hmm.

Try a second ATM and manage to get Nuevo Soles.
Try the prepaid several times and it´s rejected every time.
3 days later, call Australia (I have coins!!!) & am informed that it's not activated, despite doing it immediately. At least it´s not skimmed. Realise that it's already Saturday there & can't activate until Monday.

Arrive in La Paz at 4am & change into Bolivianos at the airport. Sleep for 5 hours but miss the Saturday am banks. Oh well, there are six ATMs within 50m of my hostel, all displaying the Plus sign.

And my card is invalid at every one.

Spend the next 2 days wandering around the city, sightseeing but trying every single ATM I pass. About 40 little green screens confirm my invalid status.

Calculate that, if I change all my remaining US dollars, I can do the tour I wanted and scrape through back to Lima. Perhaps. No back ups. But Lonely Planet saves the day & informs me I can do a cash advance on my credit card.

On Sunday, call Australia and activate my prepaid. It's still invalid on Monday morning. I currently have 67B, about $14. My tour leaves tomorrow.

So, enter the bank. There is a ticket system & 50 people waiting. Today is protest march day - hundreds of thousands of campesinos (rural people) have come to the city to call for the new constitution to be passed. They march & chant & set off fireworks**. As we wait, the security guards open & close the metal doors, barring the entrance to the bank. Everyone seems to be depositing their business' weekend takings, in piles of notes literally 50cm high, taking half an hour to count by hand. We are barricaded in, and it is 2 hours before my number is called.

And today, because of the protests, they cannot do cash advances. Perhaps I should try the ATM?

Despite my best efforts, my frustration wells up. Crying is a necessary part of entering a new culture and here it comes, day 6, right on time. Usually I prefer it in private, not in a barricaded bank with immaculately groomed tellers peering at me & Gwen Stefani on the video on the corner. However, it is useful and I soon have the directions to the central office of another bank written out for me by the manager.

Back to then hostel, to explain, recover & check the map.

Out again into the throngs, each group of marchers seeming to randomly follow its own path. Find the bank - it's open! I can get in! They can do cash advances! But - only with my passaporte originale, not a photocopy. It's safely in the safe at the hostel.

Back through the crowd. The elderly farmers are resting on the central grass on the main road, their red ponchos against the green grass. I have to ask a campesina, in her bowler hat & tiered skirt, to get up off the step so I can get into the hostel.

Explain again at the hostel. Get the passport. Back through the city. Get a ticket. Wait. And finally, I have money.

On the way home via a side street, the crowd scurries to look at the main road. Women with babies in their shawls stand on fences. The President is marching.

And now, they are dancing in the main square. The campesinos have made their point. They are marching for a proposal that will redistribute land. Their subsistence existence can perhaps be improved.

I have money in my pocket, after 3 days of trying. They may be making history - and tomorrow, they return to their farms.



* Apologies, I needed to get it out of my system.
** Peaceful!!!

Chilling in La Paz

Well, sleeping means chilling, doesn´t it?

It's been an eventful few days. Estoy aprendiendo castellaño por siete horas en dos diás, which has taxed my brain somewhat but has meant I can at least stumble through basic transactions & even chat to taxi drivers.

Spent a wonderful afternoon yesterday on a bicycle tour of the bays of Lima, winding through clifftop gardens & watching the surfers & paragliders harnessing their respective elements. Wandered the plazas of Barranco, the traditional hangout of artists & ate jamon del norte in Jaunito's bar, while 96 year-old Juanito snoozed in the corner in front of his glass of vino.

And arrived in a dusky nocturnal La Paz, the lights rolled out through the valley as we swung around down into town. The visa signs have been recently updated in thick black texta - US citizens must show their hotel booking, letter of introduction, ability to pay, onward journey & pay $135. I got a smile & a stamp for free. After a day of markets & churches, am now sipping my coca leaf tea (can´t be too sure about that altitude sickness) & ready to snooze.

Amazing how a little flirting can turn the day around.

OK, a lot of flirting.

Overheard on the tram

- I got a text from Famous Man today. He's engaged.
- To a woman or a man?

I have my life back

I worked night shift last night, so had to make myself go to sleep like any other day. Woke at 2 and forced myself back to bed. Good thing, too - when I woke again at 4:57, the website still said "Exam results will be posted at 5pm".

I've checked about 12 times, and it still says that I passed.

So I can now start to move on from 18 months of study and try to remember what it is like to relax again.

After tonight's shift.

Go Mum!

http://www.katecooperriley.smugmug.com/gallery/4788498_X3Jmp#284351190_U5qZr

by the way, i passed.

Cotton tales

Whilst on a jaunt to Our Nation's Capital recently, I did something very important. I bought myself new underwear.

Yes, it was Target 15% Off Day, so I loaded up with slinky Bonds undies - and a few pairs of socks for good measure. As always happens, the checked was manned(?) by a boy too young to shave, but who may perhaps be old enough to drive himself to work - being the ACT & all. Now, I can talk body parts & functions over dinner, bring up the awkward all too often, but when it comes to myself, well, the cringing 14 year old in me always wins. A boy! selling me undies! eek! To which the mature voice in my head says - if not get over it, then at least try not to blush.

So I duly handed over my underwear.
He scanned.
I blushed.
He gave them back to me.
The checkout chick next door took the hangers off her customer's undies before putting them in a bag.
I decided to be proactive. I started removing the little individual hangers.
He said - oh, sorry. I normally do that, but you looked like you would use them.

And I spent the rest of the day trying to decide exactly how I project "I use hangers for my underwear."

14 days out

2 days at home & the cabin fever's set in already. have managed to study a decent amount, but am boring myself & others in the house with nothing new to say. Unless it's about PFAPA.

Finally

I've finished my questions!

This may not mean a lot, but it's taken a year.

27 days to go.

Bleached

He & his parents have been in & out for the last few weeks. At his best, he strums and wisecracks. At worse moments, he falters, picks, can't spell, can't think. But smiles, and reminds me of my brother.

Yesterday, he fitted for an hour. We put lines in his arms, gave him drugs. The monitor alarmed as we all frantically tried. I stood at his head, holding his jaw, put a tube down his throat. He didn't stop.

His parents latch on, asking, asking...
If only I had something to reassure them.
If only I could stop it.
If only I had an answer.
If only I could tell them, it'll be alright...

And I try to find something to reassure me.
To stop it.
An answer.
That it'll be alright.

Because he reminds me of my brother.

Temperature rising on New Year's Eve

1995/6: Dad's. Due to a miscommunication between us, I stayed in & watched videos. Dad went out to party. I quietly grumbled.

1998/9: Manila. First trip overseas, arrived on New Year's Day to the humid city of 11 million. There a full day before the rest of my group, I'd got all the travel warnings & read all about the perils of travel in foreign cities. Got water from the shop & sat wearing my moneybelt in my bare hotel room in the heat. Gunshots cracked out across the suburbs all night. Tried to sleep.

Realised the next day they were fireworks.

June 1999: World's First Millenium Party. Still think of New Years on hearing Greatest American Hero.

Dec 1999: Penthouse, Queen St highrise. Formal 21st that had been 21 years in planning. We held our breath as the clock & computers ticked over, then drank litres of champagne as the city kept humming below us.

2001/2: Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe. Spent the whole day white-water rafting and collapsed, exhausted and sunburnt, at 8pm. The racous backpackers outside our window convinced us to go out for one drink. The barman insisted we wear sunglasses before squirting the vodka-filled supersoaker into our mouths. Swam after midnight. Met fire-twirling Irish Zimbabweans who offered to sell me into slavery. Chose not to go for a walk with them and watched the sun come up.

2006: Inadvertantly stuck on the Yarra bridge in the midst of the fireworks. Kissed. Watched the city surge with people and hold its breath.

2007/8: Another sticky hot start to the year. Drive slowly home from camping and wallowing in the river. Melbourne hangs out of cars & shouts greetings. We visit a halal kebab shop for dinner, my bare shoulders goosebumpy in their airconditioning as the cook, in hijab, chops. The party is pumping but all I want to do is sit with my feet in their wading pool. We wander home across radiating concrete and retreat to the fan. The first day of 2008 brings sun and eventually freshness.

Welcome, new year.

I like sake

Ventured across town last night, to the coolest japanese restaurant in melbourne. Feasted and chatted, and pondered the big questions:

What exactly are those little translucent cubes in the fruit salad?

get on the bandwagon

So, everyone's talking about burma.

Keep it up!

It's been going on for decades and rarely in the spotlight. George Orwell wrote a novel called Burmese Days, about his time there in the British Army. But it's a running joke that he actually wrote a trilogy: the others being Animal Farm & 1984.

Join a protest in solidarity with the people of Burma: 12pm 6th October in major cities across the world.

Write to your politicians.

Talk about it and read about it:
www.irrawaddy.org
Burma Campaign UK

Don't let it slide back into darkness.

Amateur Astronomy

The three of us stood outside, peering through the washing on the Hills Hoist.

It that it?
Maybe.
Isn't Mars that red one there?
It said it's the brightest thing in the sky next to the moon. It has to be that one.
No, that's... thing. The dog star.
Sirius?
Is that the dog star?
Yeah, like in Harry. Sirius. Dog. Sirius.
Yeah... but it's not Mars. I went to astronomy camp!
OK. But it's supposed to be the closest in 60 000 years. Surely it's bright?
Let's google it then.

Mars came its closest to the Earth in 60 000 years on August 27...
2003.
We missed out by 4 years.
And now, it's the lunar eclipse, and banks of clouds as far as we can see.

Bangkok bus

I wait with my friends for the big new bus. Eight hours ahead, but at least it's airconditioned and no changes required.

The elderly monks climb in at the same stop. Their orange-clad figures claim the back seat where they can lounge. I sit and watch the familiar hills slide by, the golden pagoda fade in the distance. The river Kwai is swollen beside the road yet the raft houses are high and dry - the water feeding the electric lights downriver. I wonder when I will return again, yet a tinny Jingle Bells keeps interrupting my thoughts - the senoir monk's mobile phone runs hot.

We stop at the 70km point, 2 hours in. My seat neighbour knows English for "15 minutes" so I stretch for 3. I have a plane to catch and wish to leave when the bus does.

In Kanachana, I am more brave. Hunger and the need for the loo have me miming to the conductor, who assures me it's ok. Even so, I rush and end up eating a fake tuna sandwich on fake bread - a Thai speciality in a land known for its food.

My new seatmate has a six-month old baby, who gurgles and bubbles and grabs. She is cute; I am used to blocking out kid noises. Tim Winton's Australia fills my imagination instead. Jingle Bells...

After 4 hours, her mother plucks up the courage to use her smattering of English. She used to have a Belgian boyfriend, she tells me with sadness in her face. She lives in Kanchana but she will not go back. This bus is her escape - she has her daughter and one bag, and she will not have to see her husband again. The violence of my novel is personified in the delicate Thai face beside me.

Later, she points out the Chao Praya river - we are here. We smile, I wish her well. I still have 24 hours of travel ahead - she has a whole new life to build.

As I board the plane, I catch myself humming Jingle Bells.

Night owl

I've just realised something that has not given me joy, but perhaps will allow me to face reality head on.

I'm not working another day shift until the end of July.

Ethical Dilemma

No, not one of the big ones. But somewhat significant to my mental health.

I just got the roster for my next 3 month block. Now, this includes 2 months of nights, which is week-on, week-off, before I go on leave.

Only I'm only listed for 3 weeks of nights. Which means 8 weeks of leave. 2 unpaid, sure, but another glorious fortnight. And only 252 hours of work in a whole THREE MONTHS.

So: to just gleefully (and quietly) book my flights, or to point out that there appears to be a slight glitch? The principle of beneficence is calling.

Nobody expects the spanish inquisition

Today, my severalth-day-in-a-row at at home, I'm looking on the bright side.
I have

• made yummy banana bread
• finally emailed an old friend and potentially set up a week in a house on the Cote d'Azure (sp?)
  
• finished knitting a scarf
• planted some beetroot seeds
• eaten figs

All of which are soul-nourishing and will hopefully sink in.

Corporate greed kills patients

Deliberately inflammatory title, I know. But most people with HIV/AIDS in most of the world cannot afford treatment and those who can access it are kept alive by cheap generic medicines. Having been beaten by the courts in South Africa 5 years ago, Novartis, one of the multinational pharmaceutical companies, is taking the Indian government to court to try to change existing patent laws. This would mean skyrocketing treatment costs, loss of access to drugs for those who need them, and thousands of unnecessary deaths.

And don't even get me started on R&D costs. Novartis made a gross profit of 23.7 billion US dollars in 2005, of which it spent 4.8 billion on R&D - mostly in West-oriented drugs like anticholesterol and niche anticancer therapies: the total R&D cost being half of what it spent on marketing. It's not exactly ploughing money into a noble quest to benefit mankind.

So - please, go to msf.org.au and sign their petition. Thousands of people will thank you.

One handed typing

... and no, it's not related to many people's reason for using the internet!

i'm avoiding turning this into a litany of injuries. suffice to say that i'm on the patient end of things for at least a week and hence may be spending somewhat more time at my computer than recently.

So hello there, how's life for you?

International Wig Day

The signs appeared the day prior. No further information supplied. Just clipart poster and a huge pile of wigs.

Oh, the possibilities...

First I went for a long chestnut ponytail. But it was too tame - I was told it looked like my own hair. And I've been watching Kath & Kim recently.

So I went the complete opposite of tame. Took it home in order to figure out the hair flattening arrangement and to get used to the idea. Dressed up a little the next day, heels, stockings, the lot. And my new crowning glory - a sleek electric blue bob.

Funny to walk down the street as another person. My new identity flashed out for my fellow commuters, who responded with definite Not Staring. Making a statement is a little meaningless amongst strangers.

The walk into work was a different story. A whole institution - and that slight fear you get before a fancy dress party, that no-one else will have joined you. Colleagues I've never talked to suddenly grin - but aren't really sure what to say. They think it my real new look, a bold but perhaps ill advised move. A wash of relief crosses their faces as I proclaim International Wig Day and they don't have to think up creative compliments.

At our usual morning meeting, the whole team is unrecognisable. Green curls, long blonde locks and afros are the order of the day. We all swagger and stalk throughout the day, our inner drag queens out on show. The kids love us; parents forgive us. We are the showstoppers we imagine ourselves to be.

Out for the afternoon, I take it off. Home on the tram, back in grey Melbourne. The world sags a little, the sparkle washed out by the rain, until I spot another colourful rebel through the crush of people. 70ish, she sits resplendent in buttercup yellow suit, pink boots, fuschia hair.

It heartens me to know that although every day is wig day for some, they also sometimes use it to let out their inner Queen.

Resting my case

Thanks to housemate #3.

Pescan depression

My fish is sulking.

Now, this fish used to be a bully. It's been lord of the tank for years, although recently not had any subjects. Its behaviour consisted of biting others, bounding up and down in anticipation of food and headbutting the glass walls. He's happily weathered being called Antigone despite a change of gender (this having occured by simply a change of house and with no apparent anatomical basis) and the occasional leap of faith - most recently being found by my kind fish-sitting friend on the carpet, having been there for an unspecified length of time. This Acquired Brain Injury has had no visible ill effects - but I guess a short-term memory loss hasn't changed the situation much.

Anyway, the fish is no longer interested. He sits at the bottom of the tank, an occasional fin-flap letting us know he's alive. The chilled water may have put him into hibernation (our house having no heating and all) but I have another theory.

The bully has got a taste of his own medicine. Two of my housemates - who, I acknowledge, are largely responsible for the survival of this fish by supplying food much of the time - have fessed up. You know who you are.

You may recall my recent Whale Shark expedition. At the end of this day, to prove our bravery, we were presented with a shiny certificate and a rubberised Whale Shark figurine. Now, my own Whale Shark joined the menagerie of farm animals and Yowies overseen by Hagrid that is a feature of our ever-stylish household decor. The Other Whale Shark, arriving into the state a week later, was placed atop the glass fish tank cover, casting a menacing shadow into the tank. After protest, he was repositioned alongside the tank, at about fish eye level. Poor
Antigone suddenly had a competitor for power.

After a few days of submissive behaviour, another housemate thought a bit of stimulation was required. The only tank ornament happens to be a bright red glass seahorse, the fish equivalent of one of those scary after-the-hunt still lifes (lives?) on the wall. Imagine a routine day at the office, swimming along, trying to keep your head down lest your new boss pounces, when the art on the wall suddenly springs to life and attacks. Chases you around the tank, to be precise.

I'm actually quite proud of my fish in this circumstance - he cooly turned his back and faced the wall. But I think he's, quite rightly, developing an unacceptable level of anxiety.

So, this is a plea for any aquatic psychologists to come forward. His wellbeing depends on it.

Giggle of the morning

A sign on Royal Parade, after careful adjustment, now proudly proclaims the way to the:

State Hotball & Neckey Centre

I just got a phone call from France.

I've got ones from London before, and have made lots from various places, including a Christmas call from a hot Zambian hospital and surveilled (?) sat phone ones from rural Burma, code name Rio de Janeiro. But to get my friend's french accent on the phone is excitingly cool.

If only I'd been home.

Riding the waves

I've been experiencing the world in a slightly new way for the last couple of weeks.

You know what it's like to step off a boat, and still feel the ground swaying?

Or to be slightly tipsy, where you know which way is up, but can't quite stay that way?

Welcome to my world. I've been rolling along for about 12 days now. I did spend 4 days out on boats, so for those evenings I wasn't too concerned. But one of those days involved yet another example of hurting myself in a ridiculous manner.

Now, we all know how clumsy I am. What I have only just discovered is how bouyant I am. So bouyant that my dive instructor had to keep swimming up and adding weights to my jacket to prevent me bobbing away. So bouyant that I am able to float in a vertical position in salty water with my entire head out, without even moving. This is no doubt something that will serve me well should I ever be shipwrecked, however combined with the clumsiness it's a little dangerous.

Picture being out on a boat, lovely sunshine, turquoise water, searching for whale sharks. Picture thick wetsuit (= further bouyancy) and no weight belt, given that we're snorkelling today. Picture Mel stepping off the back of the boat, thinking to herself, "Step out a LONG way" and perhaps not quite taking as big a step as she should have.

Picture Mel bouncing right back up into the bottom of the (very solid metal) boat, skull to hull contact with a juddering crunch, being towed back in by muscly Divemaster and spending the next hour crouched on the deck, whimpering quietly.

Step Away From the Boat.

Since then, I've been all at sea. I can't seem to walk up or down stairs, down a straight hallway or even stand up in a reliable manner. And patient's parents are a little taken aback by the sight of an apparently drunken doctor approaching their precious child. And so, when that rolling sensation still had me holding onto walls a week after the fact, the Professional Paranoia kicked in.

Good news is, the pictures show my brain exactly where it should be. But we're still not quite sure what's going on. And as much as I love the ocean, do wish it would bugger off out of my head.

Backpacker breakfast

It's a bleary Sunday morning. The heat is winding up, the cockatoos are shreiking. We sit around the table with our borrowed mugs, gearing up for a day at the beach.

The Japanese girl eats rice, fried eggs, tinned tuna.

My German friend has jam with her rye toast.

The Americans slather their pancakes with peanut butter and "jelly".

And me, well, I'm a Weetbix kid.

Last tram home

She jumped on and looked around distractedly. Her jumper caught my eye: several runs in the knitting. As she plonked down opposite, I scanned her: one or two years older than me, handbag, shoes: not otherwise scruffy. Closer inspection identified the runs as artfully placed fakes.

She stared forward, away from me. Running her hands through her short hair, the skin on her neck flushed. That's when I noticed the shakes. She scrabbled through her bag and produced a tissue, surreptitiously dabbing at her eyes.

We sat for 2 stops. She crying, me deciding.

"Can I do anything to help? Are you OK?"

Surprised eyes turned my way. "No, it's OK, I'm... I haven't been myself lately. I can't... Don't worry."

"Do you need someone to talk to?"

"No, I believe in action rather than words."

"As long as you know which action to take."

Brief smile at this. "Yes." Looks away again.

Oh God, what action was she referring to? I pull the cord for the stop. "I hope you can find a positive way out."

"Yes, I hope so."

And off into the night.

The big weekend

No, not that one. The one before.

A few snapshots:

2pm Friday: cute Ishka boy stands much closer than is necessary, complements the earrings (?) and makes general innuendo. Buy too much and leave feeling conned.

1am Saturday: Loud club in cold, windy, newly developed part of town. Hen-ish night (in combo with Buck's), much family angst of said Hen due to not being able to attend her own party until after 10pm. Drinking in accordance.

2:30 am Saturday: home. Keys are not in bag. Why? Ponder this. Not usual bag. Front door remains very locked.

Brainwave: break in through garage. Door locked. Some noisy wangling doesn't work. Back to front of house. Rattle own bedroom windows ineffectually.

Try garage again: success!

Back door locked. Am now locked out and in backyard. Can see lights on inside. At least outside toilets come in handy sometimes.

2:45 Saturday: Dig out mobile and call the house.
Twice.
Leave plaintive "help-me" message on machine. Hang up to see shuffling housemate emerge from room. Apologise profusely but, I fear, the sincerity somewhat diminished by drunken state.

Saturday afternoon: drag myself late to all planned events. In warehouse in back blocks of Fitzroy, find desk. Feel that have at least acheived something in day.

11pm Saturday: bubble bath. Party? Not me.

8am Sunday: jubilant phone call from new-mother-best-mate. Twins! Celebrate then go back to sleep.

6pm Sunday: Said Hen & Buck tie proverbial knot in wonderful ceremony, rightfully jettisoning all traditions they couldn't care less about. Proceed to party and actually talk to guests.

4am Monday: The party Who Do Not Work Tomorrow carry on. New high heels on cobbled streets. Gin Palace. Stalactite's. Fried cheese. Someone mentions Boutros Boutros Ghali and it's all over bar the shouting in the taxi.

8am Monday: Alarm. Oh shit. Poorly thought out car service booking. Make it to dealer, back on tram, sunglasses glued to face and holding stomach inside by sheer force of will. In retrospect may not have been at optimal driving sobriety.

7pm Monday: make it to lectures, the picture of a dedicated student.

Milestones

This is a double celebratory post.

First, congratulations to M & M, for the safe arrival of their TWO baby girls on Saturday night. Welcome to the world, and may the journey be joyous.

Second (going chronologically here), raise a glass to J & M, who despite protests made a lovely bride & groom on Sunday evening. Enjoy the honeymoon and the years to come.

A weekend of cheer!

Sam's appeal

As I mentioned previously, a friend from uni is currently working at Mae Tao, a clinic on the Thai-Burma border providing health care for the Burmese population.

Well, he's just put this up on his blog. A 13 month-old boy in need of a heart operation.

This is - a friend who I trust
- working in a clinic that i've seen, the leader of which has been nominated for a Nobel Prize
- with a child whose life can be turned around
- who is from a population that I spent last year trying to help.

Please have a read and contact Damien if you want, or you can contact me for details too.

As Damo has said: Why?
Because we can.

The idea of study

Last year was all about practicalities.

What antimalarial drugs to I give to a pregnant woman?
What should I look for in leptospirosis?
What's the dose for this TB medication?
How do I explain how to mix up the food supplement to women who do not own measuring jugs or scales?

This year, it's all about theory. Or, that's the theory.

I'm sick of knowing enough to work. Of scrabbling for the guidelines whenever a new situation arises. Of knowing what to do, but not being really sure why.

I'm ready to feel confident in my knowledge base. To be able to work things out, given that I know about how x affects y. To know enough to base my decisions on evidence rather than what I've been told. In short, to know a good summary of what there is to know.

Unfortunately, this takes a hell of a lot of work. I'm ready to study, but I'm not ready to spend the majority of my free time in front of a textbook. I what to know what the evidence is, but I can't face the journal articles. I'm certainly not so excited about spending the next 12 months at a desk, to then potentially have to do it all over again, when, like so many excellent, knowledgable doctors, I could fail the exam.

I want to know stuff but have a life, dammit! My lifelong study technique of cramming won't cut it this time.

The question is, will I feel any different in a year?

Back in business

After two months, a lot of angst, and many fruitless hours, I have accessible internet at home.

Yay!

Friday night

Hmm...

10pm Friday. Could be out - movies, dinner, dancing...

But really, tim tams and the world wide web are about as much energy as I can muster.

1 week left of this job. It's been worthwhile, and I've learnt lots, and enjoyed stuff too (not that recent blog entries reflect this, I know). But the emotional batteries were already rather drained and January didn't recharge them as much as I'd thought. Now, it's a matter of enough sleep, proper meals, friends and getting through...

Good notes to balance the crap:
Being able to see the Commonwealth Games opening ceremony live! Well, the rehearsal, complete with duck, and a random sound guy standing in for Delta & choking on all the firework smoke. Thanks M!

Being thanked by 2 patients.

Also had weird conversation with patient's mother, who ran through our whole (large) team, correctly picking who had kids & who didn't by their approach. I had her stumped. I'm taking this as a compliment - seems I can relate to the kids / teenagers but not parentally!

Cooking.

Running in to 8 different colleagues that I haven't seen in ages, & feeling part of the community of this hospital.

Interactions with my Dad. Thanks!

Considering where I should spend my 5 weeks off.
Options already considered:
- Thailand
- Burma
- France
- London
- Thailand
- Burma
- Thailand
All of the above excluded due to financial & being-sensible-re-above-emotional-drainage-and-culture-shock issues. Have 2 engagements in Victoria already and am thinking Oz will have to be the answer.

Suggestions welcome...

Helicopters flying to heaven

Today, we mourn two young lives.

As much as it's unfair, we play favorites. And these two were up there for me.

A baby girl, facing her challenges with an angelic smile and
fierce stamina.

A toddling boy, grown so much since we met, playing footy on the grass near my house.

Today, there are two holes in the universe, and in my heart.

My tears spent, and with the golden afternoon hours ahead, I sit in the light, with sun-warmed figs and a glass of wine. I read a picture book, for them. For what they cannot do for themselves.

Go well.

In other words

Mae Tao Clinic is in Maesot, north of where I was working but with the same issues. It was started by Dr Cynthia, known throughout the border area for her ability to care for the Burmese population with few resources. My mate from uni is currently working there and his blog makes me laugh and ache with renewed grief for those I worked with.

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...

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.

Another infectious disease

Just spent a few days in a workshop looking at testing for HIV. Now, this infectious disease is one that many people in the area I am working in have, many more do not know they have, and almost everybody is scared of. There are many reasons for this - the culture of silence, the culture of prostitution, the lack of accessible treatment - which we could discuss all day whilst getting nowhere. The bits that we can do are already too big a task to waste time on what we can't do.

However, I would like to make a small protest about my own government's handling of the issue. What follows is completely unsubstantiated, but heard from those in a position to know.

Refugees get tested before being accepted. Given that mandatory testing has no public health benefit, and from my studies of the migration rules last year there is no official requirement for HIV testing (please correct me if you can), I would argue that testing those who are fleeing persecution is ethically dubious and merely cause for further discriminiation. However, if someone feels it must be done then I can at least see their point of view.

What I really object to is mandatorily (?) testing someone and then publishing their positive HIV status as the reason for rejecting their application. Someone who lives a enclosed community of several thousand people already has no privacy. I would have thought that a supposedly enlightened country could find a little more sensitivity. But, I guess our handling of refugee issues isn't exactly known for its sensivity or recognition of human rights.

Bye Bye Birdie

Well, there may be many things to write about, not least my recent clambering over ancient stones, however there's one thing that's got the whole world talking: Bird Flu.

Now, here's a few facts:
It's killed 60 people world-wide
13 were in Thailand
You can't get it from eating cooked chicken or eggs
It's NOT a human epidemic - yet!

However, the line between reasonable precautions and panic is a little unclear. My province of Thailand has been declared an epidemic area, with 2 proven and 3 suspected human cases. Given that I see at least 10 people with fever per day, this is rather few people. People working for other organisations in the country have been told to stock up on 2 weeks of food, for when we're all quarantined indoors. Everybody's getting flu vaccines - which are for a different disease. The whole thing feels a little millenial, really.

But...
if it did jump over, it would be here. Any one of those 10 people could have it. We could watch the health system fall apart around us.

I'm not panicking yet, and to hear about people in New York requesting Tamiflu is ridiculous. But I am asking about contact with dead chickens!

Ahh, Angkor

So, have a limited ability to type at the moment. May have something to do with the momumental last few days. May have something to do with the huge steak and beer I just consumed. May have something to do with the 60 plus kilometres I've ridden in the last 2 days, which oddly enough has affected my hands.

Started my holiday on Friday night. We ventured out into the nightlife of Bangkok - the wierd spaceship thing up the road from the hotel which has intrigued me since my first visit. Looking rather like the ice-skating rink in Oakleigh, it's home to the hottest nightclub in BKK. Being a Farang, they seemed not to recognise that no self-respecting Hottest Nightclub at home would let me in the door, especially in flat shoes, and happily stamped my wrist. What followed was a much-needed boogie until the usual lights-up closing time, all of 1 hour later. 1 am!!! And Bangkok likes to think it's cosmopolitan.

So, still in a dancing mood and end-of-term-holiday spirit, we did our best to keep partying. The next nightclub (normal a little flexible) had had the official closing hours enforced that night. So we ended up at a little table on the footpath, underneath the stairs to the skytrain station, chatting to the owner and the guys selling fake designer belts. This is perhaps where things started to go wrong.

So, both of my holidays in Thailand thus far have started with vomiting. Last time I was an innocent victim of a potentially deadly virus. This time, I have only myself and my poor three-am decision-making to blame. Or perhaps the man who sold us the homebrew palm whisky out of two jerrycans slung on a pole over his shoulders. Either way, 'twasn't pleasant.

So, now fully recovered, I have been marvelling at Angkor. The scale. The carvings. The very persistant kids selling flutes. The trees. The stone faces. My aching legs. If you want to see it, make sure you still have a functioning pair of knees when you visit.

The place is amazing. No photos do it justice. Certainly my decriptions don't. If you have a chance, come and see it. And despite the above, go by bicycle. We drifted back last night through the rice fields, the setting sun lighting up the towers and stone elephants. And we're doing it again tomorrow.

Mind goggling

I made a discovery a few days ago. Well, made a discovery in the way Captain Cook did: plenty of other people knew it was out there, but I'll claim it anyway.

How cool is Google Earth?

You can see the tree outside my bedroom window at my last house. You can see the two bridges in Sangkhla. You can see the streets in our villages (if you know where to look!).

As if I needed another internet addiction.

Conveniently sized

The most medically exciting thing I did this week was remove a blue plastic bead from the left nostril of the 2 year-old daughter of our pharmacist. The nanny had excitedly called the office to tell of the emergency, and when her mother arrived home the little princess anounced that she'd thought about testing a larger bead but that would have caused too many problems. After wrapping her in a sheet and having 2 people hold her down, I levered it out in a very satifying now-you-don't-see-it-now-you-do manner, which somehow felt like it should have had an associated popping sound.

Seems that this is a childhood right of passage. My collague tried it with a nut from a tree. A person who happens to share much of my genetic material, when scolded by a friend's mother for picking his nose, annouced indignantly, "I'm not, I'm trying to get the sultana out!" And I've heard a story of the angelic-looking tot who over a period of several weeks got more and more smelly. When no amount of scrubbing had any effect, her desperate parents took her to the doctor - who removed a piece of rotting meat from her nose.

Said local 2 year-old has now been nick-named "Pearl". And when I saw her today, hiding in her house, she refused to come out because she's "not finished being angry yet". Ah, saving the world ain't easy.

Discovered a patch of eucalypts whilst walking to a waterfall last week. Climbing the muddy hill with the noise of the falls in the background, I felt strangely at home. It was only when my French companions pointed out the smell in the air that I realised why. Gum trees!!! I spent a little while trying to identify the species (a rather futile task given my limited knowledge, as anyone who has read the majestic Eucalyptus will know) and settled on something like a scribbly gums, without the traditional scribbles. However, some humans must have known what was missing...

Jiggety jig

Home again!

And it appears that I can type!

And my desk is covered in piles of referrals, bills (not mine personally) and pharmaceuticals (not mine personally either)!

Took the plane back carrying more than a livable Aussie yearly salary worth of tricky thermometers and malaria drugs. Put them in my carry-on for fear of the bag mysteriously disappearing during the 50 minute trip. Did the guys who scanned the bag even bat an eyelid to see a foreigner carting around random drugs? Would I be asking this question if they did?

If you want to catch up on what I was doing before that, see July 17. They appear to not have malaria there (well, I diagnosed the first case in 2 months, an honour to be sure). Hence the mulish behaviour.

Reconnected

Hello...
Well, the answer to the previous post is that I went to one of the most internet connected places in the world, where everybody in the train is checking their email on their phones: Japan. And, forgive me, I did not blog.

I spent 4 days in Ciba and one in Tokyo and managed to see the inside of a grand total of 6 buildings (train stations excluded). Outside... well, if 1.2 km of city streets count. I went for training that I was supposed to do in Sydney before leaving, and perhaps would have been a little more relaxed had it been run by Aussies than Japanese people (ie more than 20 minutes for lunch). But our hosts were wonderful and we ate a LOT of sashimi and drank an only slightly smaller amount of sake, so I guess overall it was a reasonably authentic Japanese experience.

We had been considering extending our stay for a couple of days, but a little thing called Typhoon Nadi suggested we return to Bangkok.

To go from a bamboo clinic to Tokyo was a little surreal, but to go back to a refugee camp is more so. Am now visiting another project where several thousand people are camped at the side of the road, and the clinic is a school room partitioned with cardboard boxes. Yesterday buffeting winds took some of the plastic sheeting they use to roof the huts, and sent many of the (also plastic sheeting) latrines flying. I held onto the frame when I was using one, which may have just resulted in more of a surprise for everyone else if it had been carried off with me dangling underneath! Not sure when I'll be heading "home" yet, but in the mean time can add "hello" in a further 3 languages to my repertoire.

Guess...

...where I'm going for the weekend?

My sticky keyboard issues of the last month have boiled down to one rather appropriate letter.

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Language barrier

Today, on the way to the clinic, the Thai radio ran a news bulletin, which clearly included "Australia" twice. It was repeated on the way home.

Asking the driver (who's a natural Thai and Mon speaker, and has basic English) what it was, he was only able to say, "Yes, Australia. Aaah - Police. Australia. Aaah, hmm".

This was not so reassuring.

So, as soon as we got back, I put on BBC world: the Gaza pullout and Slobodan Milosevic. BBC online: extradition trial in Italy. ABC online: bombs in Bangladesh. Asia Today: reduction of Bali sentences and the sale of Telstra.

Can anyone fill me in? What happened in Australia today (that may or may not have involved the police) that was so significant as to have made it to the Thai news, but not the ABC? Sonehow I think it wasn't Telstra.

(News need not involve acutal facts).

Mmmmmm...

The noodle-soup-with-everything seller we got lunch from at the Floating Market (we asked him to leave out the liver). Behind him, barbecued chicken and buckets of black Grass Jelly for sale.

I’ve been inspired by some of the luscious foodbloggers out there. Now, I’m not going to go all gourmet on you, but please indulge me for a while.

One of the things I miss when I’m away is food. The French people here crave French food. I’m more creative.

When I was in Manila, it was lamb souvlaki. In Zambia, it was fruit cake and shortbread (it was Christmas). In London, fresh fruit that didn’t come individually shrink-wrapped and zapped with ethylene or something.

Now, it’s couscous, prawn rice paper rolls, palak paneer, gyoza, and olive & fetta sourdough bread. Specifically, it’s Timbale, Mecca Bar, Pellegrini’s, the market on Saturday mornings near my old house in Richmond (which is still my picture of “home”, even though someone else is living there…), Thy Thy (no, it’s not Thai), Crust pizza, Soulmama...

Really, I’m not quite as down as I sound. I eat noodle soup with pork crackling for lunch, I have a pomelo waiting to be peeled, I can get green curry anytime I like (despite many “mai pet!”s, it still usual sets my sinuses on fire) and the fantastically named “pad ka pao”. I spent Sunday eating awesome fish curry and helping assemble flat breads with the neighbours and 4 local kids, and regularly get fed fantastic Mon food by wonderful colleagues. I can get great tomatoes, limes, pumpkin, sticky rice with mango, fresh lychee & mint shakes and the Instant Artery Clogger “pancake” – roti bread with generous slurpings of sugar, condensed milk AND chocolate sauce.

But I still have those cravings. And, already being a blog addict, I have discovered a way to accentuate and satisfy those cravings at the same time. Introduced to the genre thanks to augustusgloop, I now am a regular visitor to several sites that rave about food, with amazing photos and a local touch that have me going, Yes, I love that shop too! If only it didn’t take several minutes to download them…

One of the things that I’m sure most people knew already and I’ve only recently caught up on is the importance of good ingredients. Now, when a visitor from Bangkok asks if I want anything, I have a list waiting that goes beyond the usual wine, cheese and chocolate (although these are all still there). With my recent additions of olive oil, a pepper grinder, garam marsala and brown sugar, I’ve been having fun.

So, in what I expect to be my only venture into the world of food blogging, here’s my recipe of the day:

Homesick Friday Night Macaroni Cheese - well ,Thursday, but it’s a long weekend. Cooking time – about 8 minutes.

Boil water & cook macaroni (from the local minimart, with the St Bernard and puppy, and the sullen teenage daughter watching Thai soaps as she types into the register).

Heat small splash of olive oil (Tesco Lotus superstore extravaganza, Kanchanaburi) and gently fry 2 cloves of finely-chopped garlic (freebie from laughing heavily-pregnant fruit seller at the market, as I only ever buy one cluster of garlic, not a kilo like normal people).

Mix cooked macaroni with oil / garlic and grate in generous amount of Vintage Cheddar (Foodland, Sukhumvit. Didn’t survive the trip back from Bangkok so well but is still very edible). Add freshly ground black pepper (also Foodland, my regular last stop before I head for the bus).

Mix a gin & tonic and eat whilst watching pirated Sex & The City dvds. As my colleagues determinedly speaking in English would say, good appetite!

Unwise wais

The "wai" is the guesture involving putting the hands together in a prayer position and bobbing the head, used in many Asian countries. Depending on who you listen to, it's a polite greeting, a sign of respect or a demonstration of inferiority and worship of the other. When accompanied by touching the head on the ground, it's a form of subection, used for monks, and it disturbs me when parents try to get their 3 year-old kids to do it to me.

Some of the people I see form day-to-day use it, and some do not. This can be because they are of a particular ethnic group, Christian, think that I will not recognise it or are rude. I have developed the habit, particularly as when meeting a new person (ie a patient) I cannot tell until they speak what language they will use, and although I can now say Hello in Thai, Mon and one type of Karen, I don't want to use the wrong one.

So I wai.

The other use of the wai is to Buddha images. People will wai at the"spirit houses" along the sides of roads as they pass (the houses of local deities, which are called, in a rather let's-play-a-joke-on-this-foreigner way, "nuts" - although probably not spelled like that!), and to the golden spires of temples that poke above the trees.

Today, we brought back an energetic 9 year-old boy to his home in the jungle. It was with some surprise that I saw him wai towards a spot where I've never seen anyone do it before. Looking around, his mother and I discovered the place worthy of such respect, and burst into peals of laughter.

It was the new telecommunications tower.

Piano Man

Most of you may have heard about this already. Since he hasn't been arrested in connection with the London bombings, it hasn't made it to BBC international.

It intrigues me...

Is it a fake?
Why would he do it? And how would he not say anything?

Is he autistic?
Surely he would have family, carer etc who realised he was missing?

Why was he wearing a suit?
Why was he in the water in a suit?

Perhaps it's a case for Thursday Next.

Irrelevant observation

The snails here curl the other way.

That is, horizontally. To look at the shell, its looks from above like the shells of Aussie snails do from the side.

Either way, it's still creepy when you step on one with bare feet.

More reading material

- Isn't it coming down? Simply pelting!

- Oh, this isn't real rain. You wait until July. The whole Bay of Bengal is going to pour itself on us, by installments.


I'm having one of my book frenzies at the moment. It may have been because I discovered a second-hand bookshop with excellent coffee in Bangkok last weekend, or perhaps because I'm in the house by myself.

Anyway, I just finished George Orwell's Burmese Days. It's got some wonderful passages (see above) but I'm not sure what to do with a book that's fairly insulting to Burmese people, even though overall it's against racism, colonisation and the English themselves.

Admittedly, it was written in 1934, and was probably revolutionary for its time. But now... those little incidental details stick, and make it a bit difficult to read. I'm not sure I want to bookcross it, but to discard Orwell seems wrong.

Any suggestions?

On the daily two-hour commute to work, it's pretty cool to meet an elephant now and then.

I got electrocuted yesterday.

I was unplugging my computer from the 4-days-post-brand-new power board. There was a flash of light, a loud buzz and a searing pain up my arm.

Now, this wasn't just a "zut" and a head throb, like when you hold an electric fence. this was a full second (zzzz one, one thousand zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz) of the Thai mains power running through my body.

I have entry and exit wounds.

Thankfully, they're only 1.5cm apart, so it basically went directly through my finger, resulting in a shreik and frantic hopping around the lounge room. Rather like my centipede experience, really. This time, being home alone, I didn't have an audience, but given that this also means there was no-one to resuscitate me should my heart have been stunned, I've thrown out the power board.

The view from Hellfire Pass Museum, with Peace Bowl. Have now gone in daylight. Would love to go back and do the walk along the track (about 4 hours) but the logistics of this are a challenge.