Monkey Business in Lopburi

Picking up where we left off the last time about tigers, the strangest thing I have ever seen by far happened to be in Lopburi province, located about 150 north of Bangkok. If you are ever in Lopburi town try visiting the army zoo.

Go to the tiger cage and you may be surprised to see two grown tigers sharing the same enclosure with two dogs. The two local dogs seemed to be easy meat for the tigers should daily rations be reduced. But this has never happened because of an incident several years ago. A tigress at the zoo had given birth to two cubs but had refused to feed them. The superintendent of the zoo had no choice but to take the cubs home. His dog had given birth at about the same time. So the cubs were fed dog’s milk. In time, the dog adopted the tigers as her own. All the more so when the tigress continued rejecting her babies. The cubs grew up accepting the dog as their mother and the other dogs as their siblings. Now all share the same cage in the zoo. And when the tigers get a little playful, a sharp bark from the dog and they would run timidly for cover. It may have been a case of her bark being fiercer than her bite, but even tigers know that you do not cross your mother even if you outweigh her by 200kgs.

Some may argue that more impressive are the tigers who walk with the monks at a temple in Kanchanaburi. However, I have only seen this on TV and have not had a chance to pay a visit there yet.

While some people may miss seeing the tigers living with the dogs, if you are in Lopburi town, there is very little chance that you would miss another animal that had brought fame to Lopburi. They are the monkeys, which are seen walking around town by the hundreds. Every year a special feast is held for them. Unlike the tigers and the dogs which people find rather cute, the monkeys can be very mischievous and sometimes even downright intimidating, especially the big males. And the way they look at women sometimes make you wonder what exactly is going through their minds. Probably did not differ much from what was going through my mind then. They say the wise think alike and fools seldom differ after all.

There was once a case where a car had knocked down one of their brethren and a group of monkeys had actually taken matters into their own hands and attacked the car with stones and sticks. The driver was smart enough to lock his car and not come out to face their wrath and instead drove off before much damage was done to his vehicle.

Visitors to the area are warn before hand not to do anything that would harm the monkeys, which can be found in large numbers at the Phra Prang Sam Yot (Three Pagoda) ruins and the San Phra Kan Temple about 200 metres away. There is usually a group of children hanging around as vigilantes armed with their catapults ready to offer their assistance when help is needed. I actually witnessed a Caucasian man took out his camera and was about to insert a new roll of film when a monkey managed to snatch it away and made off with it to the top of the ruins. The children came with their catapults but before the monkey threw the film down, it actually managed to pull out the whole roll of film and expose it. Shortly after the incident, I was standing innocently snapping photographs when I felt my pants being tugged. Before you know it there was a monkey sitting on my head, peering down at my face. It would have been comical even to me had it not been for the fact that it was trying to take away my sunglasses. Without trying to appear as though I was picking a fight with him, I managed to hang on to the sunglasses with one hand and my camera with the other. After failing to get my Ray Ban the monkey decided to vent its frustrations on my moustache. I can assure you that having your moustache plucked by a frustrated monkey was not the most pleasant of sensations. Luckily before more of my facial hairs were removed the vigilantes appeared with their catapults and off went the monkey in double time. That seemed to be about the only language they understand. Boys plus catapults equal bad news for monkeys.

The locals have gotten quite used to these monkeys and had learned to live side by side with them. However, precautions are always taken like fixing grill on your windows and doors and fixing your TV antennas in inverted dishes to prevent the monkeys from getting to them. Still local folklore had it that the monkeys would sometimes do things which are so very human. One of them being travelling the modern way. The trains from Bangkok to Chiang Mai, of which there are seven daily, pass right through the heart of monkey town. A few monkeys had been known to hitch a ride on top of the trains to visit distant cousins in Chiang Mai and returning to Lopburi a few days later, presumably with a few tales to tell the folks back home. Why walk to Chiang Mai when there is a perfectly reliable train service available? Makes perfect sense.

Man and monkey did not always exist so harmoniously side by side in Lopburi town. There was a time when the monkeys were quite a handful and making quite a nuisance of themselves at the local wet market. One day a vegetable seller decided she had had enough of their nonsense and decided to get her own back at them. She presented them with a special gift, her Trojan horse, so to speak. This comes in the form of prawn paste or belacan. For those not quite familiar with the Malay proverb, macam kera kena belacan, let me say that for some reason or other prawn paste brings on an allergic reaction of volcanic proportions in primates. The itching epidemic of such magnitude afflicting the monkey population of Lopburi town had never been seen again since. Following that the council of elders governing the monkey world must have sat down and passed an edict that all monkeys may only roam freely within certain demarcated areas that include the ruins, temples and train station. Take a train to Chiang Mai if you must, but venture not into the wet market. The humans there take no prisoners. The food is not up to scratch anyway.

Ghosts only thrive in the tropics

These things only seemed so rampant in Asia. Or South East Asia to be more exact. Have you, for example, heard from friends coming back from Amsterdam (and this despite its close relationship with Indonesia), Stockholm or Hamburg saying their hotel room was haunted, or that some particular area in the Bavarian forest has a powerful spirit guarding it. The last time anyone mentioned anything about a ghost sighted in the Scandinavian area was the sighting of a one in Denmark some centuries ago. It was the ghost of Hamlet’s father who came to tell him that his death was a result of some foul play and not from natural causes as was first suspected. This had affected Hamlet so much that soon he became a loner. As is with most loners they tend to start talking to themselves. However, for Hamlet, his moments of solitude at least resulted in questions for us to ponder. As to whether it is to be or not to be, or whether one should suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or take arms against a sea of troubles. We certainly now know what the choice was for Zinedine Zidane when it boiled down to whether to head butt or not to head butt. Most certainly in both Hamlet’s and Zidane’s case there were method in their madness although we may not necessarily agree with them.

But back to our ghost story. Of course, some east European countries or the Irish countryside may have their fair share of fairies and Dracula, but those seemed to be more folklore to regale your friends at campfires rather than recent occurrences. Which is why the more likely stories you would hear when friends returned from that part of the world were close encounters of the second kind rather than the third. The European continent which over the years had seen a remarkable number of killings and ethnic cleansing should rightly be teeming with restless souls making their appearance or at least their presence felt to the unsuspecting Malaysian visitor to those countries. It would seem that this is certainly not the case.

However, go to any Southeast Asian country and you would come back with some supernatural tales or other to relate to an audience quite ready to gobble up such stories with gusto. This makes one wonder whether ghosts and such beings only reside in the tropics because of the year round warm weather. The only other places where you seem to get many tales from the dark side are certain parts of Africa, Central America and the Caribbean. Notice that again these countries are very near the equator and the tropics. Maybe beings like toyol, for example would find running around in the snow not very much to their liking. One acquaintance was kind enough to send me pictures of the said toyol through the internet recently, purportedly caught somewhere in Pahang or Indonesia. I must say the hairy little creature securely tied with a piece of string seemed scarier of its captors than scary itself. Well, I would too if I am about to be put in a bottle and buried alive. Maybe that was why its big red eyes were looking at the camera with so much sadness. The wonders of modern technology, eh? Just when you thought science had made nonsense of such superstitious beliefs, some genius had used his cell phone or digital camera to prove that technology is now going where man had not gone before. Capturing pictures of supernatural beings ghost buster-style.

Anyway China seemed to be the one notable exception to ghosts liking the tropics. However, the ghosts in China normally have a greenish hue and their favourite mode of travel is hopping from place to place rather than the effortless flying one would associate with their kind. At least that is what Hong Kong movie directors would like to have us believe is the way Chinese ghosts behave. And, one certainly wonders if only ghosts out to seek revenge act in this way just to scare the people who have wronged them a little bit more before delivering the coup de grace or whether all other ghosts, even when they were not out for blood would also act in a similar fashion as well.

Not having come up close and personal with any of these unnatural phenomena, I have never been able to support or disprove the stories and theories on these spiritual beings. Still I have always believed that the smarter thing is just to keep one’s mouth shut about things one is not particularly sure about. There is a Chinese proverb, which says that you should never speak bad of people in the day and never speak of ghosts at night. Wise saying if you ask me. The Thais and the Malays have added a bit more to this, which is not speaking about tigers when you are in the jungle or speak of crocodiles when in water infested with the reptile. Only the very brave or the utterly foolish would go so far as to say should either of the animals pop into view within the next few minutes, then one would like to break off their teeth to make key chains or necklaces and other trinkets with them. While admittedly such objects would make interesting conversation pieces, one should strive to be around and be an active member of the conversation rather than being the sorrowful subject of the discussion at such clan gatherings.

Since I do travel quite a bit in my line of work, many good Samaritans had felt very free to offer their advice on how to avoid being haunted in hotel rooms. It is unbelievable that these advices have come from the most unlikely of people. Most are highly educated and well travelled. Certainly not the kind you would normally associate with such superstitious beliefs. The warnings have included not putting your shoes together side by side or to throw your underwear all over an unused bed and so on. The advices have come by the dozens especially after the tsunami hit our part of the world two years ago.

I have had to travel quite a number of times to Phuket and the surroundings, where there were quite a number of casualties, especially Patong beach and Khaolak in neighbouring Phangnga Province. While some people were just offering advice on how to keep myself from being haunted, others were more curious as to whether the stories of visitors being haunted and such were true. Well, honestly I do not know. As I stated before, I have not had any first hand experience. I had stayed in a number of hotels by the beach and was even there when they had a remembrance night by lighting thousands of candles on Patong beach. I even took part in the candle lighting ceremony. But to this day, all I have ever heard were hearsay. A cousin of somebody’s sister’s friend who was a neighbour of somebody’s son-in-law’s office mate was supposed to have been haunted by ghosts of people who died in the tsunami. Like most stories which came through word of mouth, such tales tend to get embellished with more details with each telling. Maybe I am just one of those lucky people whose extra sensory perception is next to nil, thereby ensuring I would never be troubled by things that go passing in the night.

Still I have always taken heed of my late great grandmother’s advice (she should know living for 108 years). If you hear a strange noise, investigate the source first before determining whether you should start running. For all you know, it could just be a monitor lizard, which is probably more scared of you anyway. Experience had shown that the faster you try to run or outrun such creatures, the worse things were going to get. And should it be a tiger, what is the whole point of running anyway? You either stand your ground or slip behind the nearest big tree, wet your pants thoroughly and pray like there is no more tomorrow, for you at least. That seemed like a much better choice than running.

The lure of weekend markets & night bazaars

In the Chatuchak area of Bangkok, every Saturday and Sunday there is a weekend market, thus the now somewhat famous Chatuchak Weekend Market. Sometimes it is spelt as Jatujak. But, however it is spelt or mispronounced, Chatuchak is a market selling any and every kind of things you might ever want and even some you do not necessarily want but still ended up buying. Chatuchak is also a source of headache of monumental proportions. The heat, the sweat and a host of other bodily discomforts would see to it that you would return to your hotel room a few kilograms lighter with a heavy throbbing at the temples to boot.

What used to be a place where the masses shop has turned into a place where you go to rub shoulders with the rich and famous of Bangkok if not the whole of Thailand. Sort of a Thai St Tropez but minus the sand, sea and women clad in scanty bikinis. But my bet is the rich and famous just come to Chatuchak to be seen. To show they are cool and no different from the rest of us mortals. A way of saying we are still one of you and that we have not forgotten our roots and humble beginnings although we could certainly shop in trendier places now.

Still the rich and famous come to Chatuchak for the PR mileage. Walk around and looking interested in cheap t-shirts, sometimes posing for photographs with some eager fans, sign a few autographs, then walk off in search of something before eventually leaving much lighter then when they had first come. After a few more smiles and returning a few more obligatory wais (the Thai greeting) off they troop to the much trendier and cooler climates of the Paragon (at last count still the biggest shopping complex in Southeast Asia when it opened last year) for some English tea and crumpets. And to catch up on the latest gossips.

Still nothing like Chatuchak as a place to hang out and work up a sweat to lose that extra flab around the middle. No amount of preparation, short of wearing an air-conditioned suit will keep you from losing body fluid by the gallon. Now that sure beats going to the gym if you ask me. You can work up a sweat at no cost at all, except probably the few bahts you pay the tuk-tuk driver to take you there in the first place. Still if you do not experience the heat, the sweat and every other creature discomforts that come with it, including your tummy acting up just as soon as you step into the vicinity, then it would not be Chatuchak. It would be Suan Lum Night Bazaar, the sanitised and orderly night market with its more upmarket restaurants and bazaars. In contrast to Chatuchak, Suan Lum is the place for cool evening walks where you could pop into a fancy restaurant for a bite or a cup of latte after a pleasant evening stroll.

If you desire a jaunting which is a cross between Chatuchak and Suan Lum, then Khaosan Road is the place to go. A hippie haven in the 1970s, the place had certainly undergone a transformation. It is the place to be now. The old hotels and buildings are still there. Only now they have had facelifts and tummy tucks and fresh coats of paints to keep up with the modernisation of the new century, complete with internet cafes, better restaurants and drinking haunts. Drop by after the sun goes down and soon enough you would find yourself blending in with the crowd. The short stretch of road retains its 70s attitude but embraces all the trappings of a new era. You would still find a few old hippies who may have forgotten to go home or had come back to re-live some old experiences, dressed pretty much the same way as they did 30 years ago, albeit with more money in their pockets, even after factoring in the inflation and especially after factoring in the exchange rate which is very much in their favour.

Thailand is full of such walking streets and night bazaars. You find them in most major cities. In the north the most popular is the Chiang Mai Night Bazaar. Here you could find just about any handicraft item that could be fashioned out of any local product. Anything that could be sewn, moulded, carved, bent and scientifically or unscientifically turned into something saleable would be on display. Where else but in Chiang Mai would you find elephant droppings being packed in clear plastic bags and sold off as souvenirs to tourists. And mind you, there are people willing to dish out a few bahts for the honour of owning a bag of dried elephant faeces, presumably to be given away as a birthday present to the favourite mother-in-law.

Similar things could be found if you walk down the Walking Street in Pattaya. Everything else except the elephant by-product most certainly. Chiang Mai chose to retain exclusive rights on the subject of elephant post dietary movements of any sort. Just as well, because everything in Pattaya is double or treble the price of the same things found anywhere else. And if nothing else, elephant droppings should at least be a price-controlled item. Otherwise it would be the end of civilisation as we know it.

It is essential that you learn how to bargain in Pattaya. Even one who is extremely poor in that department as I, had occasionally been moved to enter into a verbal gymnastic with the sellers because of the way these petty traders and not so petty traders in Pattaya chose to price their goods. The prices naturally could be knocked down by half although they tend to turn their noses up at you just to make you feel like a cheapskate. Kind of reminds me of just such a place somewhere off Puduraya in Kuala Lumpur. No prizes for guessing the correct answer. They must have all gone to the same trade school.

Still what is life without the occasional bargains and bargain huntings? But then things in Pattaya, whether at its walking street or malls, have been known to be pricier than any other city in Thailand. This is a legacy of the Vietnam War. In the ‘60s and ‘70s, it was the place where American soldiers on a tour of duty in Vietnam come to rest and recuperate. It is debatable whether they in fact got more rest in Pattaya or in Saigon as Ho Chi Minh City was known then.

Pattaya may have changed to keep up with the rest of the world. But even minus the American soldiers on R & R, it is still very much a city catering to the whims and fancies of Caucasians, with its beer bars (which they call bar beer) and fancy hostesses. The drinks may cost more or go by a new name now. But the atmosphere is still lively and skirts still as short. Any shorter than that and you have to call them headbands.

Fatherhood should be this easy

During the first few years I joined Rotary, I used to remember our club presidents asking for volunteers to take in exchange students for anything from a few months to a year. Being a bachelor and not having a “proper home” as such, I have always managed not to get too involved. Even much later, when I became president of the club, I continued to shy away from such a responsibility. What do I know about being a host to children or young adults? These are responsibilities better left to married members in the club, whose wives are better equipped to make sure the exchange students are fed and looked after properly.

But that was to change through no “fault” of Rotary whatsoever. In fact any relation to Rotary they had was that one of them was the daughter of a Rotarian in Nakhon Sri Thammarat (about 200km to the north of Hat Yai) and the other had an elder brother sent to the United States on an exchange programme for one year by a Rotary club in Phuket.

I was asked to be a “father” for three months to two 20-year-old graduating students from the University of Walailak, South Thailand, while they were undergoing practical training at our office. Reluctantly I had to accept the responsibility. If this had anything to do with tourism and travel, it was only the fact that both of them were pursuing degrees in tourism management.

One Sunday morning in September, I had to cancel my usual late wake up time and pick them up. I was actually trying to discourage them from staying with me. But no such luck. One of the girls’ father in fact accompanied them all the way from Thailand to make sure they were delivered into safe hands in Kuala Lumpur.

I must say the experience of being a father to somebody else’s children was not altogether unpleasant. It had its moments. Of course, there were times when the antics of two 20-year-old girls can get on your nerves. But fortunately those moments were far and few in between. I suppose without those moments, it would have meant I did not really mature as a father.

One day, several months after that, I was in the company of one of the girl’s parents in Phuket and was being introduced to some of their friends at a dinner function. I did feel a bit uncomfortable being introduced by the girl’s father as “my daughter’s daddy from Malaysia.” Now, it would have really been interesting to see the peoples’ reaction had her mother been the one doing the introduction.
But that was a very Thai way of doing things. A male guardian takes on the role of a father and is accorded the same respect that one shows to one’s own father. So naturally they had to call me daddy.

One day when returning home from the office they took the wrong bus and had to walk almost a kilometre home. Two men on a motorcycle decided to get to know them a little better (all in the spirit of ASEAN, naturally) and actually followed them just to find out where they lived presumably.

When I later asked one of the girls, a martial arts exponent why she did not give the bikers a flying kick, she replied, “Cannot-lah daddy. Skirt too tight.”

Another amusing incident happened on one Sunday towards the end of their stay in Kuala Lumpur. One of the girls decided to make me a drink. There was a knock on my door, and when I came out, there she was with a broad smile and a steaming mug. I asked her what was inside the mug, and she told me it was tea.

“I know you like coffee but we have run out, so I decided to make the tea the same colour,” she said.

Exactly how was by boiling two tea bags for a couple of minutes. Had I finished the mug of tea, I would have had trouble going to the toilet for a week.

This same tea maker would have made Chef Wan blush. On that same day she decided to cook lunch. Her cooked rice would have been perfect if it was meant to be eaten with satay. I must say she had a weird sense of logic for a student whose average grade was in the top five per cent in her university. (She in fact ended up the top student).

Anyone familiar with rice cooking knows that to get rice to cook correctly, the water you put into the pot should be about one inch above the rice level at the start of cooking. She decided that since she was cooking double the usual amount, the water level should be two inches above the rice, the result of which would have made the satay makers in Kajang very proud. I suppose she was using a bit of Maths logic here. Probably you would remember the question we used to be asked in primary schools. You are washing five handkerchiefs of equal size. If it takes half an hour for one handkerchief to dry, how long would it take five to dry?

Anyway I digress. Just that the point I am trying to make is being a father to an exchange student or students can be quite an invaluable experience. But at least I did not have to change their diapers or force-feed them those gooey-looking stuff that children hate. Of course, there was also the downside. I lost part of the freedom that goes with bachelorhood.

Still at times I do fancy getting another irritating phone call in the middle of a golf game, asking me to pick them up later from Ampang Park because they did not have the taxi fares to get home. So I did what any father would do when I picked them up. Gave them a sound ticking off for not being more careful with their money.

Worst of all, after three months, I had actually grown terribly fond of them. And for at least a week after they left when I returned home every night to a lonely house, there was always a feeling as though someone had kicked me in the stomach as I walked through the door. I suppose I would have been heart-broken had they been eight or nine year olds. The nerve they had, coming into my life and messing up my fine-planned bachelorhood.

And I would like to think that in some lonely corners of the world, another old bachelor would be listening to the same words of Simon & Garfunkel before they went their separate ways.

I am a rock
I am an island
A rock feels no pain
And an island never cries

Songkran, my grandmother and her maid

The Songkran (Thai water festival) held annually as part of the celebrations to mark the Thai New Year is now going to be adopted by Malaysia, says Culture and Heritage Minister Dato’ Rais Yatim. That would certainly garner a lot of support from most Malaysians, I gather. Should that happen, then Malaysia will join not only Thailand but also Myanmar, Laos and Kampuchea in celebrating the event. The Thai community of Malaysia, of which there are close to 50,000 approximately, are muted (as they are on most issues) on the move by the government to declare the festival a local event. Hopefully, the water festival will come complete with a public holiday or two (or three as the case is in Thailand) to enable Malaysians from all races and walks of life to go splash water on each other.

After all, some Malaysians are now even going to the extent of taking leave and popping across the border to Hat Yai to get themselves and others drenched in the process from the midnight of April 12 until April 15. Hat Yai, by the way, is the only place in Thailand where the water festival starts at midnight. Malaysians actually played a major role in getting the Thai authorities in this southern Thai city to begin Songkran at such an ungodly hour. It was found after Hat Yai began to gain popularity as a weekend getaway that Malaysians just did not know when to stop. They were still splashing water well after the sun had gone down and most of the Thais had gone indoors. Since they love splashing water so much, the starting time for the water festival was officially changed to one night earlier in Hat Yai as compared to other parts of Thailand.

Apart from the fact that it is a good time to get wet and cool down, April being one of the hottest month and all that, most probably are quite unaware of the actual meaning of Songkran and its significance to Thai society. The word actually has a Sanskrit origin, which means the beginning of a new Solar Year. But nowadays, just like anywhere else in the world new year is Jan 1, but just like in Malaysia, where the Muslim New Year is also observed, the Thais choose to have a long holiday to celebrate the Solar New Year.

During the afternoon of the 13th, Buddha images are bathed as part of the ceremony. Then young people pour scented water on the hands of parents and other elders as a mark of respect and to seek their blessings. One day, while passing through the province of Chachoengsao just north of Bangkok, I was to witness such an event celebrated rather grandly in a public park. All the old people of the village were seated in a row and after prayers were performed by the Buddhist monks, the villagers all took turns washing the hands of all the elders of the village.

In Malaysia, or at least in Kelantan where I came from, we still do this. Not necessarily on April 13 but the full moon night of April which could be any time from the 11th to the 20th. In Thailand April 13th was designated a Songkran Day for convenience and tourism sake. In Kelantan (I am not too familiar with the way it is celebrated in Perak, Kedah or Perlis where there are a large number of Malaysian Thais as well) the event is not celebrated on such a grand scale as the ones in Thailand, but in a decidedly more modest and subdued way. No splashing water on each other and all that. In fact we normally go no further than washing the hands and feet of our elders or even of those older than us. This is in fact a very noble gesture, a way of saying thank you and also to ask for forgiveness from them. It is assumed that they, being older than us would have at some point or other in the past carried us. I don’t know about you, but as far as I am concerned, those who carried me were fair game. They would have been given a nice drenching so that they will always fondly remember me. I must say computer era babies are denied one of their sources of fun with the advent of disposable and self-absorbent diapers. You no longer get those squeals of laughter from young mothers or female guardians that usually come with the warm and wet realisation that their laps have just been soiled. And those were just for the distant relatives mind you, because for the chosen ones, the ones we were terribly fond of, we bring out the heavy artillery. Not too different from the way cats and dogs mark their favourite territory, I must say.

Another reason this year’s Songkran was a bit subdued for me was that my grandmother on my father’s side passed away last year at the age of 94. No splashing of water if any were ever intended but just to the temples for the usual prayers held for the departed, that is held during the Thai New Year annually. Now the only torch bearer of the family left are her 97-year-old brother and another of her former sister-in-law who is 102. (The grandmother on my mother’s side passed away in her 30s long before I was born).

Although both of us were living in Kuala Lumpur, my grandmother and I did not see much of each other. In fact, we had never been very close. I was closer to my other grandmother’s younger sister who actually had a hand in bringing me up. A fierce old lady, she always kept a cane handy to make sure I recite my multiplication tables nightly and take my bath on time. She did not speak or understand much English but somehow could instinctively pick out my mistakes. There was never any need for me to be sent for special tuition in mental arithmetic. When you run out of fingers and toes, a cane is always quite handy in bringing out the best that you can be. I shudder to think that had she had a few more canes lying around I would probably have given Einstein a run for his money. Her only wish towards the later part of her life was to see me become a Buddhist monk, even if it was only for a day and of course to marry. Otherwise, she insisted that she could not die happy. We had a compromise of sorts. I agreed to become a monk but there was no way I would get married. True to her word, six months after I was ordained as a Buddhist monk, her mission on earth at last accomplished, she passed away after a short bout with cancer.

The bond that I shared with her never existed with my actual grandmother. So, when the latter passed away I regretted that we had never made any attempt to be close. In our own special way, I supposed we had a certain amount of affection and even love for each other but both of us just had trouble showing it. I too regretted that I did not heed my father’s advice to go see her and wash her hands and feet during the Songkran month last year. I was too busy travelling all over the place. I was destined, instead, to bathe her body before she was cremated.

About the time she died I was somewhere in Petaling Jaya having coffee with a friend. Nobody could get me until about 2am because my mobile phone ran out of battery. Still I was glad she did not die alone but with her loved ones around her – my aunt, her husband and their two children. And her maid, a girl name Puji. As it turned out only Puji knew what to do. She took out her Surah Yassin and recited the Quranic verses to my grandmother during her final moments. It was to me the kindest and most unselfish act of all. The most precious gift one human being can give to another. In an environment that is slowly becoming more polarised and intolerant, an uneducated Indonesian maid from a remote province in Java did what very few religious leaders armed with their rhetoric could ever do. In one simple act of kindness she portrayed the most beautiful part of the Muslims and Islam to somebody from outside her faith. From the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU, PUJI. You will always be a credit to your name.

A Case of “Bird Flew”

“Did you say bird flu? Where?” My friend’s voice came over the mobile phone.

“No, I said bird flew. F-L-E-W. Flew. The bird flew into the jet turbine just as we were about to take off.”

“Oh, then what happened?”

“Well, the pilot aborted takeoff and we’re back at the terminal building awaiting further notice.”

My friend seemed disappointed that there was not much drama in it. The English language or to be more exact, the English pronunciation, can be a bit of a bitch when you are trying to make yourself understood on a mobile phone. Well, even when you are a natural English speaker, making a call from inside an airport terminal is hardly the place when absolute clarity is of the utmost importance. And I, on the other hand, am an unnatural English speaker. So FLU and FLEW can sound quite the same, what with a whole lot of static in the background and all that. So my friend cannot be totally blamed for getting it all mixed up the first time around. After all it had just been announced that avian flu had hit the Thai province of Kanchanaburi (west of Bangkok) the previous day and although I was at that time in Chiang Mai (far to the north of Bangkok), and Chiang Mai is quite a distance away from Kanchanaburi, my friend was not going to let a little bit of geography get in the way of all the confusion.

But with all that sorted out, I can now make more phone calls to elicit some sympathies from friends in both Malaysia and Thailand. Not many sympathies were forthcoming. Those friends think I travel too much anyway and that I am always having a holiday at the office’s expense. I had always protested that my travels, which average about twice a month, were all for work. Regardless, they still feel I have always got the better part of the deal. Well, maybe I do. But not always, though. This time for instance.

I was returning to Kuala Lumpur after being on AirAsia’s inaugural direct flight from Kuala Lumpur to Chiang Mai. I had stayed back another two days after all the reporters had left for a meeting with some travel agents in the northern Thai city.

It was a morning that began like any other Sunday morning in Chiang Mai. The weather had not gotten quite cold yet. That would come in about a month’s time when winter arrives in late November or early December.

Flight AK897 was scheduled to take off at 11am Thai time and the girl at the check in counter assured us that the flight was very much on time. We boarded the plane which was mostly made up of Malaysians taking advantage of AirAsia’s promotional fare. But my romance with the Lanna Kingdom was not about to come to an end that fast. Lanna Kingdom is the old name for the areas comprising Chiang Mai, Chiang Rai, Lampang, Lampun, Mae Hong Son, Nan, Phayao and Phrae in the north of Thailand. These provinces were integrated into the Thai Kingdom or Siam as it was known then in 1876. By that time, the Lanna Kingdom of course, was past its glory days and had fought a series of war with Myanmar or Burma. But this had in no way diminished the beauty of the land which the northerners still call Lanna (translated as a million rice fields).

But Chiang Mai and the north are not just rice fields, especially modern day Chiang Mai. The second largest city in Thailand after Bangkok, one has to see it from the Doi Suthep Temple, located on a mountain overlooking the city to appreciate how big the city is. And taking a stroll along most of the streets in downtown Chiang Mai you tend to be fascinated by the array of wares and northern handicrafts on sale. Not to mention the beautiful girls selling them. But I here I am a bit biased, I must admit. I tend to fall in love with every third girl I meet in Chiang Mai. So most things Chiang Mai tend to be extremely attractive to me. My women friends may think otherwise, but I would like to dare the men to contradict me on this after a visit to Chiang Mai.

My love story with Chiang Mai actually began years ago. At the farthest end of the city is located the city gates. Visitors are normally warned that as you leave the city, you are never to look back. If you do, be forewarned, you will never be free of the city. You are destined to return again and again and again. And like Lot’s son, who was told not to look back at the city of Sodom and Gomorrah, I did look back at the city of Chiang Mai. It must be plain curiosity or just to disprove the belief. I am not sure whether it really worked, but on the average I had been back there at least twice a year ever since. So much for old wives’ tale, eh? The upside at least is that I did not turn into stone. Otherwise Chiang Mai’s City Hall would have had to contend itself with one unwanted statue.

But what is the story with flight AK897, you may ask. Well, I had settled down in my seat with a good book all ready to while away the flight time, which is close to three hours. The plane taxied off to the runway then slowly picked up speed. But seconds before lifting off there was a loud series of sound quite similar to a 100 passengers gargling simultaneously at the highest pitch their vocal chords could muster. This was followed by a screeching of brakes and in as little time as it would have taken us to be airborne, we instead came to a complete halt. It turned out that the captain, in his cockpit, had seen a big bird flying into his left engine. And to think that I, who was actually sitting at the wings of the airplane had missed the whole thing completely. It was a good thing that the captain had been observant. Otherwise we may have had more than one dead bird and a broken turbine on our hands. The plane taxied back to the terminal building and after ascertaining what had happened, we were deposited on the tarmac and took a slow bus ride back to where we had originally came from just minutes earlier.

But whatever efficiency had been demonstrated by the captain and his in-flight crew was slowly and surely undone by AirAsia’s ground staff at the Chiang Mai International Airport. One actually wonders how they would have coped had it been a bigger emergency. It certainly laid bare the fact that whatever training had been given to them, crisis management was not one of them. Still one wonders how much training or arithmetic were actually needed to figure out that if you have, say 100 passengers, and you decide to serve them food, you actually need 100 packets or more. I believe a cursory glance at the passenger manifest would have helped them to work out the number of people on the plane. In this instance, it was a piece of pizza which came in a neat triangular box. Some had water to go with the pizza. Others had a big glass of Pepsi. All not served at the same time of course. This naturally led to some confusion when another batch of food arrived 15 minutes or so later because one ground staff did not know what the other was doing.

If you think scenes of people clamouring for food in post earthquake Kashmir was bad, then you should have seen what went on in the airport lounge. One would have thought that people who had just spent thousands going on a holiday would conduct themselves a little better than people who had gone without food for days. This was after all the early stages of the wait. Shame on you Malaysians. An elderly Caucasian gentleman did not seem to have the heart to join in the madness, just gave up and went looking for food at the restaurant outside. I could not quite figure out which was more irritating – the fact that Malaysians still do not know how to queue or AirAsia’s Chiang Mai staff not knowing how to count.

The fact that the departure time kept getting moved from 5pm to 8.30pm to 10.30pm did not help much. Still people were willing to put up with it. But I think not many people could tolerate the inept handling of the situation which was a cross between idiocy and lunacy. And I say this not because I have a platform to say it. It is not even because of the feeling of pride I normally feel when I read of Malaysian companies doing well abroad. I say it because it is in my interest that AirAsia do well and turn in better results next year. I would like to see the company’s shares going up a few percentage points so that I could get my dividends at the end of the financial year. Sad to say, I do not think AirAsia’s ground staff in Chiang Mai are exactly turning me into another Warren Buffet any time soon.

Luckily somebody came up with the bright idea that the stranded passengers should be allowed to venture beyond the waiting lounge after depositing their passports with the airline staff. Most just went out in search of food to supplement the piece of pizza. No one seemed particularly interested when a similar menu was to be served for dinner and that night the Thai Airways International restaurant were full of AirAsia’s stranded passengers. Some even went back into town to catch up on some last minute shopping or just to finish off whatever bahts they have left. That at least help to calm a few frayed nerves apart from helping to further stimulate the Thai economy.

We were told that AirAsia would be flying another plane to Chiang Mai to take us home. The damage to the engine was worse than expected. I must say that it was one tough eagle which landed at the wrong place at the wrong time. Going boldly where few other eagles were brave enough to have gone before. It is certainly sad that it took the death of one short-sighted eagle and a perfectly good engine to tell AirAsia that a crash course in crisis management is urgently needed for its ground staff, in Chiang Mai at least. And Chiang Mai, after all, happened to be the hometown of the airline’s biggest shareholder in AirAsia Thailand (at that time at least).

We finally left Chiang Mai at about 11pm and touched down in KLIA at 2.45am. I, for one, actually held my breath when the plane was taking off this time around, hoping that no other eagle decided to avenge its mate’s death and take out another engine. Quite a journey and quite a day, I must say. Still I could not help wondering what would have happened had the plane already taken off when the eagle flew into the turbine. For example, what would have happened if the plane was about 10 feet off the ground? How long would it take the pilot to bring the plane down again or how much thrust would be needed to keep it airborne or whether it would be airborne at all? All questions which are beyond my limited mental capacity. And not being that great at maths, I think I will just save the question for the next time I am in Chiang Mai. The Einsteins in red miniskirts masquerading as AirAsia’s ground staff shouldn’t have too much trouble figuring that piece of maths out for me. Q.E.D.

Balikpapan beckons

We wrongly assumed that only the three of us were crazy enough to wake up at 3.00 in the morning, grab a cold shower and rush to the Kuala Lumpur International Airport to catch a three-hour flight to Balikpapan. And before you say Balikpapan where, allow me to give you a bit of geography lesson. Just imagine that you are in Sabah. Picture where Kota Kinabalu is, then mentally run your finger along the coast, going clockwise. When you reach a location about southeast of Kalimantan, somewhere due south of Tawau, you would be able to locate the city of about 300,000 population.

We were among the last to board the flight which meant we found ourselves occupying the last few rows at the back of the plane. It also meant we got three seats each. Quite a bargain actually, since we only paid RM8.88 (before tax and other incidentals, of course). No sooner had the flight taken off had people started curling up and going to sleep. Sleeping babies look cute. Slumbering adults just give the impression they are in a state of disrepair. One lady decided to turn the last row into her first class sleeping quarters, presenting her rear end for those still awake to admire. While I must admit beautiful rear ends can sometimes inspire equally beautiful works of art, one that was pointing towards me at that hour of the morning could only fill me with fear. You never know when it may decide to honour us with a 21-bum salute or something.

Prince Siddharta some 2500 years ago must have woken up and walked in on just such a sight of unprotected rear ends and drooling salivas. A sight disturbing enough, among others, to push the noble one to renounce all princely comforts and go seek answers to the nature of suffering. This rear end did not push me any nearer to seeking enlightenment. That station, I am afraid, belonged to another rear end, which no sooner had it convinced me of its lack of interest in my non-spiritual attributes, had plonked itself in the lap of one more deserving of her attentions. But that is another story. A love story, actually, that I do not care to go into detail here. Miss Rear End finally awoke after dawn broke and helped herself to a bowl of hot noodles, thereby ensuring her posterior portion could continue to get the necessary nutrients to torment those sitting at the back of the plane.

Flying at such an hour of the morning meant that the plane’s air-conditioning system seemed to be working extra hard. One of my travelling companions actually had the gall to ask a flight attendant whether he could have a blanket. He must have thought he was flying first class on another airline. Lucky for him it stopped at that. If he had also asked for red wine, friend or no friend, I would have reached over and given him a smack for being a nuisance at such an hour. He did not hear the last of that for another few weeks after we returned to KL. The flight attendant was suitably offended as she had every right to be. But credit to her for taking time off from her intellectual intercourse with a middle-aged Caucasian gentleman, to politely tell him blankets were not options provided by low cost carriers. She then turned back to continue her discussion with the Caucasian gentleman, presumably about how the oil prices rise disproportionately with airlines wages. Incidentally, Balikpapan, which happened to be an oil town, has quite a sizeable expatriate population. There is even a website for the expatriates’ wives club, a cross between a Rotary Club and a Joyluck Club minus the mahjong sessions.

We finally landed without much fanfare at this beautiful airport called Sepinggan Balikpapan. After going through immigration and customs we popped into the nearest coffee shop for breakfast. Then we took a taxi into town and went in search of suitable accommodation. Finally we settled on an establishment called Hotel Bintang, a two-star lodge charging four-star rates and providing three-star entertainment. Not all the entertainment were provided by the hotel, though. But they were within easy reach. A right turn takes us to a discotheque on stilts. One wonders whether dancers in graceful movements that can only come with intoxication ever danced themselves into the sea below. That would certainly have woken them up somewhat for the wet journey home. Turn left after emerging from the hotel and there is a health centre waiting to cure various forms of sickness that the flesh is heir to and to the front is a karaoke joint. What more can a lonely tourist ask for in a city such as this?

Then it was time to go look for some lunch, which consisted of nasi padang. Getting ourselves understood seemed a bit harder than the time I was in Bandung. It also took a while before my two millionaire companions actually got the hang of the rupiah-ringgit conversion. Balikpapan was not what we had expected at all. It has very modern facilities and wide roads, attributed to the fact that the city of some 300,000 owed its existence to oil. After lunch, we took the local transport known as angkut into town. Cost of transport to most part of town was 7000 rupiah. We were dropped off in front of the biggest shopping complex in town where we ran smack into a demonstration by Muslim students against the publication of Playboy magazine in Indonesia. While I shall keep my opinions on the Playboy magazine to myself, I thought they should have a re-think about their protests against condom vending machines. Just because the Muslim students were presumably practising celibacy, it is probably wise to reconsider their stand. Only moralists seem to think that the easy access to condoms would lead to more extra-marital sex. They forget that people have been doing it without condoms for centuries even in Victorian England. They seemed to think that just because condoms are easily available, innocent Muslim girls would throw off their headscarves and automatically lift their sarongs for the next man who comes along. I suppose people tend to equate condoms more with free sex than with safe sex.

The hotel was not the only place charging us exorbitant prices. The restaurants and taxis were also doing the same thing. We were told later by one kind lady that there are three prices in Balikpapan – one for locals of Kalimantan, one for Indonesians from other islands and another for foreigners. No prizes for guessing who gets fleeced. Take the time we decided to go visit Samarinda, a town some 100 over kilometres to the west of Balikpapan. We paid 408,000 rupiah for the baby-faced driver to drive us there and back. Anything babyish about the driver stopped at his looks. Once he got behind the wheels he was a maniac taking us to our destination in two hours. This was made possible by driving at about 120kph on roads where lesser mortals would only dare drive at 40kph. I tried to close my eyes and block out the speed but this only made it worse. It just meant that I get thrown about a whole lot more even with the safety belt on. Resigned to the fact that there was no way our very own Michael Schumacher, who hailed from Semarang in Central Java, was going to slow down, I did the next best thing and went to sleep. I figured if I die in my sleep it would be painless.

Samarinda, on the bank of the Mahakan River, had this bright yellow bridge connecting it to the east side. I suppose only a native of Samarinda could ever speak in glowing terms about such an apparition known as Jambatan Mahakan. It is the more of an eyesore as on the other side of the river stands a beautiful, soon to be completed, state of the art Islamic Centre. To think that they would latter stand side-by-side is simply blasphemous and an insult to the new and beautiful piece of Islamic architecture. After a brief tour of the town, we dropped by one of the international hotels to use its restroom facilities before going in search of nasi padang. By the time I came home, I still do not know how good local Kalimantan food is since nasi padang is found in abundance. By the time we left Samarinda for Balikpapan, I had more or less gotten used to being driven around at breakneck speed on small trunk roads that I stopped being bothered by it anymore. Our driver even had the audacity to tailgate a police petrol car. Now that took guts.

We came back to the hotel for a deserved rest after a tour of the petroleum facilities in Balikpapan. The tour is actually just a drive past the huge complex by the sea. I could still not get over the fact that I have had to pay 300,000 rupiah (about RM120) a night for my room, which faced a rubbish dump. Anywhere else it would have only cost half as much and at the price I was paying one would expect the shower to have hot water and for the door to close properly. It failed miserably on both counts. Only consolation was the double locks on the door. While double locks may keep intruders out, they do nothing for the soundproofing needs of the guests.

I woke up at 4am to the sound of the couple in the opposite room professing their undying love for each other, in a mixture of standard Bahasa Indonesia and English, no less. Being a romantic at heart, I was deeply moved by such outpouring of love between two people. It was two weeks before Valentine’s Day, so who am I to argue with cupid. I could not quite keep up with their wedding plans. After a while the discussion became unintelligible followed by a deafening silence. Good, I thought. Now I could get back to sleep since I had to catch a morning flight back to Kuala Lumpur the next day.

Fat chance. The enchanted lovers decided to fast forward from wedding plans to early honeymoon, and in the process waking up the entire floor. The old boy must have done all right because about the only thing she did not shout out was the speed limit in Balikpapan. (By the way I was told the speed limit is 68kph. Once you reach 69 you have to turn the other way around). After that I had a hard time myself trying to get back to sleep again. So it was a cold shower and getting ready for the airport.

The flight home was only half full and I chose a seat at the wings. As usual, the flight crew would come and request your assistance in opening the emergency door in case of an emergency. That was all fine and well but I am one of those who need at least one or two trial runs before I can get anything right. After all when my services are badly needed at such times, I would only have once chance of getting it right. What if the door would not open? They should at least let me play with the emergency door a bit so that I may be able to perform my task automatically when and if there was ever a need.

As the plane taxied away before take off, I noticed some egrets feeding in the field adjacent to the runway. I could not help praying very hard that the egrets in Balikpapan were not as suicidal as the eagles of Chiang Mai.

A touch of romance

There is nothing like a riverboat ride to start a new romance or rekindle ambers of waning passion that is threatening to snuff out a relationship. I have been on such boats on numerous occasions, especially in Bangkok, but never for either of those reasons. Just for work actually. The first time was a little over 10 years ago when I took the Oriental Queen, which could take more than a hundred passengers from Bangkok to head upstream for the old city of Ayutthaya. I had a group of journalists with me.

Such journeys are quite remarkable, conjuring memories of younger years. I grew up in the 1970s watching black & white shows of riverboats sailing up and down the Mississippi. The whole idea of people boarding the riverboat, travelling up and down the mighty river was something to look forward to as a child. Something I had hoped to do a little later in life. Well, the Chao Phraya River, which separates Bangkok from Thonburi, is not quite the Mississippi. But it was great to go upriver in one of those big boats, nevertheless, most especially if it is your first time.

The fare inclusive of meals is 1,400 bahts. You have a choice between the air-conditioned lower deck and the warm open-air upper deck. Of course, this is after you have had your fill of the buffet breakfast, served just after your boat leaves the pier at eight or so. Nothing like tucking with gusto into your first meal of the day, as the Temple of Dawn and the Grand Palace seem to float pass you at a leisurely pace. In between mouthfuls, you even have time to take out your camera and fire away a few shots to show the folks back home.

As noon approaches, when the upper deck gets a bit too hot, there’s always enough room down below to enjoy the sights without raising too much of a sweat. There will be the hardened souls, who would insist on staying out in the noonday sun, sipping their assortment of beverages. Since they were not Englishmen, one has to assume they are mad dogs.

By 2.00pm or so, the boat would, like those of merchants of old coming to ply their trade, approach Ayutthaya. The second capital of the kingdom may have lost much of its splendour, but retains most of its majesty. It was after all the setting of quite a few memorable battles between the armies of old Siam and old Burma, both trying to fight for supremacy over that region of South East Asia. One can only guess at the beauty of this ancient city during its hey days. However, telling the story of this city in a few paragraphs would not do justice to its illustrious history and better left for another time. Suffice to say that without Ayutthaya, Siam would not have evolved into what Thailand is today. It was here that Siam began opening up to both the west and the east. Small wonder that at some point or other, it had had the prime minister equivalent of today whose nationalities were Japanese, Greek and Persian. Not all at the same time, of course. It had also had influential and high ranking court officials who were Chinese. Of course, the Greek, by the name of Phaulkon, managed to get his head chopped off for being too overzealous in trying to convert the King to Catholicism. But, as I said these stories are better left for another time.

Anyway, on with our riverboat story. There are quite a number of interesting things to see even if you decide to opt for the dinner cruise instead of the trip upriver to Ayutthaya. The dinner cruise costs about as much as a morning trip to Ayutthaya, except that this time it comes with meals and entertainment. If I had not seen how he looked, I would have thought Kenny G himself was the entertainer. Alas, it was not the world renown saxophonist but a more than able Thai blower doing the job. Before you know it, you would be humming along to the music from the 60s and 70s. Two hours would have passed just like that before you realise it, and before long you are back at the pier again. As you get ready to jump off the boat and rejoin the real world once more, or of Bangkok, at least, with its traffic jams, exhaust fumes and street vendors you cannot help feeling a slight tugging at the pit of your stomach as you look longingly towards the Filipino singer in miniskirt. Her face has taken on a blank look and she had lost the plastic smile she had on while entertaining us earlier. She just seemed too busy staring into her cup of tea. Probably there are coded messages about her future hidden among the tea leaves. Her job over for the night, she picked up her string of pearls and sequined handbag before nonchalantly walking off the boat and into the night. Well, the tugging at the base of your stomach could have been unfulfilled fantasy or it could very well have been the result of being too liberal with the cili padi and fish sauce an hour or so earlier.

To say the scenes you will see on the banks of the river are breath-taking would be a gross understatement. It is something you have to experience yourself and quite certainly not one you would too soon forget.

Recently I have had the privilege of taking another riverboat, but this time instead of on the Chao Phraya River, it was the Mae Ping River in Chiang Mai. Its namesake, the Mae Ping Hotel had its 15 minutes of fame several years ago when Taiwan songstress, Teresa Teng passed away while staying there. On the only occasion I stayed at the hotel, I had wondered what I would have done had I been woken up by the melodious strains of Teresa’s voice telling me her love shines as bright as a million stars or something like that.

Anyway, a riverboat trip cum dinner on the Mae Ping is not quite as eventful as those on the Chao Phraya River. The boat could take only about 50 people without the risk of one getting into another’s hair, unless of course that was one’s original intention. It is more peaceful and the darkness does provide some comfort and is less of a strain on the eyes. The boat is romantically lit, the light from the numerous candles, placed at strategic locations on the boat creating a fairytale-like ambience. But it did not seem to do much in enhancing the beauty of the food. In the twilight of my life, failing eyesight tend to make me want to be sure what I put in my mouth. It was not too much fun just relying on your sense of smell and taste alone.

But I must say if I was there with somebody special instead of a film crew shooting a travel documentary, this would have counted as a romantic night. Imagine being there with the love of your life (or the one who must be obeyed, which ever the case might be). Dinner was just over. Dessert had just arrived. Coffee for me, at least, since I am not much of a dessert person. This being a special night and all that I would even suppress the desire to light up for an after dinner smoke. She will smile a contented smile. No need for words. There is soft music playing in the background. For a brief moment all seems well again with the world. It is the perfect setting to pop the question. So after letting the meal settle down for a bit, you take her hands in yours and look at her lovingly, knowing and convincing yourself that you are not good enough for her. You will probably see love or your unborn children in her eyes. Then gather up enough courage to pop the question…

“Shall we break up? I don’t think there’s any future in this relationship. Moreover, I’ve met this extremely nice girl in Chiang Mai… ”

As you jump over the side of the boat, turn around and tell her to take care of the bill. After all, you have been picking up the tabs for all the lunches and dinners ever since you have been with her over the last few years. Then swim as hard as possible for the opposite bank. And please make sure you know how to swim before attempting this because even if you do not jump into the river, she will definitely throw you overboard. Try not to go beyond the Mae Ping. Even in your wildest dream, forget about swimming across the Chao Phraya River unless you have a ship waiting in the Gulf of Siam or you won the gold medal at the last SEA Games for the 1500m swimming event.

As a coup de grace make sure you send her an SMS, reminding her to leave at least a 100 baht tip for the lovely waitress who had been flirting openly with you all throughout dinner, oblivious to the dagger looks your dinner companion was giving her.

Well, we can always dream on, can’t we?

Ole-ole Bandung

Anybody growing up in the 1960s would probably remember a song called Ole-ole Bandung (Souvenirs from Bandung). The lyrics had something to do with a short blouse being cut into a sarong or something like that. The reason for this song or rather the lyrics, I was to find out, is that the traditional costume for Sundanese women (who you find in large numbers in Bandung) is a sarong worn just half way down the calf with a kebaya (also known in Kelantan as baju Bandung) on top.

I was in for another surprise where the Sundanese were concerned. It happened when we walked into a restaurant for lunch on the way to Tangkuban Parahu, a mountain range housing six dormant volcanoes, about 20kms out of Bandung town. The girl who greeted us put up her hands in a wai position. Being Thai and being terribly polite especially with sweet-looking young things, I instinctively put up my own hands and replied “Sawatdi khrap” before realising that I was not in Thailand. (Wai is the Thai greeting and involved putting the palms together at about chin level).

It turned out that the Sundanese greeting happened to be a version of the wai, although they do not call it a wai. In fact they do not call it anything except a Sundanese greeting. And who better to demonstrate this than a Sundanese girl in traditional costume. She did it with such beauty and grace. How I wish we were 30 years younger.

Our age did not stop the driver from taking the trouble to extol the virtues of women from the various areas of Java, though. Sunda, Cirebon, Jakarta, Semarang, Surabaya, Yogyakarta and so on. My friend, whose ancestry can be traced to both the royalty of Cirebon and the pirates of Sulawesi was all ears. Our driver, being Javanese himself, was naturally trying to convince us that the best candidates for wives were Javanese. Moreover, he said, getting married in Indonesia would only cost us in the range of two million rupiah or so. Now, that is food for thought, especially for two poor, old bachelors.

Anyway let us just leave the wives part out of it for the moment. Too many damsels and all of them managed to have a distress story of some sort to tell. We seemed spoiled for choice and somehow it looked much easier to remain bachelors, especially at meal times.

Meals in Bandung usually consist of a fish dish. Of course there is also sapi (bull) meat. Not lembu, mind you. The sapi meat is usually served as miniature satays. A word of advice. If you are wearing dentures stay as far away from it as possible. The sapi must have had their fair share of skirmishes with quite a few local matadors judging from the tougness of their meat.

But hardly had we set foot on Indonesian soil and my friend was already talking about pacel lele. It is actually deep fried catfish eaten with vegetables and sambal. In the interest of gastronomic science, he was trying to determine if there was any difference in tastes between the pacel lele served at Indonesian restaurants in Kuala Lumpur and those found in Bandung. Much like he once went to Hat Yai, Bangkok and Chiang Mai to see if the tomyams there and those in Kuala Lumpur taste the same.

On our second night in Bandung, after hopping into a taxi, we politely requested him to take us in double time to the nearest restaurant selling pacel lele. The taxi driver must have misunderstood our Sundanese dialect because he deposited us near Jalan Sudirman where we found lots of shops and stalls selling bakmee but not pacel lele. We hopped into another taxi and asked the driver to take us to the nearest Muslim restaurant, instead.

This time there was no room for mistake and the waitress in tudung kind of convinced us we were in the right type of restaurant at last. Called Ampera, it is located in Jalan Kebun Kawung, somewhere between the Bandung Governor’s Residence and the Railway Station.

The deep fried chicken drumstick served here more than compensated for the missing catfish. Having found Sundanese food rather bland over the previous two days, my friend and I tucked into the sambal with gusto. Only this time it was not so bland. Being Thai I pride myself in my ability to stomach hot food. But this was something else altogether. It was like a few mini explosions had just gone on inside my mouth. I must say the numbing sensation moved us to tears and we were sweating in places that had no right to sweat at that hour of the night. But it was nothing that two tall glasses of freshly-squeezed orange juice (locally known as jeruk) could not take care of. Naturally there was no sirap Bandung. Sirap Bandung is a fallacy propagated by the back street vendors in Malaysia. Just like there is no nasi goreng Pattaya in the Thai seaside resort. Now I actually begin to wonder whether what my late grandmother called baju Bandung actually originated in Bandung at all.

But Bandung, being close to 800 metres above sea level has a rather cool temperature. It seemed to rain most of the four days we were there. I suppose if the temperature dropped lower than normal, the people of Bandung can always visit Ampera. The sambal would certainly warm them up somewhat. We did manage to find our pacel lele the very next day. Wonder of all wonders it was at a restaurant located 20 metres from our hotel.

Of course, pacel lele was not the only thing my friend was fond of. The other is fighting with taxi drivers. He seemed to have taken the fight from the streets of KL to back streets of Bandung over their reluctance to use the meter after midnight. Still they were a whole lot friendlier than their counterparts in KL. None argued or protested when we paid them half of what they asked. They were smiling broadly because probably they were still making a hefty profit.

I was just smiling because the taxi drivers did not take us to some dark alley and relieve us of all our worldly and unworldly possessions. After all, picking a fight with taxi drivers at three in the morning, whether in KL, Bangkok or Bandung is not very clever. But try telling that to my friend, the gaped crusader, who felt that justice must prevail and “broken meters” should be repaired.

We did encounter some very pleasant taxi drivers as well in Bandung. And my friend was not averse to giving a big tip to the honest drivers. If only they knew how much more they could have made from the tips if they had just used the meters in the first place.

The first thing I did after arriving back in Kuala Lumpur was to go check the next available cheap flight (translated as RM0.00) to Bandung. We were not quite finished with the pacel lele, the sambal in Ampera and the Bandung taxi drivers just yet. And, I had to come back to KL to find out that a replica of the Java Man is actually exhibited in the Bandung Museum. Now that us something I would like to have a look at. Of course, there is still the two million rupiah question to be answered. Tsk, tsk the things we do in the name of journalism.

From the Mouth of a Volcano

I cannot help feeling smug. It is not always that I can say I am a millionaire. There I was, crossing the 50 metres or so of tarmac from the plane to the Immigration check point at Hussein Sasteranegara International Airport in Bandung with a few million rupiah on me. Malaysia had just beaten Indonesia for the gold medal in badminton at the Manila SEA Games.

While walking around smugly is one thing, gloating is quite another. It would be a fatal error, I think, to gloat at Indonesians, especially about Malaysia beating them at badminton. I could very easily end up at the bottom of Kawah Ratu, a dormant but the biggest of six volcanic craters on the outskirts of Bandung. I really have no desire to test how hot the temperature can get at the bottom of a volcano, even a dormant one.

For Indonesia, losing to Malaysia in badminton must rank somewhere between the tsunami and running out of clove cigarettes. But then neither do Malaysia like losing to Indonesia in badminton even back when we were losing to every other nation of some badminton repute in the world.

A few days later Malaysia beat Indonesia for the soccer bronze medal. However, by then I was past my gloating stage. Just as well to let it pass since our host and guide was kind enough to show us several variations of lap dancing. All to the accompaniment of music from Michael Learns to Rock, fast tempo and in dangdut version, naturally.

While still humming the non-dangdut version of 25 Minutes Too Late, we took the winding road up to the mountain in a Kijang (which is actually the Indonesian national vehicle minus the AP controversy naturally). The locals just call it puncak (summit), the mountain that is, not the locally-assembled four-wheel drive. The temperature dropped quite fast and we had the air-conditioning switched off and wound down the windows to have a better look at the swiftly changing vegetation and pollute our lungs a bit more.

Then the inside of the four-wheel drive began to take on a slightly unpleasant odour as if all of us were having indigestion and were playing childhood pranks on one another all at the same time. Nothing of that sort was happening, of course. The sulphuric smell was coming from the six volcanoes in the area.

Dormant they may be, but they were definitely emitting strong fumes and smoke that you can smell from quite a distance away. The fact that it had been years since the volcanoes were last active was scant consolation when we stood staring down at the smoky bowels of Kawah Ratu, the biggest of the six craters. We did not make it to the other five for lack of time. To the left of Kawah Ratu and making a wonderful background to the setting of an Indonesian myth was the Tangkuban Parahu mountain range.

As is always the case with any tourist attraction, there would be the usual souvenir peddlers whose vocabulary did not include comprehending the word NO. It was small consolation that some of them were kind enough to take us through the folklore associated with the area. You can tell they have been telling this story countless times to anyone patient enough to lend an ear. But nothing’s ever for free and the price for the story telling was being haggled no end by the story teller and his comrade in charms to buy their wares.

One cheeky fellow wanted to sell me a horn shaped volcanic stone with Quranic inscriptions. When I managed to convince him that I was not a Muslim, he was stumped for a few seconds and quickly put away the holy inscriptions. And that was that, I thought, when suddenly he turned around and there were strings of beads, necklaces and bracelets in his hands. His friends chipped in with some bamboo pens and postcards just for good measure. All were trying to outdo each other with their salesmanship. They were as amazing as the myth connected with the area.

It happened that once upon a time, many tectonic movements and tsunamis ago, in heaven lived a young god. One day he committed a sin with a beautiful goddess (must have been heaven’s version of playing doctor) and they were condemned and banished by the highest God of Sunda Pantheon to live on earth as animals. The goddess turned into a female wild boar, while the god turned into a black dog.The black dog was called Si Tumang. One day a Sunda King, who was hunting in the forest got lost and had the urge to urinate, so he did it in a dry coconut shell. The boar, which was thirsty, accidentally drank the King's urine that was mixed with his sperm. After several months, the boar got pregnant, but instead of giving birth to baby boar, she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.

The boar then took her baby to the King's hunting log. The King and his men were surprised to find a beautiful baby in the forest. The King considered the baby as a gift from the gods and took her as his own daughter. The baby grew up to be a beautiful princess. The princess is loved by everyone in the kingdom, but she turned out to be a spoiled girl.

The princess was very skilful at cloth weaving. One day her weaving tool drop from the weaving pavilion. Too lazy to pick it up, she vowed that if there was a male that would pick up her weaving tool, she would make him her husband, but if a female were to pick it up, she would make her a sworn sister (this is Sunda after all, so no same sex marriage just yet).

However, it was Si Tumang who took her weaving tool and gave it back to her. Because of her vow, Princess Dayang Sumbi must marry Tumang, the black dog. Ashamed of his daughter’s mistake, the King banished Dayang Sumbi to the forest, living with Tumang, her dog husband (and these days we call that incest and bestiality). During the night, Si Tumang would turn into a handsome god and make love to Dayang Sumbi. Soon Dayang Sumbi gave birth to a baby boy named Sangkuriang. However, Sangkuriang did not know that his beloved and loyal pet, Si Tumang, was his own father. One day Dayang Sumbi had a craving to eat fried deer liver and asked her teenage son to go hunting. Sangkuriang took his dog, Si Tumang to hunt, but strangely, there was not a single animal in sight. Then Sangkuriang spotted a fat boar so he shot an arrow at it. The boar was the goddess incarnation, mother of Dayang Sumbi, Sangkuriang’s grandmother and Si Tumang’s amorous accomplice in Sunda heaven. Si Tumang knew this and he tried to stop Sangkuriang from killing the divine boar. Angered by his pet’s attitude, Sangkuriang accidentally shot an arrow at Tumang, and killed the dog. Confused and depressed, Sangkuriang then cut out Si Tumang’s liver and took it home. Dayang Sumbi cooked Tumang’s liver and ate it. Sangkuriang remained silent and did not want to eat the cooked liver. When Dayang Sumbi asked Sangkuriang where Tumang is, Sangkuriang told her the truth. The shocked Dayang Sumbi ran amok and hit Sangkuriang on the head with a ladle. Sangkuriang’s head was cut wide open and bled, and he suffered from amnesia.

Sangkuriang ran into the forest. Dayang Sumbi, who regretted her actions went looking for Sangkuriang but in vain. Dayang Sumbi then began a life as a hermit, eating only raw vegetables. Thanks to her diet and divine blood, she was able to remain young forever. Sangkuriang grew into a strong and handsome young man and was reunited with Dayang Sumbi and they later became lovers (a touch of Oedipus there, what?). Finally, Dayang Sumbi recognised the scar on Sangkuriang's head while combing her lover's hair and realised that her lover was actually her own son, so she knew she could not marry him.

However, she did not wish to disappoint him by cancelling the wedding. But she would only do so on condition that he provided her with a lake and a boat with which they could sail away on the dawn of their wedding day. Sangkuriang accepted this condition and built a lake by damming the Citarum River. With dawn just moments away and the boat almost complete, Dayang Sumbi realised that Sangkuriang would fulfil the conditions she had set. With a wave of her shawl, she lit up the eastern horizon with flashes of light. Deceived by the false dawn, the cock crowed and farmers rose for the new day.

With his work not yet complete, Sangkuriang realised that his endeavours were lost. In uncontrollable rage, he kicked the boat that he had built. The boat overturned and became the mountain range known as Tangkuban Parahu (in Sundanese tangkuban means upturned and parahu means boat). With the dam broken, the water drained from the lake, turning into a wide plain that now became the city of Bandung (from the word bendung, which means dam). DH Lawrence couldn’t have written a better story.

After our fair share of Oedipal folklore and persistent souvenir peddlers, we made our way to the hot spring or air panas at the base of the mountain. A welcome change from the rather low temperatures of the puncak.

Some Cabbages & Some Condoms

Somewhere after the Sukhumvit-Asoke Intersection in Bangkok is Sukhumvit Soi (Lane) 12. About 50 metres off the main road is Cabbages and Condoms.

You may not find many cabbages but you can certainly find many prophylactics. Well, you still find lots of other food to satisfy your gastronomic needs. And if you must absolutely have cabbages, then one will probably be made available for you at a cost. The condoms, though, come free of charge.

And you have lots of it at this restaurant. In fact, a sign you would see as you leave the restaurant after a meal is that the management does not have any candies to give out, so take a condom instead. And they come in two sizes.

Take an after meal stroll or a walk before the food you ordered arrives and you would find a gift shop that sells lots things pertaining to safe sex and family planning. Most aptly so as the restaurant is in fact situated next to the Population and Community Development Association (PDA).

Other handicraft products on display are produced by villagers from the rural areas of Thailand.

In fact, the restaurant, the brainchild of one Meechai Veeravaitaya, was conceptualised in part to promote better understanding and acceptance of family planning and to generate income to support various development activities of the PDA.

Proceeds from the sale of handicraft products, from key chains and neckties to books, t-shirts and food from the restaurant are used to fund development and social welfare activities of the association.

The restaurant is most certainly proud of the fact that the food served in its establishment is guaranteed not to cause pregnancy, says its brochure. Now there are not only Cabbages & Condoms Restaurants, there are also Cabbages & Condoms Resorts as well.

The restaurant’s name, tend to produce a few giggles and smiles. It does seem as colourful as the life of the person behind it.

According to his autobiography, Meechai studied in Australia in the 1970s and admitted that he was actually quite popular with the girls. He was having his fair share of fun until his mother threatened to bring him home if he did not buck up. He added that his elder brother was the studious one between them.

On another occasion, he failed to turn up at his own wedding at the appointed time. A search party sent out found him still sleeping and he did have a lot of explaining to do before the girl finally forgave him.

But then Meechai was not only fun and games. On his more serious side, upon completing his education and returning home, Meechai began to recognise the plight of rural Thais, what with their large families, small land holdings, and the capricious rice growing seasons affected by drought and flood.

He began a local citizens' improvement non-governmental organization (NGO) called the Population and Community Development Association.

Early projects included agriculture, horticulture and alternative cottage industries. Cotton and corn raising were tried in place of poppies and hemp. The eucalyptus tree of Australia was farmed for its hardiness and fast-growing qualities, and sewing and tailoring programmes were developed.

But he also recognized that the fundamental problem with community development and the improvement in the quality of life for the individual was the very large families rural Thais tended to have.

He began a programme of family planning and strived to make the condoms and the use of condoms popular. He is proud of the fact that if you walk into a drug store and ask for a meechai, the sales person will likely direct you to the nearest condoms on sale. In Thailand, the word meechai is now synonymous with condoms.

He also made vasectomy popular. In spite of strong objections, such clinics were established, along with publicity campaigns that the medical procedure did not result in loss of sexual potency, which is a common fear.

Those who participated in getting a vasectomy were given a T-shirt, which proclaimed, "I've been vasectomised and my pigeon still flies high".

Soon after, to have two children became popular. With his programme and that of the Thai Ministry of Health, population growth rate in Thailand dropped from 2.4 per cent in 1970 to 1.2 per cent in 1995.

Instead of doubling the number of Thais in 40 years, that doubling of the population will not occur for over 75 years now. That has major implications on both the social and economic development of any country.

Meechai attributed his success to the fact that he simply showed the benefit of family planning and smaller family numbers to the people.

From family planning, he moved on to sexually transmitted diseases (STD), especially with the rise of AIDS cases in Thailand. Meechai organised condom distribution campaigns among sex workers in the Bangkok’s red light areas and the use of condoms had helped check the rise of STDs in the country.

In between those works, he found time to write an autobiography and served in the government of interim Prime Minister Anand Panyarachun.

For his social works, Meechai Veeravaitaya was awarded the Ramon Magsaysay Award for community service.

When you think of Meechai, you cannot help but think of another icon from the 1980s. Singer Bob Geldof organised Live Aid to help the starving in Africa. Both men are special in their own way and you cannot help but be moved by the things they have accomplished.

They were ordinary human beings who went on to perform extraordinary things. Or maybe because of my upbringing I have only been conditioned to recognise saints when they are cloaked in religious robes.

The gold that lost its glitter

When it is possible for something to go wrong, it almost always will. I think that is how one version of Murphy’s Law goes. And this is no more so than when you work in a National Tourism Organisation (NTO). The bane for me has always been sports telecast. Whether it is World Cup soccer, the Olympics, the Asian Games or even the SEA Games. When the main events are being held, rest assured that I am always away from Kuala Lumpur and probably nowhere near a TV as well.

Take the opening game of the World Cup Finals staged for the first time in Asia when Senegal beat world champions France. I was somewhere on the Thai-Myanmar border. However, this time thanks to satellite and modern technology, I was able to catch the game at restaurant in a town called Maesot.

However, not so for most of the events at the last Olympic Games. Missed the 100m, 200m and all the metre events that mattered. Only consolation was that I did manage to catch some field events. Wasn’t the Russian pole vaulter nice to look at, by Russian women athlete standards or any standards for that matter. And to top it off, she could pole vault as well. Somewhere between her second jump and the medal presentation, I was head over heels in love. Well, actually the heels over the head part was hers. I was just madly in love.

I don’t know which was sadder. Not seeing her anymore or missing the marathon. Rushing back to the hotel room somewhere in north Thailand, after making sure a group of journalists on a familiarisation trip have had their dinner, I managed to catch the tail end of the event. And something was not quite right the way the commentators were going on and on. Only much later was I to discover what had happened.

Usually by the time the marathon was held, much of the excitement would have died down. After all we would have known which country would likely be the overall champion after a haul of gold medals.

However, somehow the marathon had always held a strange fascination for me. Maybe because out of all the events at the Olympics, the one that seem to test the limit of human endurance the most is the marathon. (The cute ones just pole vaults). But having never been a long distance runner even in much younger days, I must admit that the deduction does not come from first hand experience but more from acquaintances who have been brave enough to attempt running the marathon when we still have such a thing as the KL International Marathon locally.

Still, I have always enjoyed watching the marathon. There is nothing like seeing a marathon runner coming into the stadium to complete his race to bring a lump to my throat, regardless of whether he is coming in first or last. This scene of an injured marathon runner in a long forgotten race, literally hobbling in to thunderous applause from a whole stadium some hours after the others have completed, has always haunted me. For the race is not over until the last man has crossed the finish line. I do not remember the runner’s name, nor do I remember which country he represented. But I remembered shedding a tear for this man’s courage and sportsmanship.

But not so after watching parts of the replay of the marathon at the last Olympics, which was to bring the curtain down on the Athens Games. I could not help feeling cheated because of one deranged act of a defrocked priest. Without him rushing out of the crowd and pushing race leader Vanderlei de Lima off the road, it can still be argued that eventual winner Stefano Baldini of Italy may eventually overtake the Brazilian. But the disruption certainly meant that his rhythm was upset and he finally would not win gold and had to settle for just the bronze after being overtaken not just by the Italian but also by American Meb Keflezighi.

The International Olympic Committee was quick to correct any perceived injustice by presenting de Lima with the Pierre de Coubertin Medal “for exceptional demonstration of fair play and Olympic values”. Good for them.

As for Mr Baldini, I could not help feeling a little sorry for him. He may have won the gold medal, but he will never be a true champion in at least one person’s eyes. In an age where some sportsmen and sportswomen cheat just to get their hands on a gold medal, maybe it was too much to ask him to give up his gold medal. After all, he did win it squarely even if it was debatable whether it was fairly. The IOC deemed it unnecessary to give a duplicate gold medal to de Lima despite the fact that the Brazilian Olympic Committee put forward a strong case about the lack of security on the streets where the marathon was run. That, of course, is for the Court of Arbitration for Sports to decide.

What no committee could have done to right any injustice could have been done by Mr Baldini himself. He could have learned a thing or two about true sportsmanship from his countryman, the late Olympian and bobsled driver, Eugenio Monti.

Here permit me to quote an article that appeared some two years ago in the USA Today:

When the 1964 Olympic Winter Games in Innsbruck opened, the clear favorites in the four-man Bobsled event were the hometown Austrians and the Italians. Experts gave the Canadians an outside chance. But something magical happened. Canada 1 broke the Olympic record in the first heat and had a half-second lead on the rest of the field. But on that record setting first run there had been a problem. The Canadians went into the last turn too fast and the sled hit the ice wall and went up on two runners. The accident damaged the sled axle. If it were not fixed the Canadians would be disqualified.Eugenio Monti and his Italian team did not want to win unless they raced against the best and the best were competing on equal terms. Fifteen minutes before Canada's next run, Victor Emery reached the top of the track to find his sled upside down. The Italians had it torn apart. The collision with the wall had caused Canada 1's axle to seize. Monti's mechanics were doing their best to fix it. With Monti's help, Canada 1 was able to race and hold on to its lead. By the fourth and final run, they were so far ahead only a disaster would keep them from the gold medal. When the Canadians came to a stop, it was clear no one was going to catch them. The gold medal was theirs. In the end, Italy's Eugenio Monti and his team received the bronze medal.This is only the beginning of a great story.In the two-man Bobsled event, Tony Nash of Great Britain, after his first run, recorded the fastest time. A bolt attaching the runners to the shell had sheared.

Eugenio Monti, who was about to steer the Italian number one sled down the track said, "Get an Englishman and a spanner to the finish and they can have my bolt."

True to his word and ignoring inquiries from mystified Italian journalists, the bolt was ferried back up to the start and quickly attached to the British bobsled. In the end, Tony Nash and Robin Dixon of Great Britain took home the gold and Eugenio Monti again had to settle for just the bronze. But in the process he became the first recipient of the "Pierre de Coubertin" Award for Fair Play.Monti was viciously criticized in the Italian press but he was steadfast.

"Nash didn't win because I gave him the bolt," he said. "He won because he had the fastest run.

"Every real competitor wants to win but Olympic medallist John Naber says, "A true sportsman, who understands the Olympic ideal, wants to win against his best opponent on his best day. So the sportsman is not elated but disappointed when top competitors are injured or disqualified.”

As a follow up, Eugenio Monti won the gold medal at the 1968 Winter Olympics in BOTH the two-man and four-man Bobsled events. But it was his willingness to lose that earned him a prominent place in Olympic history. His act represents sportsmanship at its best: the pursuit of victory with zeal and passion, recognising that there is no true victory without honor.

Today, parents and coaches should be teaching youngsters that the real glory of sport is in the striving, not the winning. With so many athletes willing to cheat or behave badly just to win, we need reminders of the noble potential of sport. Eugenio Monti and his Italian team represent everything that is important in life. We must not only give the best of ourselves, but also give the best to everyone around us.

No one in our competitive world tries to lose intentionally. Nor do we take pleasure in giving away our chance for success to someone else. It’s the rare person who will help another if it means they have to decelerate their own upward climb.

Yes, go for the gold. But on your climb to the top, take a moment and seize any opportunity to applaude your rival. Who knows? Your encouragement could spark your challenger to improve their skills and set their sights on higher goals.

If he was in Mr Baldini’s shoes, I think there would have been very little doubt what Mr Monti would have done. But as it is, Mr Baldini is just another sportsman making up the statistics of gold medal winners in the history of the Olympic Games. Sadly, he was a step away from greatness but failed to take the final leap and will only be remembered if he is ever remembered at all, as the man who won gold through the misguided hands of a fallen angel.

Time to give up smoking

“We would be landing shortly at Phuket International Airport. Please put your seats upright and continue smoking as usual.”

At least that was what I had imagined the cabin crew saying as I slowly stirred from my slumber. Well what the cabin crew really said was just “put your seat upright”. Anyway we smokers can always dream on, can’t we? Most especially in a nicotine-deprived state of mind. It must have been one of the longest period of time that I had been without a cigarette, not counting the time I gave up cigarettes for four years, that is.

Frequent flyers from 20 years ago would probably look back with fond memories to the time we were still allowed to smoke in airplanes, both short haul and long haul. Those were the days when smokers still have some rights before the whole thing was overturned and the rights of non-smokers not to breathe second-hand smoke took precedence over that of smokers to pollute the air. And before the non-smokers brigade take up arms and come looking for the writer to snuff him out, rest assured that this is by no means a campaign for the rights of smokers. Far from that. Like the second class citizens that we are in most parts of the world, we have long ago resigned ourselves to being treated like outcastes whenever we light up, whether at the office or sometimes in our homes as well.

Anyway, this particular incident happened on a flight between Sydney and Bangkok, with stopovers in Melbourne and Phuket. I had my last puff outside the airport terminal in Sydney, hoping to catch another cigarette or two in Melbourne before our next stop in Phuket. But it seems Melbourne or Melbourne Airport authorities are indeed serious about getting smokers to give up the habit. During the hour or so stopover, every possible direction that I went in search of a smoking room was an exercise in futility. Which brings me to the conclusion that in the food chain, we smokers rank even below drug addicts, especially in Melbourne. How do you explain the fact that the toilets in Melbourne Airport have places for addicts to dispose of their syringes after they have pumped their system full with whatever it is that addicts pump their system full with. Wait a minute. Maybe the containers were there for diabetics to dispose of their needles after giving themselves their insulin injections. Yeah, right!

But I must admit that being forced to breathe untainted air for a change was not all that bad. Almost made you think you could actually kick the nasty habit. At least until we reached Phuket, that is. I was among the first passengers off the plane. Others can go check out the toilets. We shall go check out the air quality in the smoking room. And indeed there were a few like-minded souls like I who instinctively know just where to go although at five in the morning our sense of direction should have been way off. One unlucky gentleman in fact did find out the hard way, mistaking the glass wall for a door. He must have thought the Phuket Airport authorities were playing a cruel joke by providing a smoking room with no doors. But other smokers soon pointed him in the right direction before he started tearing whatever was left of his hair out.

As most reformed smokers can testify, if you give up the habit, what else is there to do but eat. And eat non stop. Anything you can lay your hands on. This is compounded by the fact that on such long haul flights the cabin crew seem to be feeding you non-stop. It’s eat, sleep, eat some more, sleep again and eat again. Somewhere in between there is a hot or cold towel to keep you sufficiently awake to know which side of the spoon to use. And somewhere in between the female flight attendants had gotten out of their traditional Thai costumes and squeezed into a purple blouse and skirt. I think they are just trying to fool you into thinking it is a different set of people who are feeding you this time around.

And if you ever wonder where all the food the go, I will let you on to a little secret. It’s actually to your feet, which somehow grow to one and half times your shoe size. It does not matter what yoga position you try to put yourself into to counter the swelling. Your feet will not return to their original size in a while yet. If nothing else, the experience kind of make you understand and sympathise a bit more the next time women talk about water retention and stuff.

--ends—

(The writer in fact took a break from smoking three years after writing this)