Black Sand Beach and Basalt Cliffs of Vik

For lunch (fried pasta; we cooked almost every meal in order to save some money) we stopped over at Vik, famous for the black sand and basalt columns that fringe its coastline. We'd been to Tulamben in Bali the previous year, also known for its black beach, but that had turned out to be more pebbly than anything else, so Vik remained a curiosity that we just had to visit in Iceland.

Climbing on the basalt columns ended up being quite an exercise in futility. None of us, tired from two weeks of intensive activities and wobbly from the strong sea wind, made it up more than three levels from the ground. It was a source of great puzzlement to see a bunch of little kids perched high above us. I put it down to a childish lack of fear - certainly as I get older I've become a lot more convinced of my mortality. But that's a more philosophical topic than this post warrants.

We also spent an inordinate amount of time trying to take pictures of puffins. There were flocks of them bobbing on the waves, playing hide-and-seek between the dancing sparks of reflected sunlight. Overhead, they motored frenetically through the air, dogged by screaming gulls.

All in all, a very peaceful day quite out of character for us!

London

London isn't a particularly sexy city - but then, I've never been attracted to cities. They are always too busy, too jarring, and there is invariably a certain sameness that threads its way through the streets and blinks down at you from lurid storefronts, no matter which part of the world you are at.

Still, London does have its own charms. The weather as you'd expect isn't one of them.

What is, is the juxtaposition of architectural styles evident everywhere downtown. While I'm no expert on architecture, I can appreciate how these old buildings were repurposed and carefully maintained through the ages. There is a staggering amount of detail everywhere you look, each a vestige of bygone days.

On our last day there, we took a long walk from our hotel at Victoria to Borough Market, passing by the Eye and Big Ben.

There was a most pleasing paella and salted beef sandwich at the Market, but by far the best memory I have is of the buskers along the promenade. There were sand sculptors, limbo dancers, rock bands, and even a violinist in an acoustically perfect underpass. It was virtually impossible to be bored. A weirdly artificial mint soft serve did temper the enthusiasm for a while, but a group of Ethiopians dancing to a feverish tempo quickly brought the mood back up.

Everest Region (Khumbu) Trek: from Kathmandu to Lukla

It is our third day in Nepal, and we are still in Kathmandu.

For two days high winds have caused our flights to Lukla, entry point to the Everest Base Camp circuit, to be cancelled.

We have spent hours sitting in the airport's main hall waiting in vain for the check-in desks to open. Twice, we received our boarding passes and were allowed into the departure lounge, only to be turned away after three hours. We even made it to the tarmac once. But we're relatively lucky - we hear about a flight that turned back to Kathmandu after the winds prevented it from landing at Lukla.

But Luck too has its limits. Today is the last possible day for us to fly out. Any later and there simply won't be enough time for us to complete the trek. Already we are down to seven days - to ascend more than 2.5km in vertical height.

After lunch, the announcement is made through word of mouth: no flights to Lukla today.



A ripple of frustration and disappointment runs through the swarm of trekkers. Some have been waiting for over a week, and in the dusty city of Kathmandu, where it has been irrepressibly sunny and windless, it is difficult to comprehend why flights are repeatedly cancelled.

At the end of the hall, someone stirs.

He is sitting beneath a placard that reads in bold Helicopter Flightseeing - an option we are aware of, but have been trying to avoid because of the price.

It takes a bit of coordination, negotiation, and persuasion, but soon I round up enough trekkers to charter a helicopter. The decision is made.

Finally, we are going to Lukla.

Twenty-First

For a lot of people, turning twenty-one is a pretty big deal. They start planning their parties months before the actual day, and scrimp on their meals so that every cent they have can go towards making their parties all the more fabulous.

For most of my life I thought I wanted a huge party too. To be specific I wanted a marquee, preferably on a nice stretch of beach, where my guests would gather singing praises and bearing expensive gifts.

There are two rather large problems with this vision. First, I am a socially inept person who hates crowds. Second, I am unenviably poor and scarcely wont to spend my money on catered food for a hundred.

By mid-2009, hence, I had stopped dreaming about The Party That Would Put MTV To Shame. I started thinking about other ways I could celebrate my birthday. It had to be something special -- after all, it's the day commemorating everything about me me me.

Right when I was wallowing in all sorts of sinful, self-indulgent, narcissistic thoughts, something contrary crept into my head. Wait a minute, it went, other than the fact that you inevitably aged, I'm not sure you had much else to do with turning 21.

That's true, I answered (quite schizophrenically). It's always been my family that got me out of trouble, believed in me, clothed me (excessively), fed me (excessively as well), and tons more besides. If anything should be celebrated, it's their efforts.

So a week before my birthday, I set the gears of my wily plan in action. I told my family I hated cake and thus not to get it, then ordered a Sachertorte one from a restaurant.


On the day itself, after dinner, I got everyone to close their eyes while I made a speech and brought out the cake. Unfortunately I'm not someone who's good at talking about feelings, so the speech came out all awkward, and more funny than sincere. So I'm not sure if they got the gist of my speech, or that they understood where I was coming from, or how I really am thankful for everything they've done. They did demolish the cake though.

千面女郎

I walked past my mom's room as she was clipping on hair extensions, and laughed.

"不要笑，" she admonished. "我要当千面女郎."

She glanced at my blank face. (My brain works slower in Chinese.)

"一千两千的千," she explained.

Then the gears in my head clicked, and I began to laugh again. "不是啦，　是老千的千对吧!　不愧是千面女郎!"

My mom laughed for a bit, but as I walked away still giggling to myself, she called out, "其实哦，　女人化妆时也算是在骗人。用eyeliner把眼睛花大一点之类."

"噢，现在想攻击我了啊?" I challenged.

"不是啦," she said. "只是拿个比喻而已."

"世界那么多女人，　你就偏偏拿我当比喻?"

"因为你在我面前," she pointed out.

Day 7, Don Det

On day 7, I hop aboard a little minivan that will bring me and a bunch of other travellers to the Lao-Cambodia border. There are 4 Chinese nationals who I assume are a family, but later find out are government officials here on holiday; 3 Aussie boys who have been on the road for several months; and a Laotian policewoman who works for an NGO.

One of the Aussie boys is in an irritable mood because a Cambodian vendor earlier renegaded on a bargain over some bottled water. When he boards the minivan and realises there are more people than seats, he calls out to the driver, "Hey mate, there aren't any seatbelts back here!" I try to hide a laugh under my breath but he hears it, and from then on the ice is broken.

Besides being overloaded, the air-conditioning is also broken, and before we even pull out of the tiny town all of us are suffocating. The driver -- who initially told us to bear with it -- now decides to stop at a mechanic for some help. Nothing can be done however, and so a second minivan is dispatched to pick us up. We are now an hour and a half behind schedule -- and are still in Stung Treng.

Eventually we reach the border, a wide road with respective customs separated by 100metres of tarmac. The Cambodian custom officials want a bribe, but stupidly stamp our passports before asking for it, and the Aussie boys raise enough of an outrage that the officers hand them over dumbly.

The Laotians however, hold our passports hostage and lock themselves in little room. A stand-off ensues.

We first try to bargain with the officials, offering USD$2 for a group of 7 (a group of British travellers have joined us; the Chinese nationals are still stuck at the Cambodian side, trying to make a visa arrangement) instead of USD$2 per person. The officials of course, will have none of it, and jab violently at a sign that says Working hours: Monday to Friday, 10a.m. to 4p.m. Everything else overtime. It's Saturday today.

Up till now it's the Aussie boys who have been handling the anti-corruption tactics, but they're not making any headway and it's my turn to try my luck.

I step up to the glass panel.

The official looks up at me smarmily and points at the sign.

"I have to pay?" I feign ignorance.

He nods. "2 dollars."

"Why?" Failing to get my way I am at least going to make him sound stupid.

"Overtime."

"Doesn't your company pay you? Maybe you should talk to someone about that." The people behind me laugh, and that infuriates the official enough that he slams the glass window shut.

Okay -- that definitely did not go according to plan.

We sit aimlessly outside the cabin for an hour. The Aussie boys spew vulgarities, try to sneak into the room (someone inside yanks the door shut violently), and try on the leather shoes left at the door. Occasionally one of us wanders up to the glass window and attempts to persuade, but all efforts are in vain.

Suddenly the Chinese nationals trot up to the cabin, all looking as pleased as can be. "We got our visas for USD$2 each," they said gleefully in Chinese.

The Aussies and Brits are shocked. They paid USD$40 each for theirs at their respective embassies.

The Chinese nationals' joy is shortlived however -- the Laotian officials refuse to let them through, saying that the visas are invalid. Neither side understands the other's language, and I am dragged into their skirmish as an underqualified translator.

I spend a good hour running back and forth between the Cambodian and Laotian offices, relaying each side's messages, while the Chinese nationals stand in a huddle looking confused, the Aussies and Brits look on in faint curiosity, and the officials in nothing more than self-interest. The Cambodians and Laotians refuse to talk to each other, citing political reasons as an excuse, and are perfectly content to wait in the shade while I jog the 100metres there and back, and there and back, and there and back.

Eventually, with the help of the Laotian policewoman and some well-placed bribes, the Chinese nationals get their passports stamped and officially enter Lao. I am much too tired to continue the stand-off, and cough up the US$2 to get my own passport back.

(Note that in that hour and a half we are there, the officials must have stamped at least 60 passports at a rate of USD$2 each.)

As the official slides my passport back across the counter, he winks and wets his lips. "No hard feelings?" he says with an oily smile. "Can I shake your hand?"

We finally get to Ban Nakasang, where a boat is waiting to take us to Don Det. There, I bid farewell to the lovely Laotian policewoman and the Chinese nationals (who collectively give me a bottle of mineral water by way of thanks), and climb into the longboat with the Aussie boys. It is a rickety old boat that has seats caked with mud. We are not given lifejackets.

"So what do you aim to be in future?" one of the boys asked.

"Rich man's wife?" I answer (if you know me, you know that is my standard response).

Everyone laughs, but just then an identically rickety longboat zooms past us, and everyone on it has a lifejacket on. We all agree that my rich husband is probably on that VIP boat.

At Don Det it becomes apparent that I'm sort of part of the group. We all check into a guesthouse called Mr. Mo's that overlooks the river -- not that it's particularly scenic, being the brownest, muddiest body of water I've ever seen.

My room too, is a sordid Lilliputian one -- the wall facing the river is constructed of wooden bars; the floor's planks do not fit neatly, with gaps you have to be careful not to drop things into; the bed has no pillows or sheets. The bed is also pushed into a corner of the room, leaving a foot of space on each of the two remaining sides. There is nothing else I can complain about because, literally, there is nothing else in the room.

Still, I am game for the experience and rather sadistically think it may be fun, so I dump my bag in a corner and head down for some cycling with the boys.

We decide to cycle to Li Phee Falls on Don Khon, an island linked to Don Det by a bridge. Unfortunately the country roads are so rocky and bumpy -- I have no idea how some people can make it look a complete breeze to cycle down one of them -- that after I become airborne off of a large rock and throw up from a combination of doxycycline and motion sickness, I wave the boys off and return to my room.

This is my second day without food, and having just thrown up for the third time in 2 days, I feel utterly miserable. I even curl up on my bed and shed a few tears.

(At this point, I have to say I am so grateful to Michelle, Ser Kheng and my family, for going all out to help me in spite of the distance. They helped me check flight details for the journey back to Singapore, and kept my spirits up as I ranted over the phone. Even if they were busy, they made time for me. In times of crisis (I consider it a crisis anyway) you find out who your real friends are, and I can truly say I owe so much to these wonderful people.)

My brain kicks in before too much of the self-pitying takes place. I've always considered myself to be mentally strong, and that little lapse leaves me feeling ashamed and angry. Even if I'm not in the best physical state, I'll be damned if I sit around and mope.

I pick up my rucksack and set out on foot for the waterfalls -- no more cycling for me.

The route takes me along some of the most scenic landscapes I've seen since the start of my trip. Unfortunately, I have a crappy camera.







The Laotians are also a heck of a lot more genuine than the Cambodians, with everyone greeting you and striking up conversation as you pass.

Random Laotian who asked me to take a photo of him

It is definitely one of the more relaxing walks I've ever been on, though it does take me an impressive 3 and a half hours to get back to my guesthouse. Also, the Li Phee Falls is in no uncertain terms, not worth the effort to get there.

For a waterfall that is allegedly the largest in South East Asia, it is decidedly unimpressive.

I take an obligatory photo to show that I have indeed been there, chat a little with a Frenchman with a DSLR, then quickly turn back. It's a long walk I have ahead of me, and I'm rushing to beat the sunset -- there is no electricity on the island, and I don't want to traverse the countryside in the dark for fear of falling into the river. Or, for that matter, stepping on lurking cowpats.

Sunset over padi fields

When I do reach my room, I'm mud-splattered and a thunderstorm has just started. The bathroom is some distance away down an uncovered dirt road, so I hop into bed muddy and prepare myself for a very cold night.

On death

A three-way conversation between Mum, Greg and I on the topic of death:

"Oh yea," I recalled, "you want to be incinerated and then have your ashes strewn in the sea, right?"

"Incinerated?" Mum balked.

"Yea, like I get a metal pail and burn you there right? Save money."

"The fire won't be strong enough!" she protested. "What if there's an arm or a head left-over?"

"So you want your entire body thrown into the sea just like that?" I smirked.

"No la... bring me to the church and cremate me properly. They have some sort of a casket service."

"Such a waste of money! Caskets cost a few thousand dollars, and then you burn it right up."

"Get a cheap one," Mum shrugged.

"You can throw me straight into the fire, I won't mind. In fact I'd prefer that." I said.

"Cannot la," Greg suddenly chimed in. "At least wrap in newspaper."

"No!" Mum said, horrified. "You'll get ink all over. Then what a waste of the make-up!"

Insert a short, contemplative silence.

"Actually, no need to put make-up on me," Mum said thoughtfully.

"What, you don't want your favourite purple eyeliner?"

"No need, my eyes will be closed anyway."

"Hm. I want a push-up bra and a girdle. Just push and squeeze whatever there is available."

Mum laughed. "Wear tight clothes. Sexy clothes."

"Mind you shave my legs!"

"Don't," Greg snorted. "Leave the hair, it'll help burn faster."

"Shave armpits then."

Mum concluded with arguably the best line of the night, "Aiyah, when you're dead you won't be spreading your arms anymore!"

To get away from the gloom of not-studying, I went for a little cycle around my estate. Or what I consider my estate, but which is really anywhere I can get to in a reasonable amount of time. The world being my oyster and all that.

It was a pleasant surprise to find out that there are some rather scenic spots around. Of course, you often have to squint, be specific about the way you're angling your camera, or block out the surrounding buildings with one hand, but for the most part, these spots do exist. I'm talking low-rise buildings too. Felt almost like another country, really.

As in the aftermath of most exams, I end up feeling acutely aware of my stupidity.

Stark contrast to the me in my favourite childhood story, the one my dad loves retelling:

(Mind you, I was already a geek back then, bespectacled and lugging books everywhere.)

Preschool teacher: Class, what's this colour?

Class, collectively and enthusiastically: Blue!!

4 year old me, precociously: No!

Preschool teacher: Hm? It is blue.

Me, insistently: No, it's navy blue. And the other one is sky blue.

Preschool teacher: zOMG.

Life was a lot easier when expectations were lower. For now, it's back to burning the midnight oil.

For hygenic reasons, as well as to spare us the hassle of daily groomings, my dogs are shaved periodically.

For the most part my Dad has been the one in charge of the shearing. Recently however he developed some back problems, and the task thus fell into my reluctant hands.

Now I've always thought it was a waste to shave off all their fur. Shih Tzus are supposed to have luxurious coats; without them, my dogs look bug-eyed and gormless. Yet leaving the fur on wasn't an option, primarily because my dogs are filthy creatures who enjoy sitting in their own waste.

So, I thought, why not get creative?

After some (10 seconds) deliberation, I decided to give one of my lucky dogs --

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A doggy mohawk!!

A mane of fur all the way from the head (though I left him bangs) to the tail. Looks a bit llama-ish now, but in a cute way.

So punky.

I think the next time I'll do horizontal stripes.

My mum's newest toy is a karaoke machine that makes my hair stand.

After a particularly scary verse, mum said, and I quote, "Hoooo. Must remember to breathe when singing."

Mum: *accidentally tips bowl of food into the sink* Oops.

Me: *laughs hysterically*

Mum: Aiyah, if the sink's clean I can eat from it. But I haven't washed it in a few days... oh! The fish didn't touch the sink! Can still eat!

Me: *still laughing hysterically*

Ten seconds later, while Mum's cleaning up:

Me: *accidentally drops bowl of food into sink*

Mum: *laughs hysterically* We are in the same boat!

Me: :((

A few days ago my brother and I were bumming around at home, when we happened to spot a weird cloud formation somewhere behind Eastpoint.

Being the geeks we are, we got out our binoculars and tried to figure out what it was. Not having seen anything like this before, we couldn't arrive at a definitive answer, but joked that it was a tornado.

Turns out, it really was one.

My photos don't even do it justice; snapped them only in the last 30 seconds before it vanished. To the best of my estimation skills, we watched it for about 5 minutes, and it must have been there some time before that.

Pretty neat!

My dad ate 8 packets of seasoning because he thought they were vitamin powder. Apparently, when my mom pointed out which drawer they were in, his short-sightedness got him a little confused.

We're hoping his hair doesn't start falling out.

The newest member of the family...

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Much to the chagrin of The Boyfriend, I decided to name the 2-week-old hamster Lord Farquhar. Initially I'd thought it was a very hamster-y sort of name, but looking at the pretty little ball of fur now, I'm not very sure.

The naming went something like this:

Me: I'm going to call it Lord Farquhar.
The Boyfriend: What?!?!?! No! Can you pick something a little less retarded?
Me: Like what?
The Boyfriend: Mighty Max.
Me: NO. That's so uncreative can!
The Boyfriend: Better than Lord Farquhar!
Me: Okay, let's compromise. How about Lord Maximillian Farquhar the Mighty?

In the end, I won in a hand of Scissors, Paper, Stone. :D So the hamster is now stuck with the name Lord Farquhar. The Boyfriend says he's going to get a second one and call it Mighty Max, but if I get my way with it I'm gonna call it Count Dracula.

Dad, being in a particularly spendthrift mood yesterday, dragged me over to Starhub and got me this gorgeous new phone:


!!!!!! (as in, words can't express my exhilaration.)

This is after half a year of using a phone with a spoilt volume control (that my mother didn't want and thus gave to me); before that, another hand-me-down from my Mom; and before that, the Nokia 8250, which is pretty damn prehistoric.

So this is the first time I've got a phone that I actually like from the onset, not one I have to let grow on me. How novel and exciting, haha.

Can't help thinking phones are a bit too extravagant and a waste of money though -- hundreds of dollars for a bit of shiny metal and over-the-top features I probably won't use? In that vein I was arguing against getting that phone yesterday, but Dad knocked me out with a club and got me the phone anyway.

Woo! One thing off my wishlist now; if you want to know what else is on it, I'll be glad to let you know, what with my birthday barely a week away.