randomcolette

Streamlining the Facebook experience...

2007-12-11T19:05:00.000+11:00

I design websites, but my Facebook homepage is a disgrace. 30 screens to scroll through, useless information and no focus. The curiosity factor has led to this - I just have to find out - EVERYTHING - particularly when the process will take five minutes. So here is the first in a series of Facebook streamlining ventures - I can’t bear to throw out the information, just in case it becomes useful, and perhaps one of my friends will suddenly have a desperate urge to discover what colour I am (red) or what Sex in the City character I most relate to. And no, it’s not Samantha. Perhaps these quizzes, dreamed by procrastinating university students or rapacious marketing executives, aren’t as robust as in the Dolly magazines of my youth. No, wait. They are!

As a child, I desperately trawled these sorts through astrology, palmistry and personality quizzes trying to find a sense of who I was. Nothing about the way I behaved or felt seemed fixed, everything seemed open. I didn’t experience any strong emotions. Now I know that flexibility is one of my strongest personality features and that my first reaction to anything is never emotional, despite how dramatic I can later become. Very dramatic, for those in the know.

So there is no need for me to do these quizzes, but some part of me - childish and irrational - still hopes that as a composite, they create a person, a tangibility that may be lacking when you simply do nothing.

Of course, by taking these quizzes (when I should be working), I am doing nothing. I’d best hide the evidence in this blog - a blog that no one reads…

Happy quizzing!

And now for the results:

Which vegetable are you?
Colette Corr is mange toute
You’re an all-or-nothing person. People have to take you for what you are or give up entirely. You’re not called semi-mange, after all.

What Superhero Are You?
I’m “Spiderman”!
You are a crossbreed of hero and nerd. Although a fine superhero, this is not the line of work you are really interested in. You want to be an artist and lover. But to be fair, if you really didn’t want to be a superhero, you probably shouldn’t have let yourself get bitten by that radioactive spider.

What Band Member Are You?
I’m “The Singer”!
You’re the glamorous one in your group, and you were born to be in front of an audience. You get to look at that gorgeous face in the mirror every five minutes - why shouldn’t everyone else? You may want to break free from your friends at times, but you shouldn’t - no one will ever appreciate you as much as they do. Besides, beauty gets old fast, you sexy beast.

What Kind of Lover are You?
I’m “The Flirt”!
You’re playful in bed - you have the somewhat unique ability to realize that sex is fun. Which is good because you didn’t freak out when your partner farted that one time. Sometimes you tease, sometimes you go right at it - but your style differs depending on the mood you’re in, and how boring your partner is. And you probably have tried some toys.

What [Whom] is Your Ideal Lover?
I need “The Flirt”!
When it comes to all things, you want fun. You want someone who can make you moan and laugh at the same time. Your ideal lover has no trouble role-playing, whether it’s as common as the naughty nurse or as ridiculous as a Star Wars character. And someone in the relationship has got an awfully big light saber.

The Brain Game”
I AM RIGHT BRAINED !
Right brained people tend to be subjective, creative, intuitive and holistic.
Here are some famous right-brainers: William Shakespeare, Mozart, Pablo Picasso

What Sex and the City Character are you?
I’m “Samantha Jones”!
You are bold, spontaneous and liberated. You do what you want, when you want, and who you want. Your life is all about what you make it. Not everyone has the courage to start a successful business or go up to the hottest guy in the bar. But that’s why people are attracted to you. Your larger than life persona gives you the ability to negotiate all things, right down to ‘your place or mine’?

What Color Are You?
I’m Red
The color of romance and emotion - you sure know a thing or two about passion. While often associated with anger, you represent the truth in human emotion. You stand for blood, fire and power. While even considered a major symbol of good luck in Oriental cultures, you symbolize leadership and valor - power that cannot be easily conquered.

The Political Compass
Political Compass for Colette Corr
Economic Left/Right: -6.25 Social Libertarian/Authoritarian: -5.44

Picture Personality
Temperament: Cosmopolitan
When you wake up in the morning, you set out to impress and to make a lasting impression on those who you encounter. You surround yourself with all the right people and right things - making you a real trendsetter. Others admire and want to be just like you. Second best will not do - it’s the best (and only the best) for you. You are attentive to detail in yourself, your surroundings and your social circle.

Interests: Simple
You are continually pursuing a simpler and less complicated life - you don’t allow yourself to fall victim to all of the “should do’s” that society continually bombards you with. You are thoughtful about your life choices and think in terms of yourself, others and the world in which we live. You have a great sense that we are part of something much bigger and we must be good to others, if we want others and the world to be good to us.

Amusement: Thoughtful
You are easily stressed out and overwhelmed - you need to take care of yourself first and foremost. Because you tend to be self reflective, you know your limits quite well and must remember to not exceed those limits. When you overwhelm your life with obligations and responsibilities, you tend to shut down and go into yourself even further. Take some time to find your serenity and kick back your feet.

Passion: Traditional
Your notions about romance are viewed as unrealistic by many, but don’t let that stop you. When you think of romance, you think of huge gestures of commitment, sacrifice and love like we see in the movies. Flowers, chocolate, and wine are just some of the ways to your heart. You want to feel loved and treasured by your partner and you expect to be courted, admired and hotly pursued. You long for old fashioned dating.

Coming Home...

2006-10-20T01:11:00.000+10:00

Yes, it’s true. I’ll be arriving back in Australia on November 6 for the first time in 17 months.

As I write this, I am listening to my favourite track by my band du jour, All These Things That I’ve Done by The Killers. It reminds me of the moment in movies when the protagonist realises exactly what they have to do (they call it Plot Point 2 in the screenwriting biz.). And so your hero(ine) is off running for the plane, making some declaration of love, or the ultimate sacrifice, getting it exactly right...after being an annoying clutz or an evil Svengali for most of the film.

Finally, after months of indecision, everything has crystallised. Typically, it’s because of good career news (more later, folks, I promise) and now I’m sure of what I want to do and how to do it. Instead of procrastination, I’m pitching articles and firing off my resume around the globe, applying for really interesting jobs, confident that, on paper at least, I’m pretty damn spunky.

And then there are all the things I have done since I left home. I have amazed myself: seen the worst and the best of what I can be...not that I’m telling ;-)

Dammit, I’m genuinely bilingual now. A couple days ago, I had my first bureaucratic argument in German on the phone...something that’s difficult (or at least stressful) in my native language. Imagine, those evil overlords were going to put me on a 36-hour flight without giving me anything to eat. Gluten-free food is not difficult to prepare, and I think the poor stewards and stewardesses would have seen a very unpleasant side of my personality had I not been successful in getting my point across.

OK, so I’m not actually staying in Australia that long. It’s looking likely that I’ll be back in Berlin or Bonn in January, freezing, freezing January. But I haven’t figured out everything in Germany, and then there’s Europe. I’ve got my eye on that too. I’m in the process of analysing pretty much everything here...pulling a people apart through examining what they eat, how they talk, how they treat the disenfranchised, employer-employee relations and more. In the meantime, I’ve gotta see you guys. In particular my Swiss-Italian housemate, Elia, who’s can’t stop talking of the ten months he recently spent there, has been reminding me of how truly awesome my home country is.

And what loyal friends I have. I’ve been gone a long time, and you’re staying in touch, there for me. I’ve known some of you for 16 years, and it’s still kicking, thanks to Skype, Yahoo Messenger and email. And there’s my family. Even though my poor mother has cancer, she’s still willing for me to read my articles out to her over the phone and give me feedback before I send them to my editor. As for JC, maybe you understand me better than anyone...sometimes, at least.

So I invite everyone to one of the first things I’ll do when I get off the plane (after a helluva lot of sleep, naturally). Come with me to Balas in St Kilda. Get take-away from the bain marie, because it’s the only place I’ve ever been to where the bain marie food is better. Ah, the mystery of Balas. I’ll be getting the Red Pumpkin Curry, of course, but knock yourself out...pick whatever you like. It’s cheap, because I’ve been going there since I was a student. And first we’ll walk down Acland Street, past the traditional Jewish bakeries, the Hungarian eatery, the Italian diner where the mafia do business (my friend told me, and she used to waitress there...so it MUST be true!), indie and emerging designer clothing stores, the felafel shop where they give out free samples...yum!, and where the beautiful and interesting mix with prostitutes and druggies in jaywalking languidly across the road. Man, that is one of the most annoying streets to drive down in Melbourne! If it aint the tram, then you have some space cadet transvestite wearing a mixture of Prada and vintage over moonboots standing in the middle of the road while you toot your horn eyeing you, “What? You wanna drive down MY street!”

So after we’ve squizzed at Luna Park and the most famous image of Melbourne, and reflected on the irony of juxtaposing it with the MacDonalds across the road, we get back to our takeaway, and head on to the beach, a two-minute walk away.

And then, sit, watch the joggers and the bladers going along the path, the sea, the beach, and eat our dinner as the sun sets. It is truly one of the most beautiful things to do in Melbourne, and very simple. And Bourke Street, is it still that mixture of ugliness and centrality and comfort that I remember? I once spent hours having a discussion about prom dresses and John Hughes outside Mariana Hardwick (the dress shop that every teenage girl dreams of patronising) with my friend Hell. As for Brunswick Street, I have watched her grow, probably spending half my life there, after I gave my allegiance to Fitzroy, the suburb that is just that little more me than anywhere in Melbourne.

But really, Fitzroy is the home of the bourgeousie now, and so maybe I’ll head one suburb north to Northcote, the Melbourne equivalent of Kreuzberg, where I’m now staying in Berlin.

To finish, I’ll attempt to compare Melbourne to Berlin. For starters, if you’re from inner-city Melbourne and dress that way, people will think you’re a Berliner. The gig might be up once you start talking, though, so why not pretend to be mute? People keep on asking me for directions here, and half the time I’m lost anyway, so it’s kind of embarrassing.

Here’s my thoughts on the correlations between districts in Berlin and Melbourne (feel free to dispute this, it’s in development):

Hackesche Markt : St. Kilda, Prahran
Mitte : Carlton, South Yarra
Prenzlauer Berg : Fitzroy
Kreuzberg : Northcote
Potsdam : Belgrave (more in the figurative than the literal sense)
Spandau : Doncaster.

OK, so I don’t miss Doncaster. Not one bit.

See you soon! CC

Immersion

2006-09-13T06:02:00.000+10:00

Sorry, folks, for leaving the last posting on a cliffhanger. And thanks for all the emails! It was lovely to hear from you.

I´ve got very limited time...I´m supposed to be revising the Nebensatz and participle phrases and other horrid things that you don´t want to know about...so I´m skipping ahead with the story.

There are so many things about my last five weeks in Germany that I want to write about, beginning with my bewildered response to the engineering here...where even opening a window began as a cultural challenge.

Or the overall societal angst about recycling, which really is a much trickier business than in Australia, and certainly Vietnam. Not to mention the ubiquitous Pfand, the deposit you give over for a plate or cup or almost always a drink bottle.

As for obeying traffic lights, you can actually get fined for jaywalking in this country, and littering, or posting rubbish in a random skip is verboten. These were some of the things that overwhelmed me when I first arrived in Berlin, along with the kindness of strangers and the observance of queue etiquette.

Not to mention the language. After an uncomfortable flight from Bangkok, I had a stopover in Frankfurt and was thrilled to find that I could understand all the airport announcements. I never managed that in Vietnamese. But I think that was a little "freebie" to show me a possible future, if I made the effort. As I settled into Berlin, and profound culture shock, I was disappointed at the slowness with which I was embracing German. I surprised my host in Berlin, Constantin, with my reluctance to speak, my shyness...as well as myself. Yet gradually, the quietitude of Germany became familiar, and I became a little bolder.

After two weeks, I left Berlin for Saarbrücken, in central southern Germany, which is where my immersion in the language also began.

When I arrived at Sabine´s house in rural Alsting, near Saarbrücken, I knew this was going to be a very different experience from Berlin. Sabine is very extroverted, so I went from just hanging with Constantin or wandering around museums to living in a "drop in" centre. Guests over for breakfast, a bottomless pot of coffee, candles burning on the table, the stereo churning out Buddha Bar 24/7...and progressing through to the night with wine, wine and more wine...it was kind of amazing, but really overwhelming. Just about everything was in German, a lot of it dialect. Talking in German seemed to require about three times as much energy as talking in English for me, and I wasn´t advanced enough to be a very interesting conversationalist. All I did was learn German, speak German, sit around while other people spoke German, and then be alone with my thoughts...in English.

But I´ve been overwhelmed for most of the time since I left Australia, kind of like the character Paul Giamatti plays in the film Duets. He tells his disinterested wife that he´s going out for a packet of cigarettes, and meets a woman in a karaoke bar who gives him a bottle of beta blockers. After just one tablet, he´s forgotten all his fears and is up there singing. He then wins the competition and goes on this momentous road trip...cigarettes all forgotten.

So, basically, I´m on beta blockers. There are no more "shoulds", not too many anyway.

Back in Alsting, Sabine suggested that I take the next month-long intensive German course at her university. That was three weeks ago. I began revising immediately and now I´ve been attending the course for 9 days. I can´t begin to describe how incredible it is. I have surpassed my wildest expectations, and I had aimed very high.

As I have only had 8 weeks of formal study since school (where I had little interest), and merely learned German phrases from friends, my standards are all over the place. While conversation, understanding and phonetics are my strengths, I need to build up my vocabulary and my grammar is very poor. Because of that, I was placed in the upper level basic class. But this week they moved me up two classes! OH MY GOD! Upper level intermediate sentence construction is achingly difficult, particularly when you never cared to learn German grammar until a week ago.

But I don´t know if I´ve been ever so hungry for anything, so I´m actually falling on the rules with delight...I´ve been "faking it" with grammar for ages, and I´m exhausted. While German, like Germany, is blessedly logical. And in one month, I´ve progressed from being afraid to speak to supermarket checkout operators, to understanding a film without English subtitles, to making friends without speaking English, to writing and translating poetry, to translating between German and English - lots of people at university can only speak one of them, to using the present perfect and genitive correctly in conversation, to writing my first error-free email, to...and even then I´m horribly, desperately far away from being fluent.

However I have achieved the first of my goals with the language: to be able to learn from talking with people. I´m so comfortable now with German that I don´t even notice I´m speaking it...right up until that moment not so long into the conversation when I can´t find the word.

Fleeing Vietnam...

2006-08-29T21:38:00.000+10:00

Ah, yes, I’m in Germany. Well, technically in what my friend Karyn calls "German France". I´ll explain that later. Some of you might not know that I´m no longer in Vietnam, seeing as how I left in such an undignified hurry.

(Christmas lunch at Koto)

The disquiet started months ago, of course. Back in December, when all my close friends had returned home for Christmas. It´s the nastiest time to be in Hanoi, when the cold bites into your bones, particularly on a motorbike. While your skin is dry, your body still feels the damp. The blankets and clothes are, as always, moist and mould continues to grow on your shoes. Meanwhile you´re stuck in a high ceilinged house with stone floors and no insulation, shivering in front of a small radiator. And alone!

(With Michele on Christmas Day)

So I spent Christmas Day with friendly acquaintances...although I did get one precious visitor – Sabine – who flew in from Thailand for New Year´s. Amid this I remembered that I had another 18 months to go, in a job that filled me with moral disquiet. In a country that I had very ambiguous feelings about. I didn´t HATE Vietnam the way I did when I first arrived – but because there are so many horrid things that happen here amid the brilliant connections and self-discoveries – it was a love/hate relationship.

(Why do so many Westerners eat less meat in Vietnam? It´s a mystery!)

However, December and January were the months where my Vietnamese really began to take off. I´d given up learning German, and there were less opportunities to speak English. Life became a little easier and I felt slightly less alien.

And Hanoi, with the rest of my contract stretched before me, became the only existence I could remember. It reminded me of this kundalini meditation I did on a retreat in my home state of Victoria when I was 19. It was winter in the mountains, and we had to get up at 6am and shower outside...in the snow. Well there was a bit of snow, anyways – we´re not used to that kind of thing in Australia. And then after this, the meditation. The kundalini is the serpent coiled at the base of your spine in Hindu spirituality. It is the base chakra, red, which governs sex and rebirth and primal energy.

Not that we were “getting jiggy with it”, I promise you. It´s all about getting the flow of blood through the body and stimulating the mind. As I´m already sufficiently alert, this meant that after meditation I was like a cat chasing its tail.

Anyway, the “active” meditation basically involved jumping up and down to music for 40 minutes. Well after about 20 minutes of jumping, you did some free-form dancing, and then...some more jumping. I don´t know if any of you have done something like this, but for me, it was as if I´d been jumping all my life. After a while, the activity became inevitable. This became what I was, all I was. I couldn´t remember anything else. It makes sense: I´ve always been intoxicated by the present. It´s the only thing that protects me from worrying about the future.

So Hanoi became all that I remembered, and leaving it was not even an option.

(With my arch-nemesis, MSG)
Fast-forward four months, to April. January and February were pretty chill, thanks to a 3½-week trip through Laos and Cambodia. But once the bliss of my journey wore off, I began to feel trapped. My new housemate, Nancy, told me that I didn´t have to stay in Vietnam if I wasn´t happy, that I could break my contract. What was I getting out of the experience?

Professionally, I needed to stay a year at Radio Voice of Vietnam, which brought me up to June 27. Personally, my writing was blooming thanks to being a country where the native language was not English, and due to being kind of...miserable. Not that life sucked completely. But I was over the expat culture, and not terribly interested in Vietnamese culture. I wasn´t inspired by the art, the music, I was allergic to the food. My hair was far more unhappy than the rest of me, and I was beginning to get really ticked off that I´d sacrificed what Nancy described as my “Rapunzel hair” to propagate propaganda and be harassed by hawkers and sleazy xe om drivers who were desperate to marry my passport. To always be an object, for despite how much language I learned, I would never be more than a “thing” in Vietnam.

(Celebrating my birthday at the Barracuda Bar - in true expat style)

Even driving through Hanoi at 3 am in the morning after a tankful of Cuba Libras with my best friends du jour, all of us revelling in our relative youth and beauty, was really getting stale. In Australia, let´s be honest, would I go to a place like the Barracuda Bar? Uh uh uh. It´s way too Kuta. But in Hanoi, that was it. So you´d go, weekend after weekend, and be thrilled to see your pals that you only saw at the club and had little in common with, and drink beer (which I don´t even like) and dance to “Gasolina” and tracks by the Black Eyed Peas. That was it. That was as good as life got.

OK, what actually was better were the long discussions with my friends, the writing workshops we ran, where we talked about all the challenges and lessons that Vietnam had to offer us.

But as Suzi said, if I didn´t have a specific lesson to learn from Vietnam, then why was I there?

(The essential Suzi: spontaneous, eccentric and very, very opinionated)

At the end of April, burned out from working very long hours, I went to Thailand to celebrate Suzi´s birthday. The poor thing was stuck there for six weeks trying to get a work visa and return to Hanoi. As expats living in Vietnam know, visas are getting more difficult to obtain, but Suzi´s case really is the worst I know of.

As always with Suzi, our several days on Ko Samet and in what Australians call “Bangers” were intense, but creatively rewarding. We shared confessions, wrote dirty little stories, swam and argued with equal enthusiasm. And I returned home hoping that I could, once again, be inspired by Hanoi.

Coffee, Tarot and Buon Dua Le (Gossip)

2006-04-09T04:30:00.000+10:00

It's been ages since I wrote, since that wonderful holiday that brought me back to myself again.

Now, I am Hanoi, or what I think Hanoi is, once more.

And I'm feeling the tiredness that used to define me in Australia. Where the day felt like torture, like all I was was work. Sucking in the coffee, sluicing up the green tea, keeping myself awake with imported chocolate.

It's all temporary, of course. My commitments have just been met, I've decided to push myself less, the old "do nothing" mission. And in a couple of days, I'll detox, feed myself some Vina chocolate - it's so unpleasant that I didn't have a craving for three months after I had my first piece. Swap the caf with the decaf, and suddenly everything will be under control again.

So now you know why I haven't been in touch. There have been a few very nice moments recently, although, staying up all night chatting with my Viet Kieu housemates, all social sciences academics. They've actually read Foucault, and not the comic strip version, like me. But my excuse is that I am a professional generalist, or at least, a dilettante.

Besides the buen xe lay, I've also enjoyed the odd reading with the Siamese tarot deck I bought in Bangkok. My friend Suzi loved it so much, this deck that is a gorgeous fusion of Oriental symbolism into a filing cabinet of Occidental mysticism. So I gave her a deck of her own, and we are both honing our skills.

Tarot is most useful when you want to understand the present, rather than predict the future. After all, do you really need to know the future, or just identify what is best for you to do to advance your goals? I believe in self-determination, so the future changes. It is far too slippery for us to grasp until it is past.

And considering how adept we are at lying to ourselves, even understanding the present can be difficult. That's where tarot comes in. It's also a great cure for writers' block, particularly if you're not sure how to advance the plot. My re-embrace of tarot in Hanoi, after years of post-university scepticism, coincided with the end of my writers' block. But was it just a coincidence?

I've been reading tarot, on and off, mostly off, since I was 13. Working at Camberwell market, doing my best to ignore customers, the little Goth girl that I was. Thinking it was cool to live in black, as soon as I could get rid of my deliberately tattered school uniform. And coffee, dark and minimalist, was the only accessory I needed.

Despite working at my father's bookstall at the market, I hadn't yet discovered Emily Dickinson or Sylvia Plath. I partially subverted cliche by combining a fondness for Jean Cocteau and Francoise Sagan with shoplifted Sweet High Novels. The latter is a terribly shaming admission on many levels.

I'm a little prouder of the tarot story, one of many of the interesting things that happened over the five years I worked at Camberwell Market.

As soon as I hit my teens, I devleloped a curiosity for the arcane, which my atheist parents encouraged. I read whatever I could find: Castaneda's "The Teachings of Don Juan", Linda Goodman's Sun Signs, and many books about astrology, numerology and palmistry - shallow or otherwise.

I was so hungry for something to make sense, I guess, but I didn't make sense of any of it at the same time. Until I was around 20, I only had a very tenuous sense of self, and astrology helped fill in the gaps. I am a good example of my sun sign, Gemini, and I often wonder if all that reading influenced me away from who I was. Persona-wise, yes. But I am essentially still the same person I was when I was six years old, before I got worried about the world.

My introduction to tarot was an example of a significant encounter with a stranger. You know, how you discover a new concept or learn to forgive your worst enemy after a random conversation with an oddly wise street sweeper.

My father, who ran the Camberwell Market book stall, came back from his brunch break with a tarot book for me, "78 Degrees of Wisdom" by Rachel Pollack. "It was only 50 cents," he said, the woman was surprised that someone so young would be curious about tarot". Half an hour later she came to the stall. I briefly remember that she was plump and tall, with dark, longish wavy hair, wearing burgundy velvet. In hindsight, she looked very "tarot". She had olive skin and alive dark eyes and she carried her tarot cards wrapped in wine-coloured silk.

"I've been looking for someone to give these cards to," she said.
"Why?"
"Because you must be given your tarot cards, you mustn't buy them yourself." I was surprised at this. Although I was interested in tarot, I knew nothing about it.
"You must keep them on the silk," she told me, as I unwrapped the Rider-Waite deck. "Otherwise you'll lose the energy."

And it's true for me; the only reason why tarot works is that you build up energy through meditating on the cards. The ancient symbols are a wonderful conduit to naturalistic meditation, and each of the 78 scenarios capture an essential aspect of life. We can learn so much from them, as humans can from myths, psychology and other disciplines which explore life through archetypal encounters.

I want to thank that anonymous woman. Not only did she introduce me to a wonderful tool for self-development and creativity, her kindness helped me learn to be generous myself.

For more information about the tarot, check out a review of the tarot books I learned to read from: 78 Degrees of Wisdom (Books 1 and 2), by Rachel Pollack at http://www.aeclectic.net/tarot/books/78-degrees-of-wisdom/

The Real Me – The OC

2006-04-09T04:23:00.000+10:00

26 February 2006

(Lara, Clint and Athalia at the Barracuda Bar)

Yesterday’s purposeless and entirely non work-related TV binge was exactly the type of night I used to indulge in back in Australia. The kind I thought I’d left behind.

But recently I’ve been feeling sentimental. For all its apparent sophistication, Hanoi’s a fishbowl. The bars blur together, the beers flow too freely, the cocktails are rough and I can’t afford the wine. While the crowd’s good, they’re always the same.

It’s when I’m alone that I truly come alive. People are so wild and amazing that I can’t be with them all the time. They shine too brightly, they’re so random in the way that they interact. It’s an incredibly complex social ecosystem and when I’m in it, I’m pumped, drugged up on the things I’m seeing. When I was a kid, I didn’t breathe when I played piano. It was fine until I started playing longer compositions. One day I fainted in front of my teacher. I was so involved that I’d forgotten the basics of living.

So sometimes I just have to have those stupid Friday nights where you stay up till 5 in the morning watching Season 2 O.C. I mean I know it’s bad, Season 1 was much better. And although TCM (Traditional Chinese Medicine) told me that it was just a symptom of my imbalance that I liked to do stuff in an intense way – go without sleep, build a website from scratch in a week, watch 9 sun-kissed episodes in 24 hours – I’m starting to think it’s me. I’m an adrenalin junkie who just chooses to push herself in less apparent ways. I might not bungee jump, share needles or rob banks (yet), but there’s nothing like the thrill of a deadline, and the tighter the better. I do my best work that way. Afterwards my heart beats faster than its resting rate of 60 bpm. The Western doc says that’s too slow for a woman. So I guess I’m just trying to help. She also told me to get back on the “sauce” – my drug of choice, caffeine.

(Suzi and Madelaine - not at the Barracuda Bar)

So back in nerd-land, why do I feel so cool when I manage to get away with doing absolutely nothing? Wearing tasteless but extremely comfortable clothes, like too-short trakky dax, the bain marie of my long-legged existence. And a cardigan. I know there is a god because of the cardigan. And jewelled flip-flops, so my housemates don’t completely freak out, which also enables me to see my freshly painted toenails. Looking at my pink pinkies, with their Studio 54-inspired glitter stripe, helps me realise that I am in control and that the universe is not completely random.

As for teev snacks, I begin with scads of green tea and then scale back. There is a limit because I’ve hallucinated on it a few times – no more than 8 glasses. Peanuts, chilli tofu, sliced pineapple, maybe even chocolate but then we get back in the caffeine zone. Within three days, it’s ugly and I’m hooked. Don’t believe me? I’ve never met anyone else who was the subject of a coffee-related intervention (Miller Street, Fitzroy,1994).

Tonight it’s even better because we just got broadband Net and I’m getting over bronchitis (deathbed cough, OTT phlegm production), so I’ve got an excuse to cancel. Over the years I’ve found a lot of ways to be alone without hurting people, without them even realising what I’m doing.

(a slice of MTV)

It began at 13 with “homework”, which I didn’t even begin doing until university. But parents will let you off everything if they think you’re studying. What would I have become if I hadn’t have been lying, I wonder – a statistician? Then, in Indonesia, I faked illness to get some space, in a culture that traditionally doesn’t understand it. Having been a hack journalist over the past few years, I’ve always found that referring reverently to my writing is a good way to wriggle out of things. And it’s not like I’m lying, I probably will write something meaningless. And the imminent caress of solitude, or the approaching Zone, feel the same. That’s the writing zone, to which I have returned after years of exclusion. Yes, what I write has a purpose, but even the quality or topic isn’t as important as the journey.

(Teresa modelling Bia Halida, the beer of choice, given that Beer Lao is unavailable)

Sigh. And I want world peace. Nah, not really. That would be a slow news day.
But it would be wonderful if someday, people in the poorest nations had the time and income to indulge in that traditional Western luxury, navel-gazing. Cultures need time to reflect so that they can develop.

I’m not sure how watching the OC qualifies, but I know that the epiphany is approaching. Meanwhile, Seth, Captain Oats, and the ever-stoic Ryan await.

Xin Chao from Saigon

2006-04-09T04:21:00.000+10:00

(Maarten and Sarah)

18 February 2006

Yes, I know I should be calling it Ho Chi Minh City. Just in case I forget, the Vinas have established four (4) museums dedicated to him in the former American imperialist stronghold. And there's the Ho Chi Minh Park, plus numerous statues of him in the now familiar socialist realism style.

At the Ho Chi Minh Museum (as opposed to the Museum of Ho Chi Minh), I saw dozens of socialist realism posters released to celebrate the 115th anniversary of his birth on 19 May 2005. Obviously a big occasion.

There were also the carpentry tools used to build a memorial pagoda to him in his home Nghe An province on display. And a map of all the other HCM museums in the southern part of VN, complete with blinking lights.

I also learned some new information about the great man, which I had previously considered impossible. His impromptu boat trip to France and subsequent life as a waiter slash social dissident was particularly interesting. But in general, for everything you wanted to know about Uncle Ho but were too afraid to ask, just get a job at Radio Voice of Vietnam. He's always big news.

As my friend Chi Linh drove me around the wide streets of this modern young city, optomistic in the sunlight, I saw several warplanes out the front of other HCM museums. But I'd had enough education for one day.

After moping throughout December and January in the damp gloom of Hanoi, Saigon's beach holiday weather blissed me out. Just as in Thailand, Laos and, to a lesser extent, Cambodia, I could access mobile street stalls, with iced-up fresh-sliced fruit served to you in plastic bags with wooden skewers. The papaya was as sweet and smooth as you could imagine, and just 25 US cents a bag.

I also spent a little time gossiping in the street, with limited success due to my lamentable northern accent. The dialect here is more different than I had thought, so I've embarrassed myself a few times. But hey, as long as the world's laughing, you can at least IMAGINE it's laughing with you.

The food here is incredible. Saigon's like the sophisticated big sister to her brash, grubby kid brother Hanoi. Although there are some parts of Hanoi that are just exquisite, HCMC's far more sensibly planned. It feels roomy, even though it has a population of 7 million, double that of the northern capital.

And possibly due to the weather, HCMC citizens are a little more chilled out than their northern compatriots. Coming from the intense direct marketing appeals (i.e. begging) sent my way in Cambodia, I've been feeling downright snoozy here.

There's even places you can sit on the grass. And a strange park with dozens of abstract statues in marble dotted among trees all ringed with a one-meter bottom layer of white paint to keep pests away. In 1000 years, archeologists will be mystified by the disorderliness of the design, as were many of the locals in the park when I was there. But as a Westerner, I liked it.

As for the food? Dig in - it's certainly better value than Hanoi. I've had some delicious dishes here: crispy tofu squares stuffed with lemongrass and garlic, garnished with salad, chilli nuoc mam (fish sauce) and served on a bed of rice. The eateries just by the central market are a great value and a good opportunity to hobnob with the locals. It was there that I had the most tender beef since I've come to South East Asia, stir-fried with onion and capsicum. And just across from the Reunification Palace, there are some truly fancy places like Bunto (everything is bun), with prices that aren't so fancy.

I'm glad that the tailors are so cheap in VN, when the food is this good. It doesn't cost much to get your clothes adjusted!

Because I was ill (my 1000th case of bronchitis, probably due to the lack of Berocca in my life), I missed the Cu Chi tunnels. But I did get to wander the zoological gardens, fever and all.

At 50 US cents a person, it's a cheap day that includes entry to an attractive pagoda honouring the first king of Vietnam.

(The happiest kitty in Vietnam - the cat at Hanoi's Chim Sao restaurant - sitting in Chuck's lap)

While some animals were living it up - particularly the monkeys, some of whom weren't even in cages, others looked very unhappy. In VN, the cat is not honoured, so this was particularly noticed with the big cats. The happiest kitty I saw was the Small Indian cat - even though it had a tiny cage, it was perfectly happy to nap curled up in a hollow log. But it was awful to see the poor hydrophilic fishing cats in cages without a pond to splash in.

Better served were the elephants, who'd developed a dance to cadge chunks of sugar cane (available at 6.5 US cents per stick) from visitors. They swayed from side to side in unison and looked very well fed. At the childrens' zoo, the pigs and goats were yumming up the fresh bamboo leaves offered them. Although you occasionally see signs requesting that patrons not feed the animals, in Vietnam they are generally ignored.

Back in District 1, Backpacker Central, Chi Linh dropped me off, and I went off wandering in that dazed sort of way I am when ill (I used to get lost in supermarkets back in Oz), stopping off by my new papaya-retailing friend for supplies. And who did I meet? Maarten.

I felt someone prodding my shoulder, and there he was, all 6-foot tall ex-Roman soldier and Hanoi reprobate of him. It was cool, because I'd missed his send-off in Hanoi thanks to my little Indochinese jaunts. He was travelling with his brother and his brother's girlfriend, which was kind of weird, because last time he came up to my friend Sabine in Bangkok and did exactly the same poking sort of thing to her (really!), he was travelling with his aunts. Can't imagine travelling beyond Hanging Rock (in country Victoria) with my relatives.

So we had a beer, and lamented the lack of Beer Lao (with its incredible and slightly honeyed taste) in our lives. Then I went and collapsed in the guesthouse while the Dutch gang hit the 200000 VND Indian eatery I recommended. It's fiery hot, but there's nothing like a bit of fresh okra cooked up in a tomato-based curry.

And then I had the plane trip back to Hanoi, and work, to look forward to.

28 temples in one day - Angkor to the MAX!

2006-04-09T04:19:00.000+10:00

(Yes, photos of the Temples of Angkor are coming. Meanwhile, enjoy...Green Colette!)

16 February 2006

Yes I did it, and it was incredible. Kinda stupid, according to most, but unforgettable.

My reasoning? After speaking to many who had bought the three-day pass to the temples of Angkor, I heard a common thread - that after the first day, they were "templed out". People advised me to do one full day and two half days. But I thought, "Why not push myself, experience one intense day, and maybe go back another time?"

So I queued up late the previous afternoon, and got to experience sunset after a climb up to Phnom Bakheng. (You can get in for free after 5pm if you have a ticket for the following day.) This was the only time I took the advice of my moto driver, a gregarious Khmer named Elvis. The place was filled with at least 1000 tourists, and several bored elephants. So I fled to Angkor Wat, "Temple City", which is known to be less crowded at that time.

I've been a little cranky since I hit Cambodia, untimely dragged from a truly chilled out time in Laos. Even the wild nightlife and incredible food in Phnom Penh, and a few new friends, couldn't bring me out of my sulk, or cure me of beggar fatigue. With its curse of dual poverty and post-colonial decadence, Cambodia is not the place for a girl suffering from Hanoi overkill...

Madam, motorbike! (mimes driving)
Hello!
You buy fan?
moto!
Banana very cheap! please, please
...and so on

I love Hanoi, but it wears me down, particularly when the weather's cold and grey, yet still humid. And so polluted.

But Angkor Wat changed all that. I've only been to five countries other than my home in my life, but I've seen and felt incredible places. But the alienness, majesty and spirituality of Angkor Wat blew me away. I saw it by sunset and then returned the following morning on my mad 28-ruins-in-one-day quest…

05:30 – I meet my motodop driver, a new guy, "John", as the person I booked previously is now busy. He speaks very little English.

05:45 – Arrival at Angkor Wat. Many people are entering the grounds in the dark. But once I have gone down the walkway, through the moat and into the central complex, fearfully climbing the narrow steps, I look back. That’s when the hordes arrive – busloads of tour groups, expensive cameras ready to be misused. I have missed them by just 15 minutes. Every moment I see another exquisite shot, but there’s still not enough light. It’s starting to arrive, though, and I know the sunrise will surprise me.

I pray to Buddha at the request of the guard. I know it’s only my donation he wants, and I feel no immediate spiritual connection, but there’s something about saying a prayer at 6am on Valentine’s Day on top of the most amazing structure I have ever seen. I decide to be wise and ask for greater understanding.

As I await the full glory of sunrise, I see the full moon and the sun both burning in the sky at the same time.

And then the light is good, then great, and the only hurdle is avoiding the 100 or so photographers lurking in wait for the ultimate snapshot.

I walk through every doorway, entranced by the apsara carvings on the walls, which I want to touch, but don’t. I know the moisture on my hands will corrode them. There really should be signs here to dissuade me.

07:45am – I leave for Banteay Kdei, stopping off at the compact but photogenic 10th century Prasat Kravan on the way. The light at Banteay Kdei is ideal now and transfixes me, even though these late 12th to early 13th century ruins are less well preserved. Although they were built after Angkor Wat, a lower grade of sandstone was used in construction. The one-star "minor ruin" Srah Srang is just opposite, which I climb and to look over the lake it faces. It's easy to ignore the various postcard and trinket-selling children who are now active, as I have the space for 300 shots on my camera.

08:30 – Ta Phrom. With the exception of Angkor Wat, Ta Phrom is my heart’s favourite. It will fuel the scenes of a dozen unwritten novels, and will be as close as I ever get to being Lara Croft. And yes, she did shoot that forgettable film here. I overhear a guide telling the only tour group around that the trees pushing through the ruins are teak trees. Their bark almost shimmers.

That and the vines, the small dusty, dark-skinned hawker children, (who are not as aggressive as their Phnom Penh kin), are beyond what I could have imagined. It’s the perfect place to have breakfast – fresh quarters of pineapple I cut up the previous night, salted sunflower seeds and iced green tea bought from an overjoyed vendor. When I return to find John missing, she offers me a seat and even shoos away her scarf-selling pals to give me a moment’s peace. The Khmers are desperate for the tourist dollar, and harass you to pieces, but sometimes you can tell their heart’s not in it.

09:50 - John returns, a couple of minutes before I was about to give up on him and leg it to the next temple. My drink-selling buddy had already located an eager motorbike toting relative to do the deed. Poor John, apparently he hadn't had any breakfast.

10:20 - Pre Rup. A late 10th century temple mountain that has its own style named after it, Pre Rup is also where I start to get hot. The gentleness of the early sun has given way to the vigour of day, and I am far from the leafy coolness of Ta Phrom.

But it's worth climbing to the top of this, the state temple of Rajendravaman II, to admire the carved doors on the upper level. As I look over the vista, and the brilliant gold of the ruins are as stunning as the orange sunrise I once witnessed when flying over Western Australia.

10:50 - East Mebon. Also in the Pre Rup style, this is where I start to feel really hot. What gave me this dumb idea anyway? And where are the nearest hot springs? I settle for some tepid water, a lot of tepid water.

Although the free and very useful Canby guide to Siem Riep gives East Mebon two out of four stars, it just looks like a smaller version of Pre Rup to me. And I'm running low on memory stick space anyway. I do like walking through the ruined doors, however, and recognise that it's not East Mebon that's the problem, it's me.

11:15 - Ta Som. Yay! Something not in the Pre Rup style. I was starting to feel trapped in some sort of Cambodian Groundhog Day. It's Bayon, the same style as Ta Phrom, and has a few majestic trees growing from the ruins, including one from the eastern gate (gopura). After pointing out a few good angles to some girls from Hong Kong, and actually starting to remember that I studied photography, I meet an American enthusiast who gives me some really good tips.

He also tells me not to miss Bakong, which is part of the Roulos Group. Unfortunately I know I'm going to, as it's not part of the chosen 28 temples. But I'm also committed to returning to Siem Riep and taking my time to explore here, one day.

11:20. John is positively sulky when I insist on going to Krol Ko before heading to the next major ruin, Neak Pean. He pretends that he doesn't know where it is, and then that it doesn't exist. After I force him to go there, a full 200 metres out of the way, he asks for more money. As I am already paying slightly higher than the going rate, that one's a no.

I like one-star "minor ruins" like Krol Ko. Why? Because you can be alone there, and begin to wonder at all the things they've witnessed over the centuries. I'm much closer to feeling the magic in the silence here than I was even at Angkor Wat, tripping over camera cords and cursing the chattering tourists who were ruining my shots.

12:00 - Neak Pean. Disaster! My camera lens is not closing, instead making these hideous whirring noises like a strangled AI. I accost a British guy with a stonking great camera and ask him his advice:

"There's something stuck in your lens," he tells me. "Turn off the camera; you're just going to ruin the motor." Apparently I have to get it fixed by professionals, god knows where.

"Or you could just wait until it cools down tonight, and bang it," he suggests.

So no more photos. What am I going to do? How am I supposed to remember it all?

Thankfully, even though it's only a two-star ruin, Neak Pean is quite distinctive, and just the sort of place I'd like to have in my backyard if I were a princess.

Imagine what this late 12th century island Bayon-style temple would look like if I were here in the wet. A small, central temple is in the centre of a lotus pattern made up of eight pools, which are now grassed gardens. Each pool has an animal or human-headed spout, and it's a little cooler here, with plenty of places to stop and have a picnic.

12:30 - John is very keen on getting lunch, which I promise we'll stop for as soon as I get to Preah Khan, a three-star Bayon temple that's just two minor ruins away.

Meanwhile I check out Prasat Prei, a small pair of laterite towers just opposite, and Banteay Prei, a slightly larger construction that's nearby.

Also constructed in the Bayon style, Banteay Prei is completely isolated and I find a small room to escape the heat of the day in. Sitting gingerly on the rubble, and trying not to look at the wooden poles wedged overhead to prevent a cave-in, I begin fantasising about an icy cold Beer Lao. The first beer that I, a non-beer-drinker, loved, with its slight honeyed taste and canned perfection.

It is so hot.

Despite the thirst, Banteay Prei is as tranquil as the guide promised and I get a chance to reflect on life, and truly relax, spoiled somewhat by banging my head on the extra small door as I leave.

Oh well, at least the roof didn't cave in.

13:30 - Lunch at a divey fried rice cafe outside Preah Khan. At first they show me a tourist menu, which I reject. I'm not paying $2.50 USD for fried rice! Then, as I start to walk away, miraculously a "backpacker" menu appears, where the same dish costs $1.50. Fair cop, gov., as long as there's fish sauce.

13:50 - After locating a can of the local Angkor brew, I head to the leafy coolness of Preah Khan, "Sacred Sword", constructed yet again in my beloved Bayon style. There I stake out a ruined wall and lean against it, drinking and analysing the stone's mottled patterns.

It's a sprawling place, which was once home to a Buddhist monastery and school, and is now dotted with chunky middle-aged French tourists in white T-shirts and tennis caps.

But I can see beyond this, thanks to determinedly slowing down and attempting to digest my unpleasant lunch. I'm at least an hour behind schedule, but who cares?

When leaving, I give in and purchase souvenirs for the first time. A 10-year-old boy presses two Cambodian scarves, kramas, on me for $1. "If you don't buy, then I can't go to school, " he tells me. I believe him.

15:00 - Central Angkor Thom, "Great City". There are three hours before sunset and I can still make my deadline, like any journalist worth her inverted pyramid. Scanning the guide, I commit to seeing the Preah Pithu Group of five small temples, just because they are mainly neglected. Once these places were honoured and now they're ignored by tall Swedish backpackers. How depressing would it be for the ghosts of that place?

But first Tep Pranam, a long walkway that truly is a one-star ruin, but it does lead to an active Buddha shrine. A couple of Cambodian devotees nod genially at me as I approach.

Just behind is the Preah Palilay, a Bayon temple constructed in the late 12th or early 13th century. This is a delightful spot, and as tranquil as I could wish for. I'm really starting to look more closely at the carvings and the structures, the small doors and narrow steps dwarfed by high towers that you find at the temples of Angkor. It was all designed to intimidate humans, you know, make them aware of their mortality.

But I am running out of time and cannot stay as long as I would like, so I pass through the crumbling gate to the Royal Palace, of which very little remains. There is an algae-filled yet stately lake, however, into which I dip a toe and then regret. So what if I washed off the red dirt that was caked to my leg with sweat? Now my leg smells like pond scum and my sandal is slimy.

On to Phimeanakas, the King's temple. It's the highest construction in Angkor Throm so I scramble up the least accessible "steps" for a view, drenched with sweat. Standing and looking over this ancient city, I feel a little like Lawrence of Arabia pushing towards new frontiers. This indulgence reminds me that I lead a sheltered, pampered existence, despite the fact that I have no dishwasher or microwave back in Hanoi.

After consulting the guidebook, I cautiously climb down the better-preserved western staircase, bidding farewell to the golden tower atop the temple that, according to legend, was home to a serpent that transformed into a woman every night. The kings of Angkor had to make love with her every time to avoid disaster being wrought on them and their kingdom.

Up next is the extensive Baphuon, which is currently undergoing renovation and should be a real eye-opener once the public is allowed back in. At the moment, only the long walkway and part of the reclining Buddha at the rear are on view.

Saving the only other four-star ruin besides Angkor Wat, Bayon, for sunset, I make my way back to the other end of Angkor Thom via the delightful Terrace of the Elephants. It's easy to see how this 2.5-metre wide wall running in front of Baphuon and Phimeanakas has received its name - thousands of elephants are carved into the grey stone. Convoluted sets of steps remind me of my childhood obsessions with hedge mazes, and I methodically decide to traverse all of them. There's something anonymous about being here by myself, the irritating John banished for the next few hours. And there are relatively few tourists here as well - like everywhere else in Angkor, if you time it right, you can avoid those shopping centre crowds.

Squizzing at the more modest Terrace of the Leper King alongside, I then cross over and look at Prasat Suor Prasat, a series of twelve almost identical towers beginning opposite. Behind them is North Khleang, with its partner, South Khleang, a couple hundred metres away. It's close to 5pm now, and I know I should really be heading for Bayon, which shuts at 6pm, but I'm drawn to the Preah Pithu group. Comprised of five small temples, its isolation once again draws me into the past. Two monks take me to the saffron-robed Buddha at the top of the most impressive temple. But however much I want to stay, I must go to Bayon.

The Canby Guide writes, “If you see only two temples, Angkor Wat and Bayon should be the ones. And here I am racing towards the latter as red hot Cambodia begins to dull and cool and darken.

There’s no one there, as it’s not the best time to photograph Bayon. And it’s enormous. Magnificent. That’s where those serene faces on the tops of towers come from. I didn’t even know they were Cambodian. That’s what happens when all you read are globalisation treatises and chick lit novels.

They are incredible but I only have half an hour here. Well a little more, if you count me playing hide-and-seek with the guard after closing time. The first time we meet, I smile and pretend not to understand, then there’s a second time after I loop back into the centre for another look. I may never return here, as there are so many wonders I still have left to see.

But I don’t want there to be a third time, so I hang on the ruin’s outskirts after that, looking at apsaras, ignoring John who is waving at me.

Although I haven’t walked every corridor, or touched every rock here, it is enough. I have felt the place.

On the way back to Siem Riep, I stop off at Angkor Wat to see the sunset once more. This time, from opposite the moat, surrounded by picnicking Khmers and idle moto drivers. I did it, and I’ll remember it.

More information:

Map of Temples of Angkor - http://www.canbypublications.com/maps/templemap.htm

Map of Angkor Thom - http://www.art-and-archaeology.com/seasia/angkorthom/atmap.jpg

Wikipedia entry on the Temples of Angkor - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angkor#Sites

Life in Australia - a homage to clutter

2006-04-09T04:01:00.000+10:00

13 February 2006

(Or "we never do fly off to Rome on a moment's notice".)

In hindsight, the last few years of my life in Australia were characterised by not making the most of opportunities. I guess the rule is, when you work a lot, you have no time to go out, and when you don't you can't afford to. But somehow, with my business and my relationship choices, I got to experience being both poor and overworked.

When I finally got some more money, how did I spent it? On protein bars, DVDs and impulse shopping. Items I didn't need.

It started with Ikea, when I thought I'd met "the one" and we moved into a dump. I don't know if you'd called it nesting, perhaps it was simply trying to create a little comfort in my life. All I knew is I'd never bought a new piece of furniture, thanks to my pack rat mother and her passion for auctions, fetes, sales and op-shops. She collected and discarded with equal enthusiasm. I was always being offered doileys, towels, mismatched crockery sets, boxes of books, slightly chipped furniture that my cousin left behind when she went to India, that sort of thing. I'd only ever bought a desk and bookshelves - sigh! I'm a professional communicator, so anything about words gets me all gooey.

But in our one-bedroom flat, with its newly-painted concrete floors, and no built-in anything, space became an issue. My parents went wandering around Clifton Hill on hard rubbish day and came back with a pine kitchen cabinet. After Dad affixed a black melamine surface to it, it became the mainstay of the kitchen, and the only reaon why I didn't have to chop vegetables on the floor. The stove didn't work either, so I bought one at a garage sale for $20 AUD. Miraculously it worked, and gradually this home of sorts became a little more livable. My cousin donated two lounge suites to turn my bookshop cafe into a cosy space, and Dad began constructing bookshelves. Somehow, the bookshop that I impetuously decided to start to support myself and my partner while I worked towards that big break in radio, took shape.

A keen passion for government handouts, and the knowledge that most small businesses fail within the first year, led me to apply for the New Enterprise Initiative Scheme (NEIS). I'd been unemployed for less than a week when I was accepted. As we'd already signed the lease, the only course available within the required timeframe was in Dandenong - three hours by public transport, or a horrendous 90 minute drive. Mostly I took the train, at least I could read and relax.

NEIS offers a stipend while you set up the business, training in the form of a six-week small business management course, and mentoring. Theoretically it offered mentoring, at least. We opened, and I discovered pretty early on exactly how much I hated retail. The only good thing was my yoga classes over the road, and friends dropping in.

It's difficult to write about this time in my life, as I have never felt so trapped. Trapped in a house, a job, a relationship, with a constant barrage of eccentric, stingy customers. Even the contact with the customers I liked, of whom there were many, wore me out. But then there was Ikea, so life had its breezy moments. My destiny as a writer on hold - I was just too damn tired - I set out to create a little style in our limited living space. Entering the portals of the newly opened Richmond Ikea (the largest store in the Southern Hemisphere), I discovered a new passion for new household items.

After the first day, when I got lost and was only revived by a rare beef and potato salad and bottomless lemonade, I became a smarter shopper. At least I could find the way out. I invested in the Sten, build-your-own shelves, and a similarly groovily named loft double bed. But the bed was so wobbly it gave me vertigo and freaked the cat out. It's no longer available - thank "God"!

By the third visit, I was started to run out of things to buy. But the neatness of the place, perfectly groomed room after room, was drawing me into a vortex of homogenated desire. Was it OK just to go to the cafeteria? Aren't people supposed to hate things like that? But when there's too much clutter in your, too many random emotional encounters, the sterility of a cafeteria and the predictability of its multinational food becomes a comfort. Something that's not available to me these days. It's time to talk about "The Comfort of Franchises".

Life in Australia - film critics I have known

2006-04-09T03:52:00.000+10:00

Saturday, 11 February 2006

It's been eight months and one day since I got on that plane to Hanoi. In that time, I've gone from being an exhausted, distracted workaholic, to a decadent, productive, functioning artist with an inspirational day job. The bookshop cafe I was involved in for two years back in Australia seems a distant memory. Everything they say about the stress of running a small business is true - I doubt I'll ever try it again in the West. Perhaps elsewhere; in Vietnam everything seems possible. Even in the face of police raids on bars and censorship at work, it's like a frontier here. My skills are in demand and I have something to offer. I've even been interviewed on radio about solutions to (the immense) traffic problems in Hanoi. Just because I have an drivers' licence, which in hindsight required rigorous study, I am now an expert.

Well it's not that simple. Occasionally I am an expert, particularly when it comes to things I don't need to know. Trivia competitions and the like. And I actually learned quite a bit when studying journalism, which comes in handy. These folks at VOV need my ruthlessness, skepticism, humour and passion for the fundamentals of journalism. That's right, I'm talking about the Who, What, When, Where, How and Why. You don't know how important these principles are until they are no longer applied: what should be news becomes chaos. And I want to create order.

Life in Australia...how do I remember it?

Very, very long working hours. The ecstatic buzz of live radio, uneasily combined with the mundanity of my day job. The coalface of website maintenance at the Department of Justice, mitigated somewhat by some of the best water cooler conversations ever. Man, I hit it off well with nerds. The amount of people sitting around me who not only had the same taste in movies, but also recognised the crucial importance of Pride and Predjudice (the 1995 BBC series with Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle, not that nightmarish Keira Knightley thing) was comforting.

And movies, that was pretty much all I did for a year. 20 hours a week watching them, observing the strange rituals of professional moviegoers and gradually being included in their exclusive circle. What a strange bunch they were. Philippa Hawker, all black and red Asian-style elegance, and surprisingly easy-going. Her kids got it good - they were hauled to many a PG-rated preview screening. Tom Ryan and his passion for punctuality. Many an usher or fuschia-clad PR were lambasted by him for never starting on time. It was annoying, but because they were almost always running late, it was also reliable. I don't think he'd like the public transport in SE Asia, which can run up to four hours late. At some stage, I'll have to tell you about my hellish 16-hour trip to Chiang Mai from Bangkok, third class. Third class doesn't sound appealing? There's a reason for that. Listen to your intuition.

(Ladan, Colette and Peter at The Victorian Department of Justice, late 2004)

Other characters around the scene included the ubiquitous, brash and badly-dressed Jim Schembri, who was also one of the shortest men I'd ever met (at the time - now I live in the land of the dwarves). A few years back, my hatred of his reviews in the Friday EG (Entertainment Guide) inspired me to enter the review business myself. I couldn't cope with him giving 1 1/2 stars to Shakespeare in Love and 4 stars to Air Force One. And many agreed with me; at that time, The Age weathered a letter campaign calling for his resignation. But since then, I'd written a few scathing theatre reviews by that stage myself and mellowed towards his writing. As a reviewer, he was useless. But as a writer, he was gifted, and definitely amusing. Considering how much I adore comedy, for me it's almost the same thing.

There was Adrian Martin, a reviewer's reviewer, to whom I was too scared to talk to. Whenever I read his articles, I remembered my lack of a major in media studies. With his wild curly hair, chunky black-rimmed glasses, and a laugh that sounded like a donkey braying, he added a certain amount of colour, not to mention credibility to our regular screenings.

And the location sometimes bordered on the decadent, particularly when slipping into a seat at Theatrette 606, in Toorak. It's part of a decaying sumptuous mansion which transports me to the 1930s. Now it's difficult to return to a regular cinema when you're used to the intimacy of a small screening space. Where a cough warrants a glare from an adjacent viewer, and if your mobile phone rang, you'd have to leave the city. I almost had nightmares about that, actually.

There were the old guard, some of whom had been in the biz for 20 years, and the satellites, the other reviewers for small papers radio stations and websites. So many of us were unpaid, but more than any other form of reviewing, film reviewing is a labour of love. I didn't mind too much, although my friends did so for me. And if I'd stayed in Australia, I would have found a way to get paid, simply because working 60 hours a week made me feel like I was dying.

Winter in Hanoi – Food and Football Hooligans

2006-04-09T03:44:00.000+10:00

Sunday, 4 December 2005

(Suzi, Lien and I, December 2005)

It started getting cold here a few weeks ago, when I returned from Thailand, but now winter has truly settled into Hanoi. Every night, I can wander around the streets and buy roasted potatoes (2000-3000 VND per piece), grilled or steamed corn (2000 per piece) or roasted chestnuts (3500-5000 per 100g). They roast chestnuts in a wok over a small cylindrical cast-iron brazier here. In the search for protein sources to replace eggs and chicken - which are no longer eaten here - I eat chestnuts every couple of days. There are a couple of places where you can buy certified avian flu-free eggs, but they are expensive and rare.

(Koto staff at Christmas lunch)

Yet we can still buy tropical fruits that have been trucked up from the south. Mangos, pineapples. dragonfruit, even tiny longan. I've also seen mangosteen (my favourite fruit), custard apples (my second fave) and rambutans. We can also get the more temperate fruits, such as passionfruit (a steal at 13000 VND per kg), tiny delicious mandarins, and strawberries (30000 VND per kg). My housemate and good friend Suzi, who has been coming to Vietnam regularly for the past 9 years, welcomed her parents on a 10-day trip to Vietnam on Friday. It was their first visit, and important to her, as Vietnam is so much part of her life. She hunted around for a variety of fruits for them to taste (some for the first time, even though they are from California). And we had a gluten free pancake gluten free to welcome them on Saturday :-)

(Christmas tree at Athalia, Maarten, Sarah and Tara's house 2005)

My other housemates, Lien and Jackie also attended, and we ate cinnamon and vanilla silver dollar pancakes (known as pikelets in Oz) with fruit salad, nutella and pomelo jam. We accompanied it with freshly brewed Vietnamese coffee, imported expensive pink grapefruit juice and banana smoothies. It was a lovely morning, and not too cold.

(dancing Koto staff member, Christmas day lunch)

The previous night, Hanoi had erupted in a frenzy of national pride as Vietnam advanced to the finals of the U23 mens soccer at the South East Asian Games, beating the Phillipines. People took to the streets on their motorbikes, cheering, waving flags (red with a yellow star in the middle) and trailing red banners and ribbons. Sitting at Dragonfly bar exploring the 205 cocktail menu with my Danish friend Mette, I was fairly well insulated from it all, although even we were scared to cross the road with so much traffic. But as other expats. came in, they complained of the incredibly long travel times, and showed me their wild photographs. It made Grand Final Night in Melbourne look incredibly tame. I got my camera ready for the final last night. But unfortunately Thailand (reigning champions for the past six years) won, so Hanoi was silent. But there'll be other matches, other festivals. There's always something going on in this town.

Crap Day In Chiang Mai

2006-04-09T03:04:00.000+10:00

(incomplete)

Sunday, 30 October 2005

There are no second class sleepers with fan available on the train to Chiang Mai that my friend is catching. Because I only have a few days left in the country, I figure “how bad can it be”, and book a third class seat.

1430: For the first few hours, the guard kindly lets me through to sit with Caitlin in second class, where tickets cost 500 Baht. Maybe I got a good deal out of this. There are plenty of empty seats; it looks like I can sleep here. I only paid 180 Baht for my seat, but it doesn’t look like I’ll need it.

1830: As the sky darkens and I take streaky pictures of the sunset through glass, the carriage is filling up. The attendant makes up top bunks for people, some of whom are already going to bed. I try and blend in. After all I’m “Farang” (a Caucasian), so it’s only natural for me to be in second class.

1930: As the guard attends to Caitlin’s bunk, I try to put a pillowcase on the lower bunk’s pillow, and he shakes his head and takes it off me. I pretend not to understand, but slowly I realise that third class awaits.

2030: I climb into my giant yellow backpack that’s filled with shoes from Konchanaburi, weird bottles of stuff from the pharmacy, and things I actually need. Once again I walk the length of the train to find Carriage 6. There’s only one Farang in third class, a tubby middle-aged man with a red nose who stares at me like I’m a thief.

Carriage six is not there! After Carriage 10, there’s a dining car. I’m sure I didn’t walk through this before. I would remember because a dining car makes me think of Agatha Christie and Hercule Poirot. No matter how many mundane dining cars I see, I’ll always think of them with slight awe.

(Caitlin in Chiang Mai)

So I backtrack. The carriages aren’t numbered like they might be in the West, although Thailand’s so much more organised than Vietnam, I had culture shock when I got off the plane. This tropical, developing, Buddhist South East Asian country overwhelmingly reminded me of home.

The tubby man eyes me with slightly less suspicion as I walk past him this time, probably because I’m doing a convincing impression of a lost tourist. The third time I walk past him, he asks me “Sprechen Sie Englisch?”
“Ja,” I reply.
“What are you looking for?”
“Carriage 6.” I scrabble for my ticket.
“Oh don’t worry about that. Just sit anywhere. There’s a seat free here.” He gestures towards the seat behind him.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Sawaidee from Thailand

2006-04-09T01:25:00.000+10:00

(Friday, 28 October 2005)

Thanks to my beloved Air Asia, I am in Thailand on holiday for 2 weeks. Budget airlines in Southeast Asia? Bring it on, particularly in the formerly closed markets of places like Vietnam and Laos, where foreigners used to get charged lunatic airfares. OK, sometimes it still happens in Laos.

It's great being a backpacker again, although I've just spent two days alone and didn't like it so much. The other times I've travelled alone (and loved it), there have been lots of people around, but it's off season in Kanchanaburi, and the only Westerners here are couples - either travellers, or sleazy old men with teenage Thai wives. Lovely.

But besides that, things are great. Finally bought a camera, so I can start sending photos back home. Thailand's also a lot more cruisy than Vietnam, and the people harass you MUCH less. It's cheaper to travel here than it is to live in Vietnam! I've had lots of fun buying goodies here that I can't get back home, like lip gloss, cute shoes made for Western feet, and essential oils. I even ate MacDonalds on the day I arrived - my first franchise food in more than four months. Yes MacDonalds are evil, and thanks to Eric Schlosser (Fast Food Nation) I know why their fries taste good, but to criticise something you've first got to understand it. I love that there are almost no fast food multinationals in VN - just the one Maccas in Saigon - but I got curious.

I've also marvelled at all these Western things that I'd forgotten about, like road laws, street signs, food hygiene...and more. Being in Bangkok was the closest to Australia I've been for more than four months. Although Thailand is quite different, particularly the Buddhism. It's is also the first country I've been in that I couldn't speak any of the language. Besides VN, I've only been to Indonesia, and basic Indo's pretty easy to pick up. But Thai looks like really pretty telephone doodles with a recurring theme of elephants to me. Never mind, the people are used to babysitting you if you get off the beaten track. And I'm able to make myself understood through pointing and smiles - I even pretended to be a chicken the other morning to get my breakfast fried rice. Stupid, really, as I've been to enough Thai restuarants in Australia to know that the word for chicken is gai. But when words fail me, as they frequently do, I have the use of a dodgy English-Thai phrasebook (which didn't have the word for "bus" in it, although it does thoughtfully translate "Ostriches like to put their heads into the sand".)

Today I had a Thai massage (vanilla, mind you, nothing saucy), cycled to the Jeath (Japan, England, Australia, America, Thailand, Holland) museum which gives you all this information about the construction of the bridge over the River Kwai. It was amazing, and it was amazing cycling too. I never learned, you see, and then had 20 minutes in Hoi An (Vietnam) to learn, until the bike broke down. I also spent a couple of hours organising finances back home. I'm expecting a cheque and apparently it went into the wrong account. Oh God, what an ordeal, but I think it's OK now. Went on a little shopping spree in Bangkok you see. Had to buy lipgloss for all my housemates, and more for me :-) And one or two things besides.

I also changed rooms from the most primitive accomodation I've ever stayed in. Got in late last night and was too stuffed to look for something better. J Guesthouse in Konchanaburi...buyer beware. It is only 50 Baht (US $1.25), but you'd best spend more. I felt guilty leaving because the woman running the place was really nice, but...imagine a room constructed from low quality packing board built on a raft in an area of the River Kwai that is full of pretty green moss and water lillies and the highest concentration of mosquitoes I've ever been exposed to. There was a window cut in the packing board, an elderly mosquito net, and a tired single mattress resting atop the same packing board, which had been built on a raised level to hold the mattress. All of this was illuminated by a dim bare lightglobe, but if you looked closely, the packing board had a couple of small holes in it, so that you could look through it to the dank river below. Oh, and the bathroom had no light in it at night and the toilet had no seat. It was the worst place I've ever slept in, except for the second-class sleeper train I took to Hoi An. Did I ever tell you the story? All you need know is that the sheets had hair on them. Lots of black hair. And that the roof was around 20 from my head when lying down. The loud and distorted Vietnamese folk music coming on at 5am was particularly poignant. It would take a lot to surpass that particular train ride.

The place I'm staying in now (Backpacker's Haven, 100 Baht per night), is really nice. I'm enjoying playing with the two cats there who, like their Thai kindred, are well-fed. You see pet shops everywhere. And although dogs are more popular, cats are pets here. The things they do to cats in Vietnam, it's very depressing. At the street kitchen in Hanoi where I get my morning omelette, there's the nicest tabby that's tied to a tree by a string less than a metre long. It's a sweet cat, but dreadfully unhappy, and there's nothing I can do. Although now that Mia has disappeared (yes disappeared, we think she/he was kidnapped), maybe I could buy the cat off them. Mia has been gone for around 10 days now, and my (Vietnamese) housemate Lien said that it's quite common for drug addicts to steal cats and sell them at the market. Even though they only get a few thousand VND for them (maybe $1-2 AUD). We hope that if Mia's been stolen, that he'll be sold as a pet. He's so cute and still very tiny, you see, even though he's 5 months old.

But back to Thaiand, and I'm looking forward to tomorrow when my friend Sabine gets in. We are going to do a Thai cooking course, and go bathing with elephants. I know it's touristy, but at least the jumbos are getting fed. There's also hot springs, which I like to check out everywhere I go.

LATER: I went to those hot springs, and my group was the only lot of Westerners there. The other three hung in the super-hot pool, while I mooched around in the medium-hot pool with a couple dozen Thais. We all agreed that oufr pool was the best temperature. It was a public holiday, so everyone was there and they were in a good mood. Language was no barrier, we just chatted away - hey, I know ten phrases now. They were a bit bemused by my swimsuit, however. Although, as a one-piece, it's not terribly vixenish, it's a lot more revealing than knee-length shorts and baggy t-shirts, which all the other women were bathing in. One chubby toddler gave my shoulders a good poke, fascinated by the freckles I guess.

Now it's back to the backpacker shtick - next stop Chiang Mai via the ubiquitous Bangers.

Destination: Vietnam

2006-04-09T01:24:00.000+10:00

(Hanois AVIs - Australian Volunteers International - lunching with Australian Ambassador Bill Tweddell and his wife Chris, November 2005)

(Tuesday, 27 September 2005)

In December 2004 I came across an exciting job advertisement looking for a radio professional to work in Vietnam. There were several reasons why I was trawling the Australian Volunteers International (AVI) website. I wanted to travel. I wanted to work in broadcasting. I knew I needed to make a break, that my life had become stale. I was really beginning to feel trapped (see a forthcoming entry, "Life in Australia"). I had started getting very fussy about things like matching crockery and going to Ikea. I was spending way too much on DVDs. Basically, I was forgetting myself in the minutae of mundane existence. And I thought, "hey, I can do that anywhere, not just in Australia!". Actually I hoped my life would change, and it has. Not through Amway, or love (my romantic prospects look pretty grim in Vietnam), or healthy living. But through a true revolution of the soul.

Basically, in Australia, I was way too detached. My head has always ruled my heart, and working in communications meant that I could be glib on as well as off the job. When I felt sad, most of the time I blamed it on a lack of protein. I was working 60 hours a week and not seeing enough of my friends. (I do have low blood sugar issues, but I can get upset for other reasons than needing a can of tuna. Man! I hate tuna now. I have eaten so much of it.)

I was seeing way too much of my parents. At the time, I was living behind a secondhand bookshop in a dismal one-bedroom apartment, and in general, was seeing way too much of everybody. Because I am so extroverted and merry with people, I need to spend a lot of time alone or I just keel over. No more living behind a shop for me.

I was free to leave, after 7 and a half years of relationships with people who either didn't like to travel, or didn't like to travel the same way as me. I like backpacking, going to little guesthouses, roughing it a little. I don't like hotels, they're so impersonal. I want to go to a country and stay for a little. When I'm on holiday, I combine "action days" (up at 7am for a full day and a self-geared itinerary) with "mellow days" - these are self-explanatory. I still feel guilty about having mellow days while on holiday, but I know that's only because I'm slightly eccentric about work.

I wanted to work in media, but had left it too late to go to Europe or Britain. And I applied for a job in New Zealand television, but they rejected me (did make a shortlist though). Plus there's not a huge cultural challenge there.

So Vietnam it was, and that impulsive decision demonstrates that I was the same person in Australia as I am now. But I just couldn't feel it. For some reason, heat, cheap beer, short working hours, and being overcharged for almost everything by avaricious locals were what was necessary for me to make the most of my life.

The friends I have here are amazing. But it's not just them, but me. In Vietnam, I am warm, direct, bold, successful. In Australia, my ineffectual behaviour was disguised by dependence on silly coffee in tall polystyrene cups (caramel latte, anyone?). No matter how bad life got, there was always sushi for lunch, the peacefulness of a bookstore or library, a long, decadent phone call with your best friend. The Saturday Age at your favourite cafe. I think it's time to talk about Life in Australia...

Guesthouse Adventures

2006-04-09T01:21:00.000+10:00

(Sunday, 26 June 2005)

The past two-and-a-half weeks have been, bluntly, insane! I have experienced so much, but now the pace is a little more sustainable.

Last time I mentioned the Lavender Hotel, where I stayed for the first five days. I don't know if it's too late for the next AVI victim (I mean arrival), but buyer beware. That place sucks! Not only is it pricey, at US$22 a night, but a rip-off as well. They charged me extra for water, the air-conditioner didn't work, they tried to pressure me into signing a one-month lease for US$300, saying they wouldn't fix the shower until I did so. I had to beg for toilet paper - even buying something like that is difficult, when you first arrive. But I escaped their evil clutches!

I was getting desperate to leave, going insane from the lack of air-conditioning. You really need aircon at night, particularly when you first arrive (and me from a Mellbourne winter). It's the second hottest month of the year, and even the locals have been complaining that it's unseasonably hot for Ha Noi.

After visiting a few share places, I found a house in Dong Da, an area not too far from where I work (about 15 minutes by bicycle), and not at all touristy. It's best to get out of the tourist district as soon as possible. The house wasn't available for five days, so I stayed at the Hanoi Backpackers, a new hostel run by two Australian-Vietnamese couples. Another AVI, Eddy, recommended it to me.

I had a great time there, and made a few new friends, although most of them have already left. Quite a few people there are working in Hanoi, but living there until they can find a house. Most of them are English teachers, and they sure like to party!

I've also adopted a cat...already. Her name's Mia, she's about 6 weeeks old, and extremely excitable. An English backpacker rescued her from some boys who were throwing rocks at her in a restaurant. It's a very a Vietnamese thing to do, trust me. So she took Mia back to the hostel, and an Australian girl called Miriam was going to take her. But one of Miriam's new housemates is allergic, so now I've got her. In Vietnam, unlike in Australia, cats are rat-catchers and very rarely pets. I've only seen two well-fed ones, and they were both owned by very Westernised Vietnamese. One of them is a cat at my favourite hang-out so far, the Bia Hoy in the northern part of Pho Dinh Lien.

Bia Hoy literally means beer corner. But more later, my co-workers are back from their staff meeting.

Arrival in Hanoi

2006-04-09T01:18:00.000+10:00

Friday, 10 June 2005

(Sarah modelling a gift from one of her students, a Ho Chi Minh decorative plate)

Well, things are quite different from how I imagined. I don't know how long this first entry will be because the net PC I'm working on keeps trying to autocomplete my writing in Vietnamese.

So far, I've started learning a little of the language, managed to cross the road without being killed several times, and have bought a mobile phone. I texted my brother from hanoi and it wasn't too pricey, but I don't know how much it is from Oz.

I'm going to spend my first month living at the Lavender Hotel in Hanoi, then get a shared house somewhere. The expat lifestyle is pretty wild here - I was out till 3am last night, and when I ordered a Vodka and Cranberry at this expat bar called Half Man Half Noodle (although I keep thinking of it as Half Man Half Dog), they gave me a Vodka and Campari instead. It was very difficult to drink!

Besides the endless offers of motorbike taxi hawkers, it's actually pretty chilled out in Vietnam - there's much less harassment than in Denpasar, for example. My French is already improving, as there are heaps of French expats, and the best TV channel is TV5 asie. It's a French cultural commentary station, quite academic - they actually interviewed a "pommeteur" (an apple expert), which a Belgian musician I met last night said does not exist.

I can't believe how much the expats smoke here too. They drink and party hard, and at the moment, police are cracking down on "social evils" and shutting the bars, either permanently or at midnight. There's a strange 'speakeasy' feel about some of the bars I've been to.

I'm starting to be able to use my phrasebook more confidently, but if anyone tells you everyone speaks English here, they have had a very sheltered Hanoi experience! Almost no one speaks English, except in the Old Quarter. Hai, at my hotel (near the Old quarter), is the best, but she only really started understanding me after I started writing her messages in very broken Vietnamese. I've found some gluten free food after some arduous shopping - peanuts, shrimp-flavoured rice cakes, and ham! Also the fruit here is just fantastic. I'm not quite sure what all the names are, but I like the fuschia-coloured artichoke-looking one with white flesh and black seeds inside (dragonfruit). V nice with lime juice!

Anyway, having a blast, finding my way around, and not even getting ripped off too much. I'm trying not to act like a sahib, although I did have an in-depth foot massage (including back and shoulders) yesterday for around $4.10 AUD.