Legend of a Cowgirl

The Weight of the World

2008-05-06T23:50:00.000-07:00

Today I rocked somebody's world. Not in the backslapping-ly jubilant 'you rock my world' kind of way. No, I think I managed to creak some one's high horse and dash some of their ill-founded security. And I don't feel at all bad or remorseful for having done it.

I was buttering my toast at work having - as always - run out of time to eat breakfast at home, when one of the trainers jocularly asked me if I wanted Vegemite with that.

Before I go further I need to explain a bit about my workplace.

For the last 5 years (almost 6) I have worked in the office of a training company. Generally speaking it is an excellent, though dull, place to work. I like nearly everybody I work with, and those I'm not so keen on rarely cause me grief, we are just never going to be besties. They accommodate me when I'm crampy and menstrual and on days when I am so bored with the work that spending hours surfing through Wikipedia is the only way to maintain my sanity. But there are some aspects of my workplace that result in me spending the bus ride home clenching my teeth and fretting that I've either been to harsh or too lenient (usually the latter) in confronting some of the day's events. To say that many of my colleagues' worldviews run contrary to mine is not only an understatement, it's assuming they can see beyond their own mortgages and plasma screens. Others upset and annoy me more because they do have an interest in the world, yet they allow their colleagues, and occasionally themselves, to indulge in some rather gross examples of bigotry. My days at work are peppered with moments of stomach-twisting racism that I almost always ignore, studiously turning my head the other way and pretending I can't hear their hate. Of course I am sure that the dozen or so times that I have voiced my disagreement or offence at their proclamations are well remembered by those who feel I have either ruined their fun, or brought the dreaded curse of political correctness into their world - my usual silent acquiescence to the majority culture of the office goes entirely unnoticed.

Back to breakfast.

This particular trainer is undeniably a nice man. He is also undeniably a stupid rube whose latent insecurity manifests by being either terrified or aggro towards anyone who isn't white, working class, heterosexual and slow witted. He bitches about all of 'The Asians' who are, I don't know, breathing his air, or some such offence. He once asked me to warn him if there are any women on the course (99+% of our students are men) and I am still not sure why. The man openly admits to 'getting chills' when he sees a Muslim name on his roll list. He also discusses 'The Jews' with the wariness of one who thinks that The Protocols of the Elders of Zion may not be a crack-pot theory kept alive by the overactive imagination of home-schooled hicks with more fingers than teeth. He doesn't say 'Jews are evil and fly to their SINagogues using the rendered fat of unbaptised Christian children as rocket fuel', but he does manage to make the word 'Jew' rhyme with 'Christ Killing Scum'. The latest in the Jewish comments occurred a couple of weeks ago and I made it very clear that I was unhappy. I thumped my moisturiser bottle down, feeling a stab of righteous glee when it skidded noisily across my desk, swept out of the room and clip clopped down the hall to cool off in the toilets. In truth my dramatic turn was in part a result of not being able to find my brand new $15 tweezers, and I had planned to go to the bathroom to pluck my eyebrows anyway, but it felt fantastic to make the statement.

Back to breakfast. Again.

I hate Vegemite, I always have. So I said so. I knew that I was tempting fate, becuase I am well rehearsed in the standard response to to a born and bred Anglo Aussie saying that they don't like Vegemite; Shock. It's a fucking spread people, not an admission of flag-burning! I can't pretend that I would have said it the same way to someone else. 'Nah, I don't like it much' would have been fine, but instead I emphatically, even challengingly, said, 'No, I hate Vegemite'.
'Really', 'Yeah'. Pause. Pause. I was staring him in the eye, daring him to say it, then; 'Not liking Vegemite, that's (Sing along, you know the words) UnAustralian'. Bingo. He was of course joking, but I still saw a moment to make a point. What about the 'Australian' idea of a fair go? Of egalitarianism? Of decency? (As an aside, how revoltingly conceited is it that some people, like this chap, pretend that these ideals are exclusively Australian? As though no other races and creeds value fairness and decency.) So I said, 'I hate Australia'. My mind had started to form a grand narrative in which I would explain that I consider his attitudes far more 'UnAustralian' than my distaste for yeast spread and I thought that I could stun him into listening to it with my juvenile statement (yes, I knew at the time that it was a juvenile and puerile thing to say). I had assumed that he would realise that I was joking, or being annoyingly facetious in the way that my generation so enjoys and tell me off. This would open up the opportunity for me to explain why I had said it, assure him of my genuine love of my country while reserving my right to criticise it (which is one of the things I love about it) and aid him in reaching a higher level of self awareness that would ripple across our land leading to complete racial harmony in under six months. I am serious, I did kind of think that it could happen that way. Or rather my overactive daydream-drive was manufacturing this scenario and fooling my rationality into believing it was possible.

Give me a break, it all happened in the space of seconds and I admit that I really messed up my personal attempt at Healing the World. But as I stared at him, waiting for him to break the moment with chiding humour (the man is a dab hand at deadpan humour, I really thought he'd get the joke) I saw the look of worry, fear even, spread across his face.
'But only as a joke, right?', he really wasn't sure.
A white girl, a proper Australian, one that has 'airs' and is PC, but a person he knows just said the unthinkable. I let him sweat, and I enjoyed it. One second. Two? I swept past him with my freshly buttered toast saying, 'Of course, but I hate Vegemite, it tastes like poo'.

I particularly liked my use of the childish 'poo', I fancy that it made the whole exchange more disconcerting; evil and innocence colliding in his mind. Hell, that maybe be pushing it, but I was smiling broadly as I left the room.

I kept thinking about what had happened, usually I would have felt incredibly guilty for causing anyone to have that look on their face, 'stricken' is not much of an exaggeration, but not today and I doubt I ever will look back on this with regret. I think there is a childish sadism behind my glee, he (and nearly all of my workmates) have caused my heart to fall, my stomach to twist and even my throat to thicken with their racism and small-mindedness. I am not one to choke up when they are confronted with the uglier sides of human beings, but these are people that I know, like and care for. They are not a faceless other, they are normal, good people who's vision is blurred by fear and hatred of the unknown and unfamiliar. But today I turned the tables. I caused him that same confusion and slump-shouldered weariness that has been a regular feature of my working days for nearly 6 years and I revel in the payback.
Writing this has lifted what has often felt like the weight of the world from my shoulders, but I am concerned about upsetting the 1 or 2 of my workmates who read this blog. It is only out of concern and respect for them that I haven't mentioned any of this on here earlier, but I don't think I did anyone any favours by not exposing (albeit rather privately) their tacit approval of the culture of bigotry and hate that permeates our office.
Time to get a new job.

Sorry to the Vegemite lovers, I'm sure that you all have excellent taste in clothes, music and reading material, if not in food.

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

2008-04-22T18:53:00.000-07:00

Apparently I only get to write one post about not being able to write a post. Or so they say. And yes, 'They' are The Wizards.
I am well and truly over the somewhat unspectacular, though painful, bout of bloggers block that has plagued me since leaving the Pitjantjatjara Lands back in September, and I am now ready to exploit it for all of the comedic worth I can muster! Your upholstered seats are quite safe, I am not yet up to wee-inducing hilarity.
After writing about working on the Pit Lands I found it impossible to consider writing about anything frivolous or trivial, which is quite unfortunate as most of the bugs flying around my brain are beautiful, and basically useless, butterfly's rather than industrious bees.
I was also reticent to write any more about indigenous issues seeing as how I am not indigenous, have a limited understanding (and even interest) of the issues and because I had found the process of being up there and of writing about it incredibly depressing.
This is the main reason I bowed out of the blogosphere; debilitating, hateful, ponderous depression (see, I’m not yet up to hilarity).
It wasn't just being up there that did it, but it didn't help. Being unable to find work (thanks to an evil, painful wrist injury), which led to being poor and living with my mother and generally hating the complete arse I had made of my once promising life was getting me down. I'm funny like that.
I wanted to write about the election, for the first time since ‘96 I was hopeful and with three weeks to go I was relatively confident of us ousting Howard, but the dreaded blogger's block prevailed.
I wanted to write about some of the fabulously crappy shows I was watching on Ma's Foxtel, but blogger's block prevailed.
I wanted to write about the insanity of a public health system that would sideline an otherwise healthy and employable person on a waiting list for 6+ months rather than springing for the $1500 it would cost to fix her wrist. Keep in mind that a 6 month period of being on Centrelink because I couldn't work would have cost at least $5000. In the end my parent's paid. Oh yeah, and I couldn't write because of bloggers block. And because I was medically unfit to type. On a sidebar, how lame is that? 'Medically unfit to type'? I know someone who is completely and utterly blind who can type! Again, I sucked.
As I recovered from my surgery, graduated (!) and generally started to gather the trappings of a successful life, I found that I was still struggling to drag myself out of the jaws of the Black Dog.
I couldn't be bothered applying for jobs that I knew I'd be bored stiff in and with no chance for promotion. I also couldn't apply for jobs that wouldn't be boring, and would have chance for promotion, but would involve working for planetary gang-rapists. Outside of this coterie of career-crapness there is not a lot of choice in 'Delaide. I was slipping down the Dog's gullet. Again. This situation is not new to me, only the causes were shiny and vacuum-packed. One completely unhelpful, in fact borderline abusive (verbally, no handsies) counsellor (Adelaide Uni Counselling Service, I think his name was Mark) once posited that I had suffered from depressive bouts since early since childhood. He's probably right, but for other reasons he is also a complete and utter, big, fat c-word.
And then the opportunity to shock myself out of my funk and lop off the right leg of the beast! My sister needed a house mate, stat. I had almost no money to do the move, but on the plus side I had almost no money to do the move! No one else got it either.
Without money, but with bills coming in I had one choice, I had to get work. Getting out of the house, even if it meant missing The Hotel Inspector and being bored senseless all day was the only way I could move on. Within a couple of weeks I had enthusiastically accepted some temporary work with my old employer (dull, but comfy) and life started again.
One morning, on my way to work, a chap got on the bus that caught my attention. He was wearing typical blue-collar work wear. All labels read Hard Yakka and his shirt and shorts had clearly been worn whilst doing something tough and manly, but they were neatly pressed and his shirt was tucked around his belly. He had a neat little row of pens in his top pocket. His self-cut, shoulder-length straggles were neatly parted in the middle and combed down with zealously applied hair gel and his half-dead Rossi Boots were buffed 'til they reflected my none too subtle gaze. The effect was unusual and quite sweet, he looked like a bricklaying Hobbit. He got off at the TAFE and I realised the significance of the neat row of pens. Each morning he would get on the bus, his enthusiasm undiminished, his boots a little less shiny and seeing him always made me smile.
I wanted to write about this scene so badly, I had found it very touching and I wanted to share it, but mostly I wanted to share the insight that it had given me. I needed to write about this moment because it marked my return to the world. I hadn't been around strangers for months, aside from the soul destroying Centrelink queue, which had left me with nothing of interest to write about. I didn't end up blogging it back in February because I was so (pleasurably) exhausted by my newly reinvigorated life that I frankly could not be fagged. Also, I felt protective of my own realisation about my withdrawal; I wasn't ready to share it, though I was oddly proud of it.
Since then (February) I have had so many moments, events and occasions that I wanted to write about, but I knew I had to write about the Hobbit first.
See you in the world.

Life Serial

2007-11-28T23:42:00.000-08:00

Forgive the picaresque nature of this post, but I would like to cover as much as I can in as short a time as possible. My prolonged disappearance from the blog world, no it wasn’t just yours, is owed to minor (though bloody painful) surgery that kept me from being able to type. It’s almost healed now and I look forward to not only rejoining the blogosphere, but also to rejoining the paid workforce within the next couple of weeks. Hurrah!

I have had a rather intense few weeks. I turned 28, but was so drugged out and nauseous after my operation that I barely noticed it. I have gone from having dull, chronic pain, to intense, acute, debilitating pain, to now being almost pain free for the first time in 9 months. I started, completed, submitted and received my mark for the last essay of my degree. For one week I teen-sat for the easiest (in the non-slut way) and sweetest (don’t even think about licking her) 16 year old in existence. I spent sleepless hours thinking about how I can re-jig my ‘Hellmouth’ pieces for the mainstream (now I can type, it shouldn’t be too long before I start hounding some of you for your thoughts on my mini-opus, opi? Whatever). I have been repeatedly reminded of the importance of having a close group of ladies around me, including those from across the generational divide, to keep me happy and sane. I spent hours studying the Federal Election 2007 Form Guide in order to announce my prediction; I’ve correctly called the winner of the SA and Federal elections since I was 6 years old (I suspect my success in the 80s had more to do with keeping my Labor-minded parentals happy than it did with any prodigal tendencies). Once more my political nose prevailed, though I was far from certain and had butterflies and squirms in my tummy that were only vaguely related to the massive bender of Friday the 23^rd of November. I have joined the populous in saying ‘Goodbye!’ to the most destructive, divisive and ill-conceived ‘leadership’ of this country’s history.

So how about that election? Is not Julia Gillard the epitome of sassy-smartypantsness? God I love her, and going by the huge cheers she got from the Tally Room’s public gallery, I am not alone. While I am Thuh-rilled by the booting of Howard et al, I can’t say I am hugely excited by election of the ALP at this time. Or at any other time since my birth. In fact they weren’t that spectacular before then (think ‘blind eye’ to the invasion of East Timor in 1975, support of the White Australia policy, a seriously crappy attitude to women in the workforce ‘stealing all the men’s jobs’ etc, etc). I’m not expecting any massive changes to legislation, but what I do expect, and what we are already seeing, is a massive change in the national rhetoric. No one, bar the most innocent and pudgy of small ‘l’ Liberals, was surprised by the anti-Muslim hate campaign, sorry ‘Chaser-style prank’, from the Right faction of the NSW Liberals. It was a less sophisticated (and dare I say ‘Westy’) version of the evil bilge that Howard has been spilling for years. I have high hopes that this sort of hate/wedge/race/fear politics is over for the next few years. Saying ‘sorry’ is the beginning, a necessary formality before getting on with addressing, or redressing, the material issues that affect the state of indigenous-non indigenous relations in Australia. Then there’s fixing up IR, education, our international standing, moving on from the ‘duck and cover’ school of environmental policy, ending the insane trend towards middle class welfare, sorting out the health situation and maybe, just maybe getting federalism to work again. It’s doable, but some serious stones are required. Well at least the ability to stare down Mel and Kochie over a cup of Sunrise tea.

You’ve seen this image before, but now I am relaunching it for a new era.

Halloween

2007-10-30T18:57:00.000-07:00

I know we Antipodean types don't hold much truck with the whole Halloween thing, what's the point of a holiday when you still have to work? But this has to be seen:

Oz was never like this! This is one of many routines available on YouTube (blessed be) brought to you by "1,500 plus CPDRC inmates of the Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center, Cebu" in the Philipenes. They wish to assure you that "This is not the final routine, and definitely not a punishment! just a teaser." WooHoo! There's more to come!
A quick browse through the poster's vid list shows the hardened convicts performing routines to the sounds of the Blackeyed Peas, Queen's "Radio GaGa" and most excitingly (I'll be checking it out as soon as I've finished this post) "I Will Follow Him" a la Sister Act. Complete with nun! I wonder if the nun will be played by the same very evocative (though balding) chap who played Michael's Girlfriend in the Thriller clip?

A real post will be up by the end of the day, promise.
The new post is the next one down, I started it a few days ago....

Welcome to the Hellmouth: Part 2

2007-10-28T22:26:00.000-07:00

If I don't write this now, I never will. Further, if I don't do a final write up about working on the Pitjantjatjara Lands, I may never write here again. I've been tempted to blog about other, happier, funner stuff, but I knew that if I did that, I'd never write up this last, closing post. I'll try to address all of the issues that I can think of, as well as giving an opinion on the questions that I have been asked since I got back.
When I first wrote about going up there I was of the opinion that you had to be a bit of a crusader to be able to do the work, now I'm convinced that crusaders need not apply. Rose coloured spectacles and pity will not help anyone out there. Big ideas people are needed in the relevant Departments and in policy making bodies, not at the coal-face; there a focused mind and a tough but fair approach is needed (ghastly cliches will abound in this post, soz). Where I was staying is a bit of a mess, or rather it's a pigsty, somewhat like my bedroom, and it needs a massive devotion of energy, time and (judiciously spent) funds. Yet I was repeatedly told that the Community I was staying in was the nicest/cleanest/quietest on the Pitjtantjatjara Lands. Scary.
There are so many issues and realities that disturbed me up there that I hardly know where to begin. I'll have to resort to interviewing myself to be able to get anywhere.
So what is so bad up there? What hit you the most?
In no particular order; the people's inability to use money in a responsible way, lack of personal responsibility for their actions, the openness of domestic violence, the lack of proper nutrition, the lack of personal hygiene, the way kids were never disciplined, the exploitation of the elderly, the expectation that some white will do work that they don't want to do (I quote, 'you're white, you will do it for me'. Nice), animal abuse and the people's lack of understanding of the world outside of the Lands.
In greater detail please...
Money
There is a campaign from the NT government and various NT indigenous bodies to educate people about money. Everything, from not giving your PIN number out to other people, to not buying the first thing you see when you have available cash. At first I thought the ads were targeting a small number of people, but the longer I stayed I could see that issues surrounding the responsible use of money are huge. I really can't explain in quantifiable terms what the problem is, it's almost like they don't really understand how money works, they know that they need it to buy things, but that's as deep as it goes. Some examples: a couple got a $10,000 tax cheque, bought two cars from a dealer at Mintabie that EVERYONE knows is dodgy (including the couple), the cars died within days - goodbye $10, 000. The same car dealer convinced people to give him their key cards and PINs to pay off cars. A bank that shall not be named (I believe that the appropriate question is "Which Bank...?") was approving loans of up to $20, 000 to people on Centrelink who can barely speak English, and therefore did not understand any of the terms etc, this has since been referred to an ombudsman. These three situations involved people being duped in one way or another, but in other situations no one can be 'blamed'.
The people really do live for their kids, unfortunately this lovely sentiment is frequently interpreted as allowing their kids anything and everything that they want. One lovely little chap, all of 8, has his own little motorised dirt bike to hightail around town in, but no shoes. One mother bought her 2 year old son a pedal car on the day that she received her CDEP payment and stole money from her own mum so that she could eat for the rest of the week. 4 days later the toy was trashed, left upside down under the peppercorn trees. The woman who runs the store told me that on days that art cheques come in it gets really insane. She has seen a 2 year old clutching a $50 note and buying whatever he wanted, he wanted motor coolant (presumably because it was bright green etc) so he got it. She has also seen the older people - being mobbed by family with outstretched claws - when they have received cheques, the cash barely hitting their hands before being wrenched away by the horde.
Some of the artists earn 6 figures a year, yet they live in squalor and poverty because as soon as a cheque comes through, everyone that they are vaguely related to hovers over them asking for money. I understand that there is a (potentially wonderful) sense of communalism and family at the source of this, but the reality is that a whole heap of lazy, younger people are bullying little old ladies into giving over all of their money. I could always tell when artists cheques had come in because of the calls I'd get from various relatives and friends asking me to fax the money over to them. It was like a pack of vultures closing in on a dying animal. I guess this ties into my anger at the way some of the elderly are treated. One young man actually hit an 80+ year old woman and poured her tea all over her canvas because she didn't give him enough money. Pa gave him a serve over it and it was then decided that the worse thing that had happened was that Pa had 'growled' at the waste of space, not that said waste of space was bashing old ladies. In the past, in a traditional setting, sharing the spoils of a hunt with the entire clan made sense, everyone would be able to eat and kudos would go to the provider. But cash isn't as easily distributed, there will be winners and losers and frequently it is the elderly who are missing out.
With the combination of Centrelink, CDEP (Commonwealth and Development Program), artist's cheques, fledgling tourism, almost entirely subsidised housing etc, no one should be struggling to eat, stay healthy and get on with life. But many are. Someone, the councils, governments, whoever, needs to get serious about teaching the people how to handle money as a matter of urgency.
Responsibility
At the risk using a hoary and offensive chestnut like 'they are just like children', I lack another basis for comparison when talking about some of their actions. I don't doubt that their intellectual capacity is the same as everyone else's and I feel very uncomfortable with using the comparison, but it is the only one I have. I've tried to think of another, less value laden way to express the 'they're just like children' idea and the best I can come up with is the qualifier 'with white fella ways...'. It's still not a particularly agreeable phrase, any ideas for an alternative out there?
No one ever takes responsibility for their mistakes/stuff ups/accidents etc. People will claim credit for their 'good' actions with glee, but will either shirk, lie or place blame on others to avoid taking responsibility for their actions when things go awry. If something was stolen from the community kitty (equipment, machinery, petrol, a tap) it was ALWAYS someone from another community, preferably someone from over the border. If something is broken and there is no one from out of town to blame it is blamed on the anonymous mass of 'kids'. I am not referring to the children as being an anonymous mass, it is the fact that no one will take responsibility for their children's actions and assume that simply blaming these faceless 'kids' will ensure that no one will have to take responsibility. One of the communities was without TV for a fortnight, dire for a TV fan like me, impossible for people who do little else besides watching it all day and night. Everyone wanted it fixed, but due to the lack of money in the community fund (which should be topped up by the community for minor emergencies, but just try getting any donations out of people) it couldn't be done. Predictably the nameless kids were blamed, probably quite fairly, but these kids have parents and not one of them came forward to offer help in realigning the satellite etc.
Here there is a cultural divide between what I see as taking responsibility for your actions and what the Anangu see as being shamed. From what I could gather, being shamed is the worst thing you can do to someone. It was the error that Pa made when he 'growled' at the boy (initiation be damned, no man would do that) for beating the old woman. Pa knew the line he was crossing, but he was too riled to care. By taking responsibility for your actions you are admitting blame, and therefore shame. Don't ask me what to do about this one, it's one of the many times when the cultural divide may be too wide to stitch together.
The flip side to this is that you need to understand that many of the concepts that Westerners have been au fait with since childhood are relatively foreign to the Anangu. The whole money issue ties into this. Other ways that it crops up can been relatively easily seen if you listen closely to the way people speak, for example the English words that are used in conversations that are otherwise spoken entirely in Pitjantjatjara. Words like 'yesterday', 'today' and 'tomorrow' will be peppered through conversations in Pitjantjatjara. According to Anangu people I spoke with the number 3 is as high as Pitjantjatjara goes. From these differences in language it is easy to see some major differences between our respective cultures. It's little wonder that you can almost never count on someone to be on time etc, which is annoying if you're working up there, but can lead to people getting in huge amounts of trouble if they miss a very important date (Centrelink, court etc).
I had a conversation with a woman who couldn't understand why her keycard wasn't working in the store. I looked at the card, it had been sticky taped up after being broken in half. I was unable to make her understand that the card wouldn't work because she was convinced that her money was in her card and that by sticking it back together she had stopped the money from spilling out. She didn't see the difference between the card as a symbol that enabled her to access her money, and the money itself. It's actually a pretty tricky concept when you think about it, but Westerners learn it when we are very, very young and so forget that it isn't a clear and easy idea. It is probably similar to me trying to get my head around the concept of The Dreaming being past, present and future, mystical, spiritual and mundane all at once. Other people where quite confused by the various 'white' agencies that they have to deal with, i.e. wanting to contact Centrelink because they needed a new keycard, or getting angry with the bank because they haven't received all of their CDEP pay. With gaps in cultural understanding like this it becomes clear that you need to start from a position that assumes no prior knowledge, without being patronising when you are teaching. It's incredibly difficult.
Domestic Violence
I don't know if domestic violence is any more prevalent in remote indigenous communities than it is in the wider community, but it is more open. Women are bottom of the heap and many of the men don't want them to forget it. Pa said to me, very early on during my stay, 'The women hold the real power, as you can imagine'. I let this vaguely cryptic comment slide, fully expecting my colonialist feminism to be dealt a massive blow by the end of my time there. It wasn't, and aside from the women deciding 'when children will be born' (quoting Pa there) I can see no sign that they have any real power within the community. Apparently women's magic is more powerful, which presumably leads to resentment from the men who treat them horribly on this non-mystical plain. Colonialism, be damned. Cultural relativists turn away now (and go back to la-la land): the women here are so downtrodden and abused it had me seething and sobbing with anger. I am relieved that I was never aware of any beatings while they were occurring because I am really worried about how I would have reacted. Part of me is terrified that I would have used my key to the gun cabinet and gone vigilante, on the other hand I am even more appalled by the prospect of my not doing anything at all.
I had dealings several times a week with men who everyone knew had killed previous wives. There were odd facial characteristics on some women that I later came to realise were the scars from years of beatings. The oldest, and ugliest, 45 year old I have ever seen was once considered the most beautiful woman in the area. Her husband had literally butchered is previous wife and now uses her as a punching bag. Like I said before, no man does that, only a terrified and pathetic little boy with big muscles. Fucker. I know the generally accepted argument here is that the disempowered men are hitting out at the only people who they perceive as being lower than themselves (although no one has then explained how wealthy and influential wife-beaters tie into this equation), But I think there is some deeper cultural issues here. Nearly all societies on the planet are traditionally misogynistic, this isn't a special issue for the Anangu in that way, but the current situation is disgusting.
I was writing an essay on the problems of using universalist notions of right and wrong in relation to women in non-Western cultures while I was up on the Lands. I found it almost impossible to write an academic article on this while I was immersed in an environment where I was so keenly aware of the secondary status of women. I threw a book across the room when some idiot tried to say that spiritual power trumps political power in some cultures. What good does magic do against a split lip, black eye and broken rib?
Nutrition
No one cooks, it's microwaved frozen pizzas and hamburgers all round. Yes, the food is expensive, but, no the store is not making a killing, it just costs a bomb to get the food out there. Meals made from fresh fruit and vegetables, with carbohydrates and some meat would cost less, but the people don't know how to cook. Pa's trying to get a community kitchen going, but the last I heard he has come to realise that it is too big an undertaking for them at this point. Basic food handling concepts, like not using the same spoon to both taste test and stir a communal meal, is completely foreign and people must be constantly reminded of it. Which leads on to...
Hygiene
I am by no means a neat freak. I am actually pretty lax, lax to the point of ewwww. Some of my closest friends still affectionately remind me of the squalor of my first flat, it had several types of mold and fungi - I was on a first name basis with all of them. In short I am not squeamish, but my stomach turned on more than one occasion while I was up there. Scabies, gastro-bugs, STI's and other communicable diseases are massive problems. There are exceptions, but for the most part people do not wash themselves, their clothes or their houses, and thus the disease spreads. Kids sport the stereotypical dry snot and flies look, while they play in dirt that is strewn with dog poo. I have spoken of the smells, and I don't want to relive it, but I do have to say that I have never before been with children, who are post-nappy and pre-pubescent BO issues, who have had a repellent smell. I had a recurring thought of these kids being in Adelaide for Christmas (the Lands are deserted during Christmas) and not understanding why other children will not play with them.
Why is it the way it is?
The simple answer is that successive government policies have right-royally fucked things up. A basic timeline: the initial invasion of the land, the declaration of terra nullius, the stolen children, indentured workers (stock men etc), the implementation of the return ownership and the policies to rectify the atrocities of the past, utter demonisation by the Howard Government. All of these, including the policies that every good lefty should support, has contributed to things being the unmitigated shambles that it currently is. I won't bother explaining why I think that the majority of these where bad, it is self evident. But what was wrong with implementation of the return of the lands and the various policies implemented to rectify the atrocities of the past? Here is another basic timeline: Stone-age hunter-gatherer culture, invasion and disempowerment, dehumanisation (not citizens until 1967!), indentured and forced workers, limited education possibilities for the majority of indigenous people and then; "Here, have a multi-million dollar corporation and welfare/guilt money- but don't fuck it up". I think that succinctly sums up my argument, but feel free to ask for clarification.
What needs to be done?
I don't know!! I was there for 4 weeks and I am not claiming to be an expert. The majority of these issues could be solved with appropriate education programs being run and given the time needed to work (i.e. longer than the voting cycle). But how do you teach an adult how to wash themselves without being a patronising git? How do you then maintain the momentum for these programs when the initial trainers will move on to the next community, leaving the full time staff to continue on with them - keeping in mind that most staff stay for approximately 12 months in one community? What would be the best way to finance these programs? There is a hell of a lot of money up here already, and yet it never seems to do any good. There are so many different State and Federal departments, programs and bureaucracies involved in funding the Lands that it is almost impossible to use money from one line item without applying to another jurisdiction's accounts department for permission to use the funds. It makes it very difficult to get anything done. There is also lot of graft, there are plenty of cases where huge amounts of money have been embezzled by unscrupulous types and most seem to have gotten away with it scott free.
I think that the only way to 'fix' the situation up there is for a concerted effort to be made by CoAG to streamline the funding systems, RESEARCH what is needed up there (by spending time up there and talking with both the Anangu and the staff), and then to implement the changes with vim, vigour and cash. Also, the Anangu need to get their shit together. They need to take responsibility for their future. But we, the great Austrayan public need to accept that it is going to take time for them to change. Aside from the massive cultural change that will be needed on their part, we need to accept and support them working through the trauma that they as individuals, families, a culture and nations have suffered. The 'get over it' approach is so unfair. We accept that individuals who have (for example) been torn away from their parents, placed in state care, abused in state care and then rejected by society are going to have a bloody hard time adjusting to the world. Every third episode of Law and Order: SVU revolves around this premise in one way or another, so why are we unable to see that the same applies to indigenous Australians? There is most definitely a point in every survivor's life when they have to decide to either sink into the hole that was dug for them, or clamber out under their own steam and against the odds. This is no different for the Anangu, although I argue that it is even more difficult for them than for a white person who has been through a similar ordeal because they have to deal with a society that expects them to stuff up; and hates them for it.

There it is, Thank God I could leave.
Big thank yous to Harms and MtK, without your electronic support I really could not have coped.

2007-09-29T18:24:00.001-07:00

Hey all - sorry for the lack of comments and updates, I could barely look at this stuff until today, it was just too raw. I'm halfway through about eight posts, all of which are exceedingly difficult to write.

Welcome to the Hellmouth: Part 1

2007-09-18T21:52:00.000-07:00

I have had a serious dose of blogger's block. I have plenty to say, but it keeps getting caught between my brain and my fingertips. It all comes down to me self-censoring my thoughts about what I am seeing up here. I don't want to start moaning about how restricted I feel writing about the situation up here, labouring under my burden of white, educated, middle class leftiness, but I guess I need to.
This will be a quick round up of my day, warts and all. The longer I spend out here, the more I see and the more I learn, the more I start to say things that a One Nation candidate would spew out of their vile bilge-hole. I like to think (and man, I hope I'm right) that I am in a different category from the reactionary right because I can see the 'how's' and the 'why's' not just the mess that needs fixing, but I could be wrong. I am wracked with lefty guilt, it's debilitating and bloody stupid, but I just can't seem to work past it.

Here are a few things that happened to me today:

Friday is mail plane day, all the pays arrive, all the Centrelink cheques come in and it is a shambolic mess at the best of times.
People who are on CDEP (Community Development and Employment Program) are now expected to work in order to get the extra dollars on top of the base rate. In the past this was never checked, now it is and some people are flipping out over their pay reductions.
Someone flipped out to the point of threatening to smash all the windows in the office. The CDEP manager tried to calm him, but it didn't work. I had an 8 year old girl with me in the office who was just terrified by what she saw. After he left, she went outside, only to come tearing back in because he was on his way back. With a hammer. Usually I wouldn't be too worried, Anangu will attack property, but rarely people. But this man has only been out of gaol for a few weeks after a decade for nearly killing someone. I decided that the situation would be calmed quicker if he were talking to a woman, when he was talking to the CDEP manager (male) he just got more and more aggressive despite Mr CDEP's calm and understanding demeanor. It was like watching a rather tragic a one sided pissing contest. Luckily Mr CDEP seemed to be on the same page as me and made himself scarce. After saying his piece the guy calmed down, I am still amazed by how calm I was. It was only when I wrote it down that I realised how bad the situation could have been.
We informed the local police that there may be a problem brewing with Mr Hammer, as we were chatting a car pulled up with several of the younger community leaders. Someone had brought more alcohol into the community and a bunch of the younger men were off drinking. The cop was unable to do anything because, due to rather understandable safety concerns, they are not allowed to respond solo. Keep in mind that there is only about a third of the police that are needed on the Lands. It is really telling that the community will turn to the local police voluntarily, but will do anything to never have anything to do with the Port Augusta police. To be a police officer out here you have to be seriously dedicated to the communities, there is no other inducement.
As I got back to the office the police officer called to say that they wouldn't be able to come to the community because all available officer's have been sent to Amata and a man has been evacuated on medical grounds, more specifically psychiatric grounds. I wouldn't be at all surprised if it were Mr Hammer.
I feel like I'm never off duty. Pa had a bit of an open door policy when he first got here. He, like nearly all of you reading this, was horrified when white workers said, 'you can't let people into your home, they'll never leave you alone'. Well guess what, the evil racists were right. You need your home to be private, otherwise you will never finish work. I had a grown man knock on my door wanting to ring Pa in Adelaide so Pa could tell another man to take over some work for him. I suggested he ask the other man himself. He seemed genuinely surprised that him sorting it out solo was an option, but was more than happy to do it and it all worked out nicely. This was at 7.30pm and I had my jammies on. This was a stress free interaction, but one that shouldn't need to happen. But it does, and no, we are not paid for overtime.
I have a tonne of work to finish, there is no air conditioning in my office, it's currently 34 degrees and I am close to tears. Getting your actual work done, the stuff that you are paid to do and that the policy makers imagine is the only work you do, is damn near impossible until after you have closed the office for the day. I know that writing this may seem like a waste of time (though it is after 5pm), but if I don't write it I will explode. I am so close to crying with frustration and tiredness that I am having to giggle a pictures of cats with stuff on them to hold back the water. I am also sucking all of the emotional energy I can out of a g-chat with my cousin.
And it goes without saying that if anyone is angry with Centrelink, CDEP, their bank, themselves or God, I'm meant to be able to fix it.

There is so much I have to say about policy implementation, random theories as to why things are as bad up here as they are and other grand political statements, but for now I am having to focus on myself. To be frank, there is an OH&S disaster waiting to happen. Scratch that, they happen every damn day. How can the Anangu help themselves when their support staff are emotionally smashed?

****I was really not a happy chicken when I wrote this, was I? A less fraught, more informative post will follow soonish.****

Beer Bad

2007-09-11T17:24:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lack of updates, I've been taking the longest time possible to finish off an essay (the second to last of my degree!!!!!). I had planned on writing a piece on how difficult it had been to write an academic essay on postcolonial feminism while being confronted with the struggles of people who have been well and truly shat on by colonialism from a very great height. But that post will have to wait.
The whole of the Pitjantjatjara lands are designated dryzones. This is at the bequest of the councils, not a directive from on-high (aka the S.A. Parliament). For the most part this works well, and believe me when I say that the overwhelming majority of the people up here want it to stay dry and work hard to keep it that way. But as the tax returns come in, some people find themselves drawn to Coober Pedy to spend them. Fair enough if they want to go and have a lost weekend in Coober Pedy (bugger all else to recommend the place), but if they bring it back into the community we have a problem.

On Sunday, an older lady was bashed with a chair by her drunk son. Pa called the police who responded, but did not come and see Pa. Consequently they were unaware that the guy was violent and told him to 'sleep it off'. Don't judge the police too harshly, there are 8 of them doing the job of 30, over a massive area. Later on we had the whole family on our doorstep, sonny-boy yelling because his mum had 'dobbed' (funny that she doesn't like being beaten up), the mum was yelling because the police hadn't helped and everyone was in agreement that it was somehow Pa's fault. Fun.

The next morning we were accosted (no other word for it) by the mum and the daughter. Aside from the ranting from the mum, the daughter started throwing rocks at the store and then picked up handfuls of dust and showered them over herself, keening and wailing at turns. The daughter is someone who I have come to really like, and I felt a strange combination of anger (at her blaming Pa) and gut churning sadness (at her distress) as I watched her pour red sand over herself. It turned out that the daughter's husband had been so shamed by the previous evenings events that he was going to hang himself. And it was all Pa's fault. The son in law was found alive and well, in body at least. From that point on, the alcoholrelated problems started to spread.

I'm not sure why alcohol seems to be such a massive problem for people here, I'm sure there are reasons but I can't really speculate as to what they are. From what I've been told, by Pa and community leaders, people aren't able to have a few quiet drinks, a laugh and pass out in the corner. Things nearly always go bad when alcohol is around up here. There have been extremely loud arguments, a few violent moments and a couple of people who had previously always said hello to me told me to 'Fuck off' when I said hello to them. It was only because they were so hostile that I realised they were drunk at all. There is a completely different feeling in the air, no one needed to tell me that something was badly wrong, only the cause of it. The community leaders are so distressed by what they see, their hearts are breaking. At the moment, many of the older leaders are away from the communities for various reasons, so the younger leaders are the ones who will have to deal with this. They are more than capable in my eyes, but they seem to doubt their own abilities. I hope they step up to this, I know that they can do it, but they have to believe it themselves.

At this point Pa will be taking me with him, rather than leaving me here for a week by myself as planned. Unless the community take a hard line on those who are bringing in the alcohol it isn't safe for me to stay here alone. I know it all sounds very dramatic, but Pa won't leave me here with the situation as bad as it is. I want to stay here for the week, complete the projects I'd started and finish out my time here. I have done so much work to get my head around being here and planning my work time that I will find it very difficult to leave early.

Stay Tuned.

I'm staying. The community held a meeting and patrols of 2-3 guys will be going around each night and making sure the community's are alcohol free. The meeting was incredible to be a part of, even though I didn't understand the finer points of the conversation. Last night was completely quiet, no shouting or fighting. Just the camp dogs barking their warnings to the howling dingoes.

2007-09-02T22:10:00.000-07:00

********Boy is my face red.********
After all of my proud 'I can speak a bit of Pitjantjatjara' boasting I have discovered a major boo-boo in my pronunciation guide.
On Friday one of the women who helps in the office (and is just lovely and a complete star) got a large package in the post. It was a copy of the newly published Pitjantjatjara Yankunytjatjara Picture Dictionary, sent to her as a thank you for helping with its compilation. She brought it around to my house to offer me a chance to read it over the weekend (I keep asking her for words and phrases etc) which I readily accepted. I spent a few hours looking through it and trying to commit important and useful words to my brain. It didn't really work, but I was able to blame my lack of headway on my essay on learning about more important things :D. Then I read the dictionary's pronunciation guide. The 'tj' sound that I had been informed was pronounced 'chi' is actually pronounced like and incredibly soft 't' (as in 'tut') followed by a soft 'j' (imagine the 'j' had a 'h' following it, like a 'j' equivalent of the 'th' and 'ch' sounds). So please disregard some of my previous pronunciation guides.
Also, get into Borders (and 'Mostly Books' at Mitcham Shopping Centre) and spend up this month as 5% of all sales goes to Indigenous Literacy programs.
*****************************************

New Moon Rising

2007-08-29T20:06:00.000-07:00

Taken from the basket ball court, looking over the town square to the mega-mart.

I am finally learning to breathe up here. I had felt like I was choking on the dust and isolation, but now I am able to keep my lungs clear and enjoy the air. It is still pretty difficult to understand much of what I see going on around me, but I am getting better at just saying to myself, 'This is the way it is, because this is the way it is'.

I took minutes for a Council meeting yesterday, and now I am sitting here trying to work out how I should type them up. I've gotten as far as typing the attendance list, but now I'm a little stuck. During the meeting an issue would be raised, discussed and no resolution would be reached. We'd move on to the next topic and a couple of minutes into that issue's discussion time someone would pipe up with more to say on the previous issue. There was no need for them to say 'this is about that other thing' because everyone already knew. Except for me. Keep in mind that most of this was being spoken in Pitjantjatjara and then translated, leaving me frequently confused. The second time around, the discussion would wrap to a satisfactory conclusion with a resolution that people were happy with. This happened three or four times during the meeting. It was confusing and chaotic at first, but then I started to see the pattern. Imagine the average western meeting operating along a line of discussion, resolution, conclusion (well it should, despite us all knowing people who bang on off-topic for hours). The Anangu's meeting curled around like a spriral of discussion, conclusion, discussion, interruption, resolution, conclusion. You end up in the same place, it doesn't take any longer, you just take a different route. I'm keeping my eyes and ears open to see if any other issues and situations are handled in a similar way. I hope they are, it will mean I've actually got my head around something!

So, who had a good look at the once in a while astronomical event that was the lunar eclipse on Monday? I am told that lunar eclipses (eclipi? eclipum?) are pretty common place, but this one produced a blood red moon, which is second in rarity only to a blue moon. According to scientists, the centre of Australia had the best view of the eclipse.

Nifty.

Pity I didn't have the best camera.

As you may be able to tell, I know bugger all about this stuff apart from the obvious; it looks pretty cool. My interest in space was brought to a screeching halt when, as a six year old, I watched the Challenger Disaster live on TV.

This image still really upsets me. I was at least 6 months away from discovering my inner cynism when I watched it happen.

My little lip was quivering as I asked my parents whether the astronauts would be picked up out of the ocean, while my extensive viewing of the Star Wars Trilogy left me pretty sure that the chances of surviving a spaceship explosion were slim. Pretty soon I swapped my space obsession for Greek Myths; science lost me, but hopefully the Humanities gained a little something.

Permission was given (actually, I was asked) to take this pic and I'll post it because you can't see anyone's faces.

Pa had some kid's telescopes in the store room that were pulled out and set up by the parents and the community all came out to watch the lightshow. The pictures I took of the eclipse are somewhat lacking in detail, but I'm hoping that I'll get a couple of decent close up shots of the moon once I fiddle around with them. Stay tuned.

Sunset

I've been out to the art centre here, Tjungu Palya. It's one of the best in Australia with several extremely well regarded artists working there. I'm thinking of buying a couple of smaller canvases by one of the young artists. I'll choose primarily on whether I like the way it looks and the story it tells, but I'd be silly not to pay attention to which artists are likely to become successful. Ahem.
Communicating up here is pretty interesting. English is the second language to just about everyone living here. There maybe people here who do, but no one I have spoken with uses English with ease and comfort. It's been interesting to listen to people speaking in Pitjantjatjara and hear an English word dropped in to an otherwise Pit sentence. 'Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow' are all used when people are speaking in Pit, as are technology words like 'fax, telephone and computer' which is somewhat less surprising.
The reverse is also true. My sentences (and those spoken to me) are peppered with Pit words. My favourite word is 'Ninti' which means clever, cunning or smart. It seems onomatopoeic and I can see it entering my own vocabulary with ease. Other words throw me a little because they sound like something in English.
'Wiya' means 'no', but I keep thinking of it as a positive word and I think that's because the phrase 'We are' can be used almost as a synonym for 'yes'. Even more confusingly (for me), 'Oo-ah' means 'yes' but is often spoken in quite a low voice, which sounds like, 'Ooooh, ahhh you might make it, but I wouldn't chance it with your alternator being the way it is'.
'Palya' (puhl- ya) seems to be a catch-all positive phrase. I have successfully used to it mean, 'good', 'thanks' and a friendly 'goodbye'. You can also describe someone or something as being palya (good).
'Munta' means 'oops'. Yep, I use it all the time.
'Ngapartji Ngapartji' (nap-ar-chi nap-ar-chi) translates as 'you do something for me and i'll do something for you', it's a phrase that Pa uses all the time. It's also the name of an website where people can learn Pitjantjatjara.
'Tji-Tji' or 'tjitji' (chi-chi) - child, tjitji's - children
'Kungka' - originally young woman, now all women. If I hear it being yelled, chances are they want my attention.
'tjilpa' - 'greybeards' older men, honorific.

Here endeth the lesson.

****Breaking news**** I just saw a dingo trot about 50 metres from the office window! I can tell it's a dingo because the camp dogs have all set off in pursuit of the intruder.

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

2007-08-26T18:59:00.000-07:00

*** This blog entry contains the thoughts and feelings of an office worker who will be living and working in a remote indigenous community for approximately 4 weeks. It is not expert opinion, advice or research. It is tainted by a complete lack of objectivity and a lot of pouting over being away from my friends, family and home internet connection. Any attempts to use or quote from this entry that does not acknowledge my complete lack of professionalism as either an academic or journalist (of which I am neither) and the extreme brevity of my time here, could result in unfair weight being placed on my scribblings. Do so at your peril; when it is necessary I can be a very nasty bitch.***

I have been out of Adelaide for 4 days, and I am really not sure that this is a good idea. Before I leap into a what starts as a rather depressing post, take some time to look at some amazing and pretty things.

Ohhh!
Ahhh! (Actually, this is pretty special. It's a pic of Uluru taken from the Anangu lands, not many whites get here).

The bush track we took from Uluru to get to the community.
It is the type of country that inspires good hearted and non-violent patriotism, not to mention a healthy and not unpleasant reminder of your own cosmic insignificance.

It’s not the dust, isolation or squalor that is getting me down. Nor is it that I am back to South East Asian hygiene rituals. It’s the sinking feeling I have that my explicit warnings that (unless it is vital) I would not be available out of hours has been shunted from memory. I explained I had uni work, writing and my own interior life that I would want to get on with while I am up here and that if that were not possible, I wouldn’t be able to go. I said this in order to lay down my conditions and give a way out for my would-be boss to say, ‘you may not be compatible to this work’. But fathers are not ordinary bosses.
I am well aware that the people who work out here have to see it as being more than a job, which is why I said I could do this for a fortnight, not more. My time out here was extended to 4 weeks without any consultation. In fact I wouldn't have known had I not asked three times before gaining a response. Grumble. I am just not cut out for it. I would love to have a job that I never wanted to leave, that excited and challenged me to distraction, but this is not it. I am up here as an office girl, and no matter where the office, it is always just a job. You would need to be a good deal thicker than I am to feel differently about filing and taking messages.
I would never choose to do any type of work up here on a long term basis as I am convinced that to do so means you have signed up for a personal crusade. I am not against crusading (unless it involves religion), but this would not be my chosen cause. The situation up here is dire and worthy, but I have learned (at no small cost to myself) that to crusade you need to be one of many, in an army of volunteers. Yes, there must be leaders, but there is little point in a leader without followers; and a leader who was not a follower first, will not last. No matter how dedicated and heartfelt the desire to help. At this point in time, and I would be surprised if this were to change, I am convinced that the only people who can lead indigenous Australians are indigenous themselves. This is a view that is shared by Pa, though I think that once you are in his position (both the job and the location) it is hard to maintain this lofty ideal when none around you seems willing or able to rise up. That said, this overwhelmingly huge work could be aided by government policies that were designed for the culture, history and needs of the people here. Instead they’re based on some woolly approximation of need based on what the communities ‘should’ be doing. No doubt this issue will draw more ill-formed-and-founded analysis from me at a later date.
The cost of living out here is pretty high. Vegetables and fruit are expensive and of poor quality due to the enormous distances that need to be traveled to get here.

$3.15 for a kilo of carrots? How reasonable.

So that's what $13 worth of veggies looks like.

The cost of housing is high for the same reason. The cost of moving the materials and tradesmen out here to build a house means that a basic shed with a few bedrooms, an outdoor bathroom and a kitchen will cost in excess of $280,000 to build. This does not include the cost of the land. Mail is delivered by plane, the Royal Flying Doctor service is needed and non-emergency medical evacuations are also required. Add to this that just about every service, from electricity to education needs to be provided to a community of between 80 to 120 people who are a 3 hour drive on a dirt track from Uluru, and you have a recipe for privation and expense to live side by side in misery.
But so far, misery has eluded my eyes.
As usual, I have found it far easier to dwell on the negative aspects of what I am experiencing. We (yes, I am speaking for you) find it so easy to skip over the good bits, deluded by the belief that the good bits are the way life should be and that the bad are unfair intrusions on our usual state of being. So on to the good stuff.
This place is most definitely alive. Kids play in the streets, people chat in the equivalent of the town square and as I type this I can hear some c&w music coming from someone’s electric organ, guitar and mic, set-up in a yard a few houses down. It’s in the mid 20s and the sun is out and a lovely breeze is coming through town. All up it is a nice atmosphere for a Sunday afternoon. Last night one of the head elders, and my Pa’s closest friend up here, asked if we wanted to see the kids dancing. We drove to the lighted basketball court and watched the kids practice the dance that they hope will win the local competition. They won it last year and are pretty keen to keep their plaque! It looked like all of the kids from 2 to 14 were taking part, and many parents, aunties and uncles were there too. Some of the dancing was traditional, and some was ‘the other type’ as it was put to me. One of the organizers explained to me that apart from it being fun and a good way for them to pass on traditions, it also meant that all of the kids were together and safe. I didn’t press to find out what she meant by safe. It could be that she wants me to know that no matter what is in the news, they do care about their kids. This I believe, these kids are loved and adored and, in some cases, more than a little spoiled. I had one little boy, maybe 10 years old, give me a hug before he asked me my name. Can you imagine a 10 year old boy doing that? When I saw him at the dancing he was showing off to me in spectacular style, he’s adorable. Some kids, no matter how much they are loved, are suffering from what appears to be a lack of good food, medicine, discipline and hygiene. But you can never doubt that they are loved and treasured.
On Friday the communities were hosting a contingent from the National Gallery of Victoria. The group have been flying all around the outback looking at art centres for about two weeks and were finishing their scouting trip here because it is reputed to have the best artisits. 3 paintings were bought, including one by a young man (most successful artists are very old). It was his second ever canvas. It will be displayed in the NGV’s permanent exhibition.
On my first working day, we had to meet the mail plane which has all of the pays, cheques, centrelink stuff and letters from family for both of the communities. As you can imagine, the atmosphere is kind of nuts. At the airstrip there were many, many people there to see off loved ones who were off for medical treatment, one little girl who the Flying Doctors were picking up and of course the mail plane. Pa introduced me to the woman who drives the ambulance and after that I was shaking hands and failing to remember the names of all of these people who seemed really pleased to meet me. I felt a little rockstar-ish, even though it’s all reflected glory. They really like Pa and so I caught a bit of his glow.

The four planes you can see here on the airstrip were deemed an unusual enough sight to warrant a picture. From left to right they are; the mail plane, the National Gallery of Victoria’s charter, the Flying Doctors and a chartered plane to take some older people to Adelaide for eye tests and treatment.

We headed back to the office to sort and distribute the mail and to give me my first look at the office. It was rather daunting. Luckily for me one of the kungkas (young woman, though all women get called it these days. The old men still get their honorific title of tjilpa) who Pa is hopeful has it in her to one day run the office, came in to help. As soon as I told her I had no idea what I needed to do she swung in to action, showing me what to do, introducing me to people and returning my flustered smiles. Later, another kungka who I had met in Adelaide also came into help. I really appreciated (and needed) their help, scratch help, they were training me. No mean feat considering the language barrier that must be continually negotiated.
I can’t wait to get into the office tomorrow to get an idea of how my time will be spent. At this point I am really unsure, which is making me really nervous and edgy. What will I be expected to do? How much input into running the office am I to have? Will their expectations of me be fair? Will mine be of them? Will I want to stick it out? Will I want to leave so badly that I actually do it? The last three nights have featured dreams where I have left, will soon be leaving or have just gotten home. But they have also featured a certain TV captain with an Okey accent, tight pants and a spaceship, so they can probably be ignored.

2007-08-19T17:49:00.000-07:00

When She Was Bad
A little while ago I got tagged for a meme by Audrey (is it just me, or do all meme posts start with a variation on this sentence?). After spending the past few days grumbling about anything and everything, I realised that I was in the perfect frame of mind to fill in a '10 things I hate' meme. Previously I had worried that I would never be able to come up with enough stuff, but when I am honest and I let my inner bitch conquer my desire to be liked, I appear to have a tonne of bubbling hatred sitting under my calm veneer. These hates run from the personal (sorry for imposing my inner turmoil on y'all) to the general, and are placed in no particular order.

Man Boys. Most of us, male and female alike, have our own Achilles Heel of childishness. Mine is feeling like I'm the odd kid out in the playground who only the really freaky kids want to play with. This is usually triggered when I see my friends are having a great time in front of me and for some reason I feel unable to join in. It's not cool, it's one of my worst personality traits and I try valiantly to suppress the tears and retribution it can cause. But like I said, we all have them.

Some people are shit at taking responsibility for their finances. Some fail to understand the concept of 'inside voice' (or behaviour for that matter). Others, mainly women - or Lady-girls as I call them- look for daddy types to protect and cosset them from the world. But Man-boys are the worst. The reason they suck so heartily is that not only are they whiny, self centred and irresponsible (like the aforementioned Lady-girls) they are able to cry, 'but I thought you chicks wanted equality? I am merely being sensitive and in-touch with my inner child, etc, etc, wank, wank'. No Lady-girl could pull this one because her behaviour is completely sanctioned and expected from young, dolly-bird types. Whereas that of her male counterpart is a reaction against the 'act like a man' sentiments of past generations.

Here's a tip for those who suspect that they are a Man-boy, or that you are engaged in what you hope will be a meaningful relationship with one (PS, it won't be that meaningful. You get that tip for free); There is nothing cool, pro-feminist, deconstructed or sensitive about behaving like a whinging adolescent who's looking for a Mummy who puts out. Do I sound bitter? Well, hell yeah, but not for the reason you think. I have never dated a Man-boy. I have had a strict 'No Man-boy' policy for my entire adult life and this results from seeing the effects that these useless and irritating individuals have on their families. This is especially bad when they hit their latter adult years and still refuse to grow up. This ban has also resulted in my being single for the vast majority of my adult life. Before you get testy, I am not suggesting that all men are Manboys, more that the type that seems to fancy me is. I may be confident, tall, have big breasts and pet sweet little puppies but that does not mean I want to raise my very own little boy with his own car, degree and X-Box fixation.

Lack of TV Equity. Ah, the shared living space. Cesspit of inane arguments that can ruin friendships and general harbinger of doom to your sanity. At the moment I am 'sharing' with my Ma. She's fine, never unreasonable about anything really, apart from the TV. From 6pm to 9pm I am hard pressed to get anywhere near the remote. According to Ma she only insists on watching Eastenders, which would be fine by me. However, the reality is that the TV is tuned to UKTV during all of prime time. She thinks that she gives me a shot at watching what I want, but she fails to realise that through bitter experience I only dare suggest a handful of shows (nearly all are on the Lifestyle Channel; Frasier and Will and Grace will usually pass muster). Otherwise (should I mention Family Guy, The Daily Show, A Random Documentary, Adult Swim or Girls of the Playboy Mansion), the world weary 'Oh, OK' or, 'Can you watch it later?' from Ma would create a bog of eternal crankiness from my corner and an OCD-esque compulsion to clean the lounge room while I watch the offending program from her. Thank God for DVD drives on laptops.

'Have you done that yet love?' And other office annoyances. I am temping in my old, pre-South East Asian Investigation office. It's great to be back here. It's easy, I know everyone and everyone is happy to see me. Except for one guy, but I knew he didn't like me (see Anti-Snobbery Snobbery). Last week was conspicuously trainer and Big Boss free, which means no lovely chaps who call me 'love' (in a completely non-condescending way) popping in for a cuppa. It also meant that I, and everyone else in the office, got to work in relative peace. Now they are all back and seem to assume that just because they are having a tea break/slacking off/finished for the day, that we are similarly unencumbered. I particularly love it when they hand me a file, grab a cup of tea and start chatting ('How was Vietnam?' they ask, 'Very well, it sends you its regards' says I) for 15 minutes. 10 minutes after they leave they ask if you have finished with the file. The file they gave you before they chewed your ear off for 15 minutes of valuable work time.

Being described as 'bubbly'. I find it hard to put my finger on exactly what it is that so annoys me about being called 'bubbly'. I think it may be because as soon as someone calls you bubbly you either have to risk appearing to have over-reacted by just a smidge by saying 'Fuck off! I am a fully grown, intelligent and confident woman with impeccable comic timing' , or you have to giggle and say, 'Yeah' while shrugging your shoulders and looking up at the sky in a cutesy-pie way. Oh, that's why I hate being called bubbly. Case solved.

People who do not understanding the difference between being empowered and feeling valued. For those who followed the debate over at the apple barrel, I am sorry of the repetition, but it got me good an riled. Once and for all, can we move past the erroneous belief that has lasses (and in all probability some lads) convinced that feeling wanted and valued is the same as being empowered and in control? These are clearly not co-dependent states of being, in fact they are all too often mutually exclusive. The debate that sparked this epiphany was related to a competition for a man to enter his flat chested girly into a competition being run by Zoo magazine to win a nice, new set of saline lumps to be inserted into her sliced flesh. The common response from (dare I say it? Yes I dare.) overly deconstructed, post-third wave mentalist types who think using the words 'Pussy', 'Cock', 'Fuck' and 'Cum' with abandon is our generation's version of winning of the vote, is that women feel 'empowered' when they hack up their bodies so they can charge more to dance on a table in a sparkly g-string while 50 year old truckers none to surreptitiously jerk off. OK, so they may not table dance for crisp bills, it could just be to fill out a top 'properly', but is anyone else spotting the logic flaw in this scenario? This is not feeling empowered, this is feeling valued. They are wanted, and unsurprisingly this makes them feel good about themselves for a time. When this value is contingent on them looking like a genetically rare and chronologically transient creature of 'perfection', do you think they might get just a tad depressed when they see that their looks (enhanced or otherwise) are fading?

Trying to get this point across is tricky, because the people who most need to hear it most are very personally invested in fooling themselves into equating their sexual value with empowerment. You would end up dragging them down, which would be kind of counteractive, don't you think? There is a massive con being perpetuated on women (and men too, if you think about it) and it all started with the idea of the sexual revolution being in someway feminist. It was not. Feminism (the second wave) rose as a response to the sexual revolution after too many hippy bastards laid the 'you are so uptight babe, just spread 'em. And by the way, if you don't like it, you're not doing it right' line on their 'sisters'. Being sexually available (note, 'available' not 'assertive') is not feminist. It's lying back and thinking of Idol.

Anti-snobbery snobbery. My fellow ivory-tower dwellers, how fucked off do you get with people (mainly crap media and the people they delude) banging on and on about how 'powerful' intellectual elites are telling people how to live their lives? If we (I include all of us in this category of ivory tower-dom, as do non-smartypantses AKA Alan Jones's Spawn) are so powerful, why is the world still so monumentally fucked? Why do shit-poor bogans vote for the Libs and then berate me for voting in a way that will benefit the financially disadvantaged, i.e. them? Why do intellectually subnormal sub-contractors pull down the big bucks while teachers and doctors, who have 4 and 6 years of unpaid study to get through before they start making the world a better place, get half as much as a loo unblocker? And finally, in acknowledging that all of the most base and self serving urges of our species also occur in the unstupid; If we are so damn powerful, why is university funding so abysmally low for ivory tower subjects like Philosophy, English, Anthropology, Politics, Gender Studies and anything else in an Arts degree? Case Closed.

Premature introductions. Recently I met my brother's latest love interest. Nice girl, I wish them well. But was it necessary for me to meet her on their SECOND DATE? Does it seem a tad early in the relationship to force said girly to meet the younger sister? Personally I think it is overly ambitious to invite even your friends to check someone out on the second date. Now what if I told you that our Grandma was also there when this meeting occurred. NO FUCKING PRESSURE AT ALL! Oh, and it was a deliberate meeting, bro had planned for this all to occur. Mind you, we met his last girlfriend 3 days after he had, when he brought her along to a cousin's wedding. I guess making the lady meet 2 close family members so early is better than the entire clan. He's learning.

Making a complete tit of myself. Like most people, especially pain in the arse smartypantses, I hate being wrong. I don't mind if other people are right, it's the me being wrong part that I can not abide. On Saturday I went into my local bookshop to grab a copy of Mister Pip to prepare for the first review/bookclub thing for The Paper Drunkards. The bookishly-lovely middle-aged shopkeep informed me that with my copy of Mister Pip I would also receive a book on Les Darcy. I groaned a little and said that it would remind me of doing year 12. She laughed good naturedly and I thought 'Huzzah, I am a charming wench!' and so I piped up with something about "always wanting to like poetry but never being able to get past the first stanza of most poems, hehehe". A slightly bemused silence followed. 'Oh god, I'm losing my charming edge, better assure her I'm not a neo-Philistine', "I'm, just more of a prose girl". Dammit, I'd lost her. She had me pinned as an Oprah's Bookclub idiot.

As I perused my free book while having a post-shop coffee, I was surprised to see that my high school literary nemesis was also a very famous boxer. Well I like a Renaissance man as much as the next filly, so my estimation of him grew, though I'd have preferred the poet to have been a fencer rather than a boxer. At some stage during the evening as I reclined in bed reading, a bolt of chilled ice slammed into my heart and sucked the breathe out of my mortified existence. The poet who annoyed me at high school was Les Murray, not Les Darcy. I AM AN OPRAH'S BOOKCLUB IDIOT!

My plans are more important than your plans. Well, with due respect, I doubt it. Just as mine are no more important than yours. Well perhaps occasionally one of us can trump the other, but as neither of us are in charge of saving lives, raising the young or preventing war, I think it is safe to assume that some give and take is necessary when deciding who should go first. This pet hate really ties in to my Man-boys one. You'd be right to think that there is a chap in my life (who I really do love, despite my venting) who1is heading for an almighty verbal smackdown in the next week or so. I'll let you know how it goes.

Stating the bloody obvious. I am frequently guilty of this one, though I fancy I get away with it by butchering a Fawlty Towers line ('Next Contestant; Sybil Fawlty, Special Subject; The Bleeding Obvious'). On Friday night I told a fitness fascist I know of my plans to do the 800km, 1 month long walk to Santiago de Compostela in Northern Spain. Her response, 'You'll need to get fit. I don't think you understand just how hard it will be.' I tried to assure her that I was aware of the difficulty and that the physical challenge (and necessary pre-walk boot camp) was half of the allure for me. She responded with 'But I really don't think you know how hard it is to walk that far'. Well no shit, Missy! That's why I want to do it. To learn! Accomplish! And conquer (my arse fat)! She seems to think I imagine walking for an hour a day, then I'll relax by the pool with a scantily clad (and waxed) Hombre peeling me grapes and pouring sangria (Her fantasy, not mine. Apart from the sangria). What is it about the fitness freaks that makes them assume that the chubby and physically lazy folks don't realise that exercise is tough? That's why we don't do it, douche bag!

I feel so much better.

Goodbye Iowa

2007-08-14T20:39:00.000-07:00

It's happening. I'm going to be working for 3 (ish) weeks in a community (actually 2 communities, 15kms apart) that gives 'remote' new meaning. I am both freaked out (as I believe the young folk say) and very, very excited about this challenge. And I'm using 'challenge' the its real sense, not in the management speak, David Brent-esque, wankeristic way.

I'll be living with my Pa, doing general administration work and anything else he throws at me. I'll be flying in to Alice Springs, then being driven (across the desert!) to the community by Pa. To give you some idea of how remote it is consider this; it takes 2 days driving north along the Stuart Highway to Marla from Adelaide (home) before you drive 350km West on unsealed roads. What am I doing!?!?!

Meanwhile I am becoming obsessed with the idea that I should walk the Camino from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Porto in Southern France to Santiago de Compostela in northern Spain. It's a 750km, medieval pilgrim trail that takes about a month to complete at a relatively speedy clip. I'll need to save the cash, prepare to sleep in dorms, get fit, learn a little Spanish and lose my mind before I can complete it. Sounds good, no?

2007-08-12T00:27:00.000-07:00

Get it Done
I've been back in Australia for about 4 weeks and I am now well and truly over being unemployed and lazy. I haven't had anything to do with Centrelink for about 5 years and have found the whole process really depressing. It's not so much that I mind having to go for meetings and look for work (I actually want work), it's realising that there are so many people who probably will never leave the welfare system. On Friday I had to line up to lodge my first claim and discovered that I was not the only Brighton High alumnus in the building. Three people who 16 year old me had rather cruelly joked would be on the dole for the rest of their lives, have lived up to my expectations. One woman, who as a 10 year old beat up my sister, is now working for Centrelink. Just deserts etc.
There is a little light on the job front, I have two weeks temping with my old employers starting tomorrow. It's nice to be able to start my reintroduction into the job market in a safe and known environment. After that, it looks pretty certain that I'll be heading up to an indigenous community in the far north of SA to help my Pa with his paper work. Frankly, the prospect scares the crap out of me. I don't mean that I am fearful of what will happen, but I am not at all sure that I am the right person to be up there. I think you can expect a few rather fraught and frustrated posts during my two weeks up there! I am expecting to feel horribly isolated, outraged by the poverty and pissed off by the seeming inevitability of the situation just getting worse. But I'm getting ahead of myself, I may not get to go up there at all.

2007-07-25T01:03:00.000-07:00

For those of you who have had to wait for their copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, are very busy or just plain slow readers, I present you with an appropriate rebuttal for the Ministry backed Spoiler Squad:

(stolen from Floodeluddecke)

And hurry up already!

2007-07-23T02:30:00.000-07:00

Homecoming

I'm home, hence the title.
Sorry for the lack of updates since I got back. I'm still nursing my wrist and typing for more than a 10 minutes sets it off. For those who are interested I have DeQuervain's Syndrome. It's so common that every doctor, radiologist and ultrasoundiologist-thingie (person what does ultrasounds) has diagnosed it within seconds of me describing my symptoms. Thankfully the treatment, "in all but the most recalcitrant cases" is easy and relatively quick. So, Hurrah!
Now all I want to know is what that fucking moron doctor in Hanoi was thinking? It would have been healed by now if he'd not been about as useless as a one legged sailor in an arse kicking contest. Instead it's still painful after more than 5 months and I now have extensive scar tissue surrounding the tendons. All this because the fricking eejit thought the textbook case of DeQuervain's Syndrome I was exhibiting was more likely to be me having a heart attack. At aged 27. With all symptoms localised in my wrist and thumb. For over 4 weeks. It has since entered the Guinness book of records when it became the longest running heart attack in history at an incredible 5 months and still going strong! I'll be writing a rather snippy email to give the company an earful. Meanwhile, if you're in Hanoi, consider avoiding the SOS International Clinic.
I've been handwriting notes so I can finally finish blogging all of my adventures in South East Asia, but you'll have to wait for when I'm able to type with ease to read all about them. As an aside, does anyone else remember that kid's show 'Read All About It' on the ABC? Chances are you watched it at school when the teachers had (understandably) had enough of you and your pals. It was an educational sci-fi/mystery from Canada and somehow I never ever saw the ending episode that explained the big mystery, despite watching it for over 3 years. Sorry for the digression. I am thrilled to be home, but not at all sorry that I did the big trip alone. It's the cheapest therapy available for those of us without private health cover. When I arrived home I felt like I'd never left, but in a good way. I knew that I'd get little culture shocks (people queuing and then saying, 'No, this lady was first' instead of pushing you out of the way and trampling your bloody corpse into the ground is so wonderfully novel!) and that things would have changed while I was away. New road signs, buildings and a whole new set of bogans to point and laugh at on Big Brother are fun changes. Discovering, while incredibly tired, crampy and half naked, that my tampon brand had changed it's design (not just the packaging, the actual thing itself) was a little less fun. Were ridges and extra quilting-type stuff necessary changes, or were they designed to unsettle me at a most intimate and vulnerable moment? Anyone? Sorry, I am dismounting from my very high Hippogriff.
Finally, and with a no spoilers for the final book guarantee, Harry Potter is over! Sniff, blub, sob, strange wracking sound from my chest etc. I loved the final book, even if there are many more examples of the clumsy prose cliche and trite metaphor we expect from our beloved JKR. I am awarding the film version of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix with my gold star for the best of the franchise thus far. I am rather excited because David Yates will be directing the Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince as well! More grit and less *Generic American Family Flick Formula* (GAFFF; just add sugar!) is a wonderful change - from the first two in particular. Imelda Staunton is wonderfully sinister as Umbridge in all her psuedo-wholesome, pink glory. You just know she'd vote for the magical equivalent of Family First. My biggest gripe is more technically than narrative(ly) based. I'm not a stickler for slavishly recounting every aspect of a book in film adaptations, especially when that would mean that Dan Radcliffe would have had to speak in CAPS for the first third of the film, so the various omissions didn't bother me. More acting coaches are needed on set for some of our lovely kiddiewinks. That said, I do like the lovely feeling you get when you're watching a Harry Potter film and one of the less natural of the young actors really nails a moment! More annoying were some of the rougher edits that could have benefited from an extra second or 30 being left in to round out the scene. These edits were so jarringly out of place next to the rest of the fabulous editting and post-production*. Most of the bad edits seemed to occur at the beginning or end of scenes involving our three heroes. I'm wondering if the editor had to cut around some awkward eyebrow acting acting (I'm looking at you Emma Watson, but I acknowlege that you've improved amazingly in 1 year, my sweet). Also, Ginny needed to be seriously foxed up in this film because in the next one she's rather, ahem, popular with the chaps. At the moment she's a nice looking gal, with fabulous hair, and a quick wand action, but she lacks moxy! Evanna Lynch as Luna Lovegood was superb and I don't care if it is only because Evanna is actually as odd as Luna herself. Finally, hat's off to Dan Radcliffe. If this performance is anything to go by he may yet make it as an adult actor.
So glad to be home.

**The post-production was the highest standard for the franchise yet, with the exception of the cartoonish rendering of Grawp. I was waiting for Donkey and Fiona to join us from cinema 3's screening of Shrek the Third. But I did love, love, love the bicycle bell. I was never particularly enamoured of Grawp in the books, but despite his Shrek-like design I really adored him in the film.

2007-07-02T02:17:00.000-07:00

*****************
Once again the denizens of a Viet hotel have blocked full access to blogger from their computers. I'll update as soon as I can get WiFi again.
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2007-06-27T01:30:00.000-07:00

Checkpoint
Ma is here, we've done Angkor Wat, avoided touching the ground in Phnom Penh and we're now in a swish hotel in Ho Chi Minh City; waiting for it to be time to dress for dinner. Noice.
Details will be coming, but for the meantime I'm just enjoying Ma's company, swanky hotels and knowing that I'll be in Hoi An tomorrow. And home in less than 2 weeks!
Also, for those who knew about the uni dramas, I passed. Well.
I am Nai's feeling of smugness.

2007-06-18T03:21:00.000-07:00

School Hard
I opened up my (WiFi connected!) laptop this morning and, on a whim, checked my uni email. *Update* I've been doing a subject online while I've been in South East Aisa. Let's just say that while it was a great idea when I was going to be stationary in Hanoi, it (and the reader and text book I have had to lug around) has been a massive pain in my arse since leaving Hanoi. I have no idea why I checked my uni email today. I handed in my last essay a week and a half ago. I was opening every one of my 'favourited' tabs for kicks, and it happens to be one of them. But sitting there, amongst the calls for those graduating in August to pick up their scanties and get their forms in, the Union newsletter and scholarships I am ineligible for, was an email from my tutor. Due to my rather ahem, erratic contributions to the online wankfests- sorry - tutorials, I will need to complete a 1500 word essay in order for my final essay to be marked i.e. do this or fail.
Bugger, I know, but they could have just given me an incomplete fail and I'd have had to do another subject next semester (thus making me full time) while I tried to work full time as well. So I am quite stoic about it all.
I had almost ritualistically burned my reader and textbook in Luang Prabang, but instead I had decided to cram them into my heavy pack. Why I did this, I know not. Anyone mentioning angels or fairies sitting on my shoulder be warned, you shall receive a bollocking. Blind luck I will accept. Traveler's karma is also a possibility, I've given away books, unused bus tickets and various other things I didn't need for no recompense, apart from my selfish gene's need for pseudo-altruistic happies.
There is of course a caveat to my general good luck (aside from having to do the damn thing in the first place); the email was sent on Friday. I randomly checked my uni email this morning. The essay is due tomorrow at 2.30pm Siem Reap Time. I will get it done, humph.
As George, Prince Regent of England, would say; Haroo.
Once more, with feeling; Haroo

And now as The Right Hon. Lt. George would say 'Tally, Bally Ho!' (I'd prefer to say 'Ya-boo! Sucks to you, Fritzy', but it doesn't really fit the situation. Plus, it was Melchett who said it, not Georgie. Or the lovely Georgina.)!
I have finished and emailed my essay thingo. Breathe. Then swill the amazingly cheap Smirnoff I bought at the minimart. Tonight I get happily sloshed and watch an episode or 5 of Buffy while deciding what I need my Mum to bring me from Adelaide when she joins me in 4 days time (note to self; wine). I have a few random episodes of the small, blond arse-kicker on dvd with me, sadly none of my favourites, just a few I had double copies of (the grand collection has stayed with Ma. Note to self; get Ma to bring selected Buffy dvd's). I may watch 'School Hard' tonight in honour of todays' work, and because it's the first episode with Spike in it. Oooooh, Spike me!
Finishing my essay was touch and go for a while, at one point I even checked if there was another online course running next semester just in case I didn't finish it in time. But I perservered and I have emailed it off and I am now, hopefully, free of uni until August - my final semester. I am now looking forward to checking my results in a month or so and receiving the P2 I so richly deserve!

2007-06-16T02:54:00.006-07:00

The Pack
I'm not sure if I am breaking blog etiquette here, but I have added a few links to some blogs that I like to read. I believe the term for this list is my 'blog-roll'. Charming.
These blogs constitute my virtual posse of frequently read blogs. I can't believe I am allowing myself to use the word 'posse' in this context. I'll blame the heat and my current lack of air conditioning.
I wasn't sure if I had to send an email (where possible) or post a comment asking permission to add a blog to my list. The path wasn't clear to me. So please take this post as an express and (sort of) personalised entreaty to allow my humble blog to link to your, in no way humble, blog. No reciprocation is necessary, but I do have a rather enormous ego, in blogworld at least, so please feel free to link away.
In short I hope I have offended no one by adding them to my list of links, nor do I wish to offend anyone by leaving them off. If you would rather I remove you from my blog-roll, please be kind when you break my virtual heart. I will of course, without acrimony, acquiesce to your wish.
Also, can someone please clear up the etiquette thing? Do I just add blogs I like to read as I see fit, providing of course that they aren't the type that are clearly not meant for the world to read? Or should I do my best to ask permission of the blogger in question?
What is a polite girl meant to do in blogworld?

2007-06-14T19:49:00.000-07:00

Lessons
OK, well clearly I need to vary the way I start my posts (check here and here for why).
Yesterday I arrived in Siem Reap, Cambodia, home of the fabulous Angkor Wat Temple complex. I came here in November 2003, and since I had only been out of Australia for 5 days, I promptly got crippling culture shock. This means I'm really not sure how much it has changed since then because to me it seems to almost be a glorious modern metropolis compared to the dusty town I saw 3 and a half years ago, but I doubt it. Perhaps it's just the explosion in hotels that look like the over-ambitious embassies of TPLAC's (any Yes, Prime/Minister fans out there?), or the ATM's (more on those glories of modernity soon), or the traffic lights, or perhaps the wondrous fact that I found a mini-mart that sells tampons without having to ask expat-ty looking femmes for their source!
I'll be kicking around SR for about 9 days (seems I miscalculated how long 'til i see Ma in this post) and I am slightly at a loss for to do. Aside from the temples, there really isn't anything to the town. And that is the opinion from my hotel's owner! I have time to move around and see a little of the country, but I don't have the money to do it. It is so irritating knowing that I may not get back here ever again, but for the want of two days pay, I am stuck in the one town! Ah, well.
Aside from the joys of being back here (I really did love Cambodia last time), knowing that I will soon be able to talk to someone who I don't have to introduce myself to (and discern if they have any odd political insanities that I need to skirt - watch out, a very scary Irishman is heading for Sydney, Melbourne and Hobart over the next few weeks) and knowing that I now can use my ATM card without fear of rejection (again, I will return to this), I am just so happy to know that I now have 3 weeks until I go home! I know, your heart bleeds for my globe-trotting weariness, but I have had it. I want my own culture and I want it now! I want winter, cleanliness and people who share my own gut-churning response to the HOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRCHK, PTAAAAH! sound of blokes clearing their noses.
As I've said before, I am not cut out for being alone for so long. Those of you who know me in the real world, know that I go for weeks without contacting friends. This is partly due to my liking for spending time alone, but it is also due to my assumption that people don't want to hear from me very often. I assume that I am best taken in small and infrequent doses. Despite all efforts, claims and general demonstrations to the contrary, this feeling remains. Of course the result is that people assume that I don't like them very much or that I don't value their friendship etc, thus (in my own mind) justifying my original behaviour. I know the psychological reasons behind this (again, those who know me know that I am a dab hand at amateur psychology), but so far I have been unable to break this horrible cycle. But after nearly 5 months alone (with the occasional day, or 3, long hook ups with other lone travelers) I think I may have to force myself out of this crappy habit to ensure I don't go mad. So, all up, this huge amount of time alone has been a good thing. Though fucking painful. Painful to the amount of 10.
I have had literally days in which to run over and over the events of my life. I do this when I am alone at home for hours and hours at a time and usually end up feeling more sad/depressed/angry/hard done by/bitchy/culpable /pathetic/alone/frightened than I did before. But having days and days in which to think, analyse and relive events has led me in a circle, or maybe a squiggle, towards something that Oprah would call 'self awareness'. I feel like I've been in the psychological equivalent of an isolation tank. I have cried and been genuinely and viscerally scared for the horrible events of my past more than I have ever before. I have also laughed (somewhat maniacally) at my own sweet silliness of the past. Giggling at the things that I used to view as cringe inducing gaffs, causing me to blush at the merest thought of them. I am, in short, better than I was before I left home.
And on to the the joy of the ATM. In Laos there are very few ATM's and having assumed when this adventure began that I'd be staying in Hanoi, I didn't have any traveler's cheques. I knew that ATM's were few and far between, and despite my initial silliness when I crossed the border, I tried to plan ahead. What I did not, and could not, plan for was the scarcity of ATM's that accept Visa cards in Laos. Every second handicraft shop and restaurant (though not the type I can afford) has an open/closed sign with the Visa logo and the words 'All It Takes'. Let me assure you that there is nothing more infuriating than seeing that sign 12 times in a row, but discovering that each ATM had a sign reading 'Mastercard Only' hastily scrawled across some A4 paper. So I go to the bank, passport and visa card in hand, to get a cash advance from the bank, but guess what? My credit union, Community CPS if you want to know who to avoid, is not recognised as being a valid Visa supplier about 50% of the time in Laos. I can use my card like a normal credit card, but not for cash advances. There are almost no venues in my budget that accept credit cards. I have had more than one emergency Western Union transfer from home. If you go to Laos, bring Traveler's cheques in US$, that is the single best piece of advice I can give you.
My last Western Union transfer had to cover my hotel bill, last minute pressie shopping, Lao departure tax and my Cambodian Visa (you can get it at Siem Reap Airport). All was well. I had reached Luang Prabang Airport in plenty of time and I had all the money I'd need. I approached the sign reading 'Departures' and was turned away by a girl (she looked 15) in a little general's outfit and wielding a nightstick that she aggressively banged on a sign that was in Lao. All I could discern was the numbers '8:30', it was 8.20am. So I sat and waited. A little later the same girl aggressively waved a US$20 note under my nose (yes, you can aggressively wave something). I took in her general attitude and the frantic waving of the money as a request for a bribe to open early. I know it sounds strange now, but in my defence she was very aggressive and I'd taken a tonne of valium to get to sleep the night before. As I passed through customs I did one final check of my money. I was missing $20. I freaked out.
After weeks of not being able to use my visa card or an ATM I had visions of being deported from Cambodia for not being able to pay the visa fee of a measly $20. I had a $10 note. I stressed the whole way to Pakse, in the south of Laos, where we refueled. As we disembarked in Pakse I realised what the girl had been doing, she was asking if that $20 was mine. It hadn't even occurred to me that I had taken it out of my wallet. Generally you can get a lot done with sign language, but this time it failed. *As an aside, the 'thumbs up' sign is not as universal as I had thought and the 'peace' symbol is assumed to mean 'good' by young Laotians. A monk told me, so it must be true.* I continued to stress, but with self-hating idiocy added to my mire of emotions. Actually, I stressed and self-hated really slowly, the valium was still in effect. I waited for the plane to fill up and mustered the courage to explain my predicament to the most sympathetic person I could find. The mumsy, yet cantankerous woman was cast off my list as she berated the steward for not providing diet coke on the flight, as was the friendly older guy when I saw him counting out $20 in $1 and $2 notes and only just having enough. I settled on a very sweet young couple, reading books on Buddhism (Jaqueline and Emery of California). They offered to help before I'd offered to give them my passport number or even told them my name. When we arrived in Siem Reap, I stuck close to them, I joked around and generally tried to prove that I would at least be a friendly and entertaining short term interloper. Inside, I was worried that I wouldn't be able to use my visa card to access any ATM in Siem Reap to pay them back and that I'd have to wait for yet another Western Union transfer. As we entered the airport I saw them, not one, but two ATM's! I got my money, I breathed, I relaxed and made my way through the insanely easy visa and customs process. BTW, the customs process involved filling in a minute form and placing it on an unstaffed desk.
As I emerged into the heat a smiling guy with my name on a sign met me and I was on my way to The Two Dragons Guesthouse, where I am writing this in the comfort of my own room.

2007-06-11T06:51:00.000-07:00

Some Assembly Required
OK, well clearly I have become somewhat lax in my blogging duties. There are reasons, most of which relate to laziness, but if you're after something more meaty, there have been a lot of 'things' that have happened that I have found frankly impossible to report with any kind of fairness, gravity and love. These 'things' have happened to me here (though 'here' is a fluctuating term) and to others at home, but all of them have had a major affect on my last few weeks.
I really do plan on writing all of this up properly, I will be moving to a Wi-Fi enabled hotel in 2 days so all excuses shall disappear, but in the meanwhile, I'll dot point vaguely similar groups of events.

The good of travel.

I was sold a 'luxury' 'VIP' bus ticket from Hue, Vietnam to Savannakhet, Laos that turned out to be a tiny and over packed minibus to the border (with a visa scam) and a 7 hour trip on a local bus that stopped every 20 minutes for new passengers and resembled the bus that Kathleen Turner was dumped out of in Colombia at the beginning of Romancing the Stone. I am not a proponent of the 'suffering equals fun' school of backpacker travel, but I can honestly say that I have never had more fun on a bus before (my year 11 Choir Camp trip with has just been eclipsed). After crossing the border, and arguing my way out of the visa scam (with the help of a lovely young guy from Burma/Myanmar called San) our weary band of tourists waited for out bus. There were 7 of us, I was the only western woman, with a guy I'd normally cast off as a dirty old bastard from Britain, his Laos girlfriend, San and a rather shell shocked-looking upper middle class family from Thailand. Through the constant badgering and harassing of the bus station attendant by Porhn (the Laotian woman) we discovered that the rust heap in front of us was to be our transportation. I will write this up in full later but the crucial thing was that one of the many locals on the bus was rather tipsy after attending a wedding and was passing out BeerLao like it was going out of fashion. The Brit guy, Paul, insisted I joined the party and soon every man on the bus was smashed (we bought more beer at every stop) and Paul and I were singing pop songs for the local crowd (London Calling was a real highlight). At one longer stop San took me for a walk through the local market (he is a tour guide in Burma, and a complete natural at his job) and we ended up in a reptile market. I am not at ease with serpents, but my curiosity overcame everything else and I had a good look around. When the ride was over Paul and Porhn insisted on taking me to the hotel they were staying in, negotiated a very cheap deal for me and took me out for a proper Lao Dinner of roasted fish and sticky rice. I ended up spending 4 days in Savannakhet because I had forgotten to get enough money before leaving Vietnam (no ATMs in Savannakhet) and Paul bankrolled me til I got my money. I have a lot to say about both Paul and Porhn, and their relationship, that will wait for later.
Vientiane, wow, how dull. This is not a place to stay for long, although you could probably have quite a nice expat-ty life here. I splashed out on a decent hotel and watched far too many HBO films. A made for TV flick called 'Radio' with Cuba Gooding Jr and Ed Harris had me in floods. Both times I watched it.
Vang Vieng is a town renowned as a backpacker haven. This is the land of the TV bar with Friends re-runs, 'happy' shakes/pizzas/spliffs and tubing. I had been looking forward to the easy tackiness of the place, but I ended up finding it odd and depressing. It was full of the backpacker stereotypes that you rarely see outside of Bangkok's Khao San Road. I couldn't wait to leave. Especially after I attractd the attention of a rather intense Greek guy who wanted to discuss Macedonian independence (he was in the 'con' camp) which I know nothing about and I can attest has scant value as a knicker dropper for the average Australian woamn. This seemed to surprised him. I had to leave town when I had a snake removed from my room.
Luang Prabang, ah, lovely. I have been here for 4 weeks, which involved a rather expensive visa extension and the decision to skip Thailand entirely (although after meeting the backpacker denizens of Vang Vieng, I wasn't too sad to skip their breeding ground). It is really pretty, old, French colonial, old wats (temples/monasteries) and like the rest of the country, seriously laid back.

Things on my mind: when you are away from home for so long, particularly when you are as close to your family as I am ('family' is defined as all those who treat you like family in my book, blood has nothing to do with it. Except when they are the same people. Make sense?), you start to miss them. Their pain, from such as distance, is extrapolated to operatic proportions simply because you can't be there to awkwardly pat their arm in comfort. When the pain is real, and large and justifiably operatic it just makes your distance from them all the more painful. So in order of occurrence, and with no real explanation of my feelings, here are the 'things' from home:

My brother and his girlfriend of 7 (?) years broke up. I think. Well, they no longer live in the same state let alone the same house.

One of my closest friends' mother died. I knew and loved her too.
One of my cousins died. He was young and it was entirely unexpected.
The same close friend's relationship broke up in a rather painful way.
Trying to finish my uni essay proved rather tricky between boredom with the topic, illness and not having a doctor to ask for an extension note.

'Things' here:

I had been feeling under the weather, the standard tropical/stomach related stuff, then the aches started, and the vomiting and the sneezing and the headache. Then I got a call from Mum saying that my cousin had died of a suspected aneurysm. I am not prone to panicking about my health, I tend to assume that I'll get better and pay no attention to how sick I am. But with my head pounding so badly I couldn't stand (crawling to a third-world loo to throw up, yay!) I started to convince myself that I was going to die. My hotel moved me to a sister hotel with AC and brought me penicillin (they said it was safer to go to the pharmacy than the hospital. Fuck). After about 5 days I managed to eat something. 3 days later I ate something that stayed in my stomach long enough to evacuate out of the right orifice. I am still utterly exhausted, but that really could just be the heat. But I am not staying anywhere without AC again. It looks like I have had a genuine dose of Influenza. Next time someone with a sniffle says they have 'flu I may be forced to give them ipecac and hit them over the head with a hammer so they can actually experience the effects of 'flu.
I gave my passport to a travel agent to get my visa extended, it was meant to take 2 days. It was 7 days before I had my passport back. They had gotten me confused with a skinny, peroxide blonde, Russian woman in her fifties and seemed genuinely surprised when I insisted it wasn't me. Amazingly this surprise remained unabated the second time the3y offered me her passport.
No Passport equals no money. You need your passport to use the bank services. Infuriatingly in Luang Prabang not one of the ATM's accepts Visa cards for cash advances, so you have to go to a bank. Annoyingly my credit union is often not recognised as being a real Visa card place-thingie here in Laos, so I have forced my Mum and our friend Judy to become familiar with Western Union. Having no money, no passport and the tail end of illness is rather stressful. even if you are in one of the most beautiful places in the world.

Consider yourselves updated.
I am now just waiting the 10, really 9 days 'til I met my Mum in Cambodia. I suspect I may manage to cry more than she will. There's a first time for everything.

2007-05-22T01:59:00.000-07:00

Well, I am clearly somewhat behind in my blogging.
I am in northern Laos in a lovely and highly recommended spot called Luang Prabang. My second day here I was treated to this.
It's my first ever and was tres exciting.
A proper post (or more likely 3) will be up in the next few days.

2007-05-10T02:46:00.000-07:00

Earshot
Sorry for the extreme time delay since my last post, not having wi-fi (or any hotel based internet access) is cutting down on my communications, although I may well be actually living it a little more because I can't talk about it so much. So first off, Hue. Hue is on the north-Central coast of Vietnam and is the former imperial capital. It is also very close to the former Demilitarized Zone which is where the north and south divided the country in the mid 50s after seeing off the French. Normally I am the kind of girl who loves something ancient and royal with moss growing over a hefty portion of it's gnarled visage (Prince Charles is not safe), but I ended up seeing non of the beautiful old buildings that had been my sole reason for visiting this little burg. Sometimes life gets in the way of your plans in the most wonderful fashion.
I arrived in Hue at 8am after a long, hot and thoroughly unpleasant bus ride. If you think truck stop loos are scary in Oz (or wherever) allow me to be the first to contradict this thoroughly erroneous idea. Men may be happy to discretely unzip and relieve themselves, but the exercise is infinitely more exposing for ladies. I have now seen the girlbits of far too many of my fellow travelers.
So, arriving in Hue. It would not be any kind of exaggeration to say that it had been raining heavily, consequently the roads (and even a little of the pavements) were flooded. There was also a festival on, meaning that all accommodation for under US$10 was long gone. End result I paid US$10 for a pretty decent but not at all spectacular hotel room.
The next morning I dragged myself up with all of the good intentions of the backpacker (I will stick to my daily budget, I will see all of the sights I can, I will not strangle the buck toothed yokel that points at my fat arse) and headed down the the lobby for some emailing (backpacker rule 4, I shall not unduly worry my Ma into thinking I am dead). At the less than well connected computers I met up with a Canadian chap and we headed out for lunch (or breakfast, both?). I met him at just the right moment. I really was ready to either commit murder, or the even greater sin of losing face by crying or screaming, the next time someone made a comment about my weight. Be aware that in Vietnam, the punishment for being overweight is not at all dissimilar to the worse excesses of a high school bitch. Pointing, laughing, mocking, poking (I swear it's true) and generally behaving in a way that anyone over 15 in the West would never dream of and 95% of those under 15 would be appalled by is the norm from all and sundry here. It is very bizarre to know that people are laughing at you and not even giving you the respect of keeping out of your earshot. Your feelings just aren't important enough for them to care. At first I ignored it, then I rationalised it as being the result of their appallingly bad television (low expectations for entertainment) and finally I was just hurt an angry. It isn't just being overweight, it's everything. I read an article in one of the English daily papers in Hanoi (written by a Vietnamese guy) saying that the Vietnamese propensity for rudeness and childishness (his words) was doing them a massive disservice as tourists are now heading for Laos and Cambodia in droves rather than deal with the crap here. I have seen black, tall and fat tourists be stared and laughed at so many times I can't count. Sorry for the rampant cultural imperialism here, but it really is time to grow up kids!
While I was walking around with the Canadian (sorry, I don't use real names on here, and I can't think of a better pseudonym) this shit continued, but he spun it for me. He pointed out that they were looking in a not entirely unappreciative way, he teased (friendly, not a character assassination way) them back and generally made me feel good about myself. I had a great time over those few days, thank you so much. I also started to lose some of the agro towards the locals that had started to build. I'm sure it will come back at some point, but right now I feel quite decompressed.
I have now been to the Khe Sanh Army Base but despite my best efforts to find a big sign to get a cheesy photo the best I could to was, well, naff. I'll post it when I get some batteries for my camera to get the image.
Next Stop, Laos!

2007-04-30T22:35:00.000-07:00

Living Conditions/ Doublemeat Palace – Ninh Binh
****I was sure I posted this days ago, sorry!******
I am in a town called Ninh Binh, staying (and eating) at Xuan Hoa Hotel. Ninh Binh is 93 kms south of Hanoi and is the nearest major town to a few of north Vietnam’s most beautiful spots. The hotel is pretty new, maybe 3-4 years old and all of the rooms are in excellent condition with large bathrooms, comfy beds and high standards of cleanliness. Eek! With prose so completely devoid of style and flair like that last sentence, I am sure to get a job with the Lonely Planet upon my return to Australia.
The latest LP Guides to Vietnam and South East Asia both have Xuan Hoa Hotel in them and note that you wish that every guesthouse in the region was like it, how true. I got dropped here at 10pm by the tourist bus and, after reading numerous accounts of dodgy the hotels that the tour bus’s sell you on to, I was prepared to spend one night and then look for better lodgings. To my delight and surprise it is a fantastic spot where I am happy to stay. Good thing too, as I will be stuck here for a few days.
When I arrived I was taken to a small but clean and very comfortable looking room with one bed. I offered US$8 for it (never try to bargain while sleep deprived and exhausted) and the offer was taken immediately. I went down for some food (more on that later) and the young guy who had booked me in came and told me that his boss (Mr Xuan) had told him to find me a new, bigger room because I was paying too much. This kind of honesty is rare anywhere, let alone in the tourist market of a developing country. This is the view from my room, I'm really starting to like the nosiness of rooftop gazing.

I don’t have air conditioning, but I imagine it would be just a couple of dollars more. The water is hot, the bathroom is large, the TV only has Viet channels - but who cares? The staff are all excellent. They are friendly, helpful and a lot of fun, especially Mr Xuan and Ms Hoa who own and manage the hotel. Basically, I’m giving this place a massive rave! If you find yourself in this part of Vietnam, do your best to stay here. For US$15 you can get a large, airy room with a nice sized balcony, AC, two double beds and satellite TV. I am moving to a smaller room (probably the one I was offered originally) for US$5. It has one king single bed, a large hot water bathroom, fan and TV. This single room won’t have an outside window, but it does have a window that faces onto the hallway which has massive windows that let in a good breeze. This seems like an odd arrangement (ok, it is an odd arrangement) but it is pretty common in South East Asia with cheaper rooms. I’ll just padlock my bags, put them in the lockable cupboard and give my laptop, iRiver etc to Ms Hoa to put in the safety deposit box downstairs and leave the hallway window open during the day so it can air out. The mozzies make keeping the windonws open at night a no-no anyway.
On to the food! Normally I wonder out of my hotel for food. I like to have a look around town and generally get to know my surroundings. However, a quick drive through Ninh Binh and a walk to the internet café has convinced me that neither culinary delights nor new, fascinating insights into the ‘real’* Vietnam are to be found here. It is a pretty uninspiring town, and looks exactly the same as the outer suburbs of Hanoi. Besides, the food here at the hotel is awesome and very cheap.
At dinner they have a ‘set menu’ – I have no idea why they call it this, there are about 7 or 8 different choices – and everything I have seen looks great. The real treat here is the BBQ. You choose your meat (beef, chicken or pork), choose the type of spring rolls (veggie or meat) and how you would like your side order of veggies prepared. They’ll then ask how much you want to spend per person (between 30,000d and 70,000d) which will determine how much meat you get – with all of the rice, spring rolls and veggies you can stuff yourself on 40,000d. 30,000d could still leave leftovers.
The first time I ordered, I thought I’d get a stirfry with rice and spring rolls. Instead, this came out:

As I was eating alone, one of the ladies here insisted on cooking the meat for me so I could chat to her instead of eating alone (See? This place is beautiful!). The second time I was eating with Mika and Ive (two Belgians, about my age) and Michel (Hanoi-born French-raised, mid 50s) who I had shared a taxi out to Cuc Phuong National Park (see Where the Wild Things Are). On a side note, Mika and Ive were a riot, easily the most fun and interesting people I’ve met while over here.
There is a large breakfast menu with South East Asian backpacker fare (fruit salad and yoghurt, omelet and baguette, cereal, banana pancakes, pancakes with jam, toast, etc, etc) all for under 10,000d for a serve that will keep you going until lunch. Tea, coffee (Viet and Western) soft drinks, some juices, fruit shakes, water and a few different beers are all between 5,000d (Lipton Tea) and 15,000d (a filling fruit shake). Filled baguettes, Vietnamese soups and stirfry’s are available all day for under 15,000d.
Tours, cars, moto’s, onward travel and bicycle hire can all be arranged here and Mr Xuan really does bend over backwards to help everyone out.
Contact Details:
Tel: 030.880970
Mobile: 0904.010758
Email: xuanhoahotel@hotmail.com
Address: 31D Pho Minh Khai
Phuong Nam Thanh
Ninh Binh Town
* What is all this bollocks about the ‘real’ Vietnam/Asia/wherever? Do some people think the Vietnamese who work in the tourist trade are actually robots? Specially bred mutants? Some of them are definitely cheap labour from Laos and Cambodia, but I doubt that this is the concern of the anorak-wearing divvys who berate you for catching an air conditioned bus. Or for staying in a town rather than hitching a ride on a 2-stroke wheelbarrow to a dirt village like a ‘real’ ‘traveler’ would. I assume that the annoying types who bang on about it are meaning ‘authentic’ rather than ‘real’, but this is still silly. I am a middle-class, white, Australian – I can never experience these countries as the locals do and definitely not in the few months I’ll spend in the region. I wonder what the ‘travelers’ make of all the middleclass Vietnamese who outnumber the foreign tourists on the air conditioned buses and on plane flights? I guess middleclass Vietnamese are not ‘real’ Vietnamese people. Bloody robots and mutants are everywhere!
Personally I am happy with being classed as a ‘budget tourist’, but watching these ‘travelers’ get their collective knickers in a knot over being called a tourist is frankly hilarious. I highly recommended it for cheap entertainment. It’s even better if they patiently try to explain why they aren’t tourists (basically because they are doing it cheap, though they’ll say it’s because they aren’t on a package tour for the whole trip) and then encouragingly add that you are not a tourist either. Oh, how it thrills me to able to belong to such an exclusive coterie! Is the BO, superior attitude and full frontal lobotomy necessary to join these illustrious ranks?

2007-04-26T03:43:00.001-07:00

Entropy
I had planned on spending 3-4 days in Ninh Binh. If you are pushed for time and you are happy to take moto’s and cars to your destinations you could cover most of the big sites in the area in two days, but I am able to take things at a leisurely pace. Good thing too. Unbeknownst to me (and every other person staying in my hotel), the beginning of May sees one of Vietnam’s biggest national holidays, Liberation Day. It celebrates the end of the war with America and their allies, and goes for about 6 days (BTW, the war we refer to as the Vietnam War is called the American War here. Makes sense really.). Everything is still open, but all of the transport south, towards Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon), is booked solid by locals keen to join the celebrations in HCMC with family and friends. It also means that the ujsual posse of drivers and moto-drivers has been whittled down to very few. It’s all lovely… for them.
I had bought an open tour bus ticket to HCMC (I paid US$20 and got 8 different stops along the way. I can stay in each spot for as long as I like) before I decided to head straight into Laos from Hue in central Vietnam. So I am now determined to get at least some benefit from my US$20. This means that instead of getting one of the (very) few soft seat train tickets that are available, I will be staying here in Ninh Binh for about 6 or 7 days before I can get on the next bus to Hue. Luckily I am time-rich so I’ll stretch out my sightseeing days with days of writing, reading and teasing (and being teased by) Ms Hoa and Mr Xuan, so it’s not too bad.

2007-04-26T03:41:00.000-07:00

Where the Wild Things Are
Or
Does a bear shit in the woods?
Yesterday I set off on my first non-urban Vietnam adventure. My destination was Cuc Phuong National Park 45 kms away from Ninh Binh. Mr Xuan organized a group of us to share a car for the trip and charged us US$10 each for the day. You could probably do it a little cheaper, though not at this time of year (link to Entropy). The drive itself was often pretty, over a good road and took about 1.5 hours. A warning, unless you love riding moto’s, or you are really trying to save money, take a car. It’s a long drive. The park costs 50,000d to enter per person, per day. You can stay onsite, and the accommodation looked nice with little bungalows overlooking a lake and some pretty posh ‘camping’ set ups.
At the front of the park is the Endangered Primate Rescue Centre which rescues endangered langurs and gibbons from various forms of human nastiness and then breeds them to set free into the wild to repopulate their ecosystems. A tour is free and I would recommend it. Keep in mind that this is a breeding program. They animals are not running around and performing crazy stunts for your amusement. They are kept in large (very humane looking) cages until they are old enough to be slowly introduced to the semi-wild, and then the wild areas. This is not the place if you want to interact with cute little beasties, but it is the place to learn about their plight, see a world renowned eco-project at work and see animals as young as 6 days old!
The main activity in Cuc Phuong is trekking and there are many tracks to choose. We decided on a 8km hike (the park says it’s 6kms, every guidebook in existence says 8km. The guide book is right.) and a stop off at the ‘cave of prehistoric man’. The cave is a short but incredibly steep walk up torturous and precarious steps, but it is a pretty cool site.
(Pic of the steps o death)

You need a torch to look around, and watch out for the bats. Unfortunately, due to the lack of light none of my pictures turned out. Sigh. This turned out to be the least of my dramas.
Owing to a combination of factors, the steep and very slippery climb up and back to the cave knocked me down for the day. The factors (in ascending importance) are these:
I had a hangover, the result of a few beers and ‘Ninh Binh Water’ (AKA Mr Xuan’s moonshine) with Mika and Ive the night before. Mike and Ive didn’t have the Ninh Binh Water the clever cats.
I am very unfit.
I slipped and scrambled for a hand hold, twisting my wrist in the process, while climbing the wet and steep stone steps to the cave (for those who came in late, I have hurt my wrist and it has caused me a few problems during my time here).
I have had some slight stomach issues for about a week now. I’m not feeling sick all the time, but when I need the toilet I REALLY need the toilet.
On the drive between the cave and the jumping off point for the hike, the attention I was paying to re-bandaging my wrist was soon redirected to my stomach’s dire need to expel its contents. I was sweating, pale, shaking and generally concerning my travel buddies. We arrived at the starting point and I bolted for the toilets. Vomiting in front of people you have just met is not cool, but luckily I managed to make it to a large bush before losing my fruit salad brekkie. I then made my way to the public loo’s.
I am not particularly interested in my own movements, and I don’t tend to share them with others, so I’ll keep this pretty un-graphic. These are only the second squat toilet’s I have come across this time ‘round in Vietnam (there were a lot more in 2003). They don’t bother me as long as they are clean (these one’s were), besides it’s sometimes preferable to not touch the surface of a public toilet. But when you have a tummy upset, western toilets can provide a sense of security. Suffice it to say I did not embarrass myself and I did not need to clean the room out, but I was not a well chapess.
For those who are interested I am including a couple of shots of squat toilets (along with some squat loo etiquette). These ones are clean, the marks on the floor is the dirt from my shoes.
Nam = Man & Nu = Woman (remember Man is Nam backwards)
BYO toilet paper
Flushing and washing of hands
Wet wipes - genius

I returned from the loo feeling better, but still really shaky. A quick straw poll was taken and everyone agreed that I should not attempt the long, hard hike. I had managed to convince my travel buds that the illness was entirely due to a hangover, it just seemed far less embarrassing than the whole truth. I knew I would blog this so I had to avoid giving Mika my address, although she asked several times. I just gave, ‘yeah, sure, I’ll write it later. Let’s get another drink!’ responses.
There was a picnic spot and a small restaurant at this spot and we had a basic but good meal of rice, pork and sautéed greens (I stuck to rice with soya sauce). We amused the locals no end by running excitedly over to get a snap of this little monster:
(pics)
It doesn’t look it, but it was about 7 inches long! One local wag pointed to the dog and made a camera gesture before collapsing in giggles. This left us in no doubt that the beastie was a bog-standard sighting in this part of the world.
After the (heavy) rain stopped Mika, Ive and Michel set off and I started a fruitless mission to get a picture of a butterfly. There were lots of different kinds, but the black ones with iridescent blue splotches were the most gorgeous. One of them was flying all around me, but refused to land. When it did I discovered that its under-wings were a very dull brown that no doubt provides wonderful camouflage, but not so great photo fodder. Especially when it landed on an equally brown chair.
Our driver headed around to the pick up spot and I decided to go for a little walk. A ranger pointed me in the direction of a small gap in the trees, assured me there was a trail and gave me a friendly push. What I found was this:
PICS PICS
The stone paths were lain out in a grid pattern across a relatively flat, lush protected area. I spotted some wildlife:
Snail
Lizard
Plus plenty more I couldn’t get photos of. Picture deep green jungle, birds calling, insects buzzing, the occasional fat drop of rain breaking through the dense canopy overhead and one large woman muttering ‘land you bastard’ as she chases the uncooperative butterflies.
The park is home to lots of animal life including several varieties of langurs, gibbons, snakes, lizards, turtles, birds and even bears! I am damn glad I didn’t come across one of the many king cobras that populate the area. I discovered that they were abundant from an information sign I passed as I was heading back to the car. If I had known, I probably would have sat in the car and watched the karaoke video our driver was very keen to show me on his in-car TV. As it was, I walked for almost as long as those who took the hike, albeit over much more Cowgirl-friendly terrain. About halfway through my walk, my decision not to do the hike was proved correct. While I didn’t see any bears, I now have it on good authority that some large omnivorous mammals do indeed shit in the woods.
Please keep the comments coming, I’ll check them out and respond once I get some wifi in Hue (should be by Monday 30 April).

2007-04-24T03:05:00.000-07:00

*****************I seem to be barred from viewing my blog and your******************** *****************comments in the one horse town I am in. I'll check it******************* ********************all out in a few days once I get to Hue*********************

2007-04-22T03:33:00.000-07:00

Living Conditions/Doublemeat Palace*
This is will be my last post from Hanoi for a couple of months: for a long, eloquently written, essay on how this came about look here. The shorter version is simply 'cause I'm a rider at the gates of dawn and I take no prisoners! Anyone (other than Rel and Harms) who gets this will win a prize (not sure what it is, maybe I'll just invite you to join me in a discussion regarding our mutual marvelousness).
I am heading to Ninh Binh tomorrow night to spend a few days checking out the Cuc Phuong National Park and Ta m Coc. Then I'm moving onto Hue, the old imperial capital - wooooo - before venturing into Laos.
I'll do my best to blog as I go, but (as I'll be losing my beloved in-room Wi-fi) I may just get lazy and say 'Twas Good, here's a pic' for a few places before doing a proper write up later on.
My time in Hanoi has been largely untouristy. This in part because I had been here before but mainly because I was also thinking that I'd get to see it all while I lived here. Now I'm happy to wait until I come back in July.
However I can give you few tips and recommendations for places to bum around, eat, drink and generally mooch around some more. I'll be swinging between currencies (as does everyone in the Old Quarter) so as a guide:
A$1 = 12000d - 13000d (d= Vietnamese Dong)
US$1 = 16000d, this is pretty set
A$1 = US$0.83 (today)
www.xe.com is a great conversion site, you'll have to click on the 'other currencies' button to get Vietnamese Dong.
Moving on.
This is a map of central Hanoi. The Old Quarter, or Hoan Kiem District, surrounds Hoan Kiem Lake. This link has a more detailed map of the area.
I've been staying in a hotel called Tung Trang, 13 Tam Thuong Alley Way in the Old Quarter.
Tung Trang's entrance is where all of the plants are on the right hand side. This is the alley from the other direction, there are about 8 tiny restaurants here selling something called Nemh Rua which doesn't do much for me (mazing Viet food Nai doesn't like). The hotel is on an amazingly quiet alley way (no cars can go down the lane, but there are moto's aplenty) 5 minutes walk to the lake (sorry, crappy photographer+crappy cloudy skys = crappy pic)
and 3 minutes walk to the cathedral on Nha Tho Pho (very swanky homewares, silk shops and great eats).I've been paying $10 a night for a small twin room; private bathroom with hot water (about 5 minutes worth at a time, but it heats up quick and the pressure is good) and a western style loo, AC, a ceiling fan that may have been responsible for Hurricane Katrina, Satellite TV(BBC, DW-TV, TV5, HBO, Discovery, a Russian Channel, Cartoon Network and Animal Planet) and Wi-Fi in my room.
The family who runs the place are great. The room is cleaned daily and it is incredibly safe for both you and your belongings. While I would never recommend that you leave your valuables lying about, in this place the only thieves would be other patrons. Only one of the people who works here isn't a member of the immediate family, and she (Thom) is a doll. The grandma cooks my brekkie, the son runs the place, the parents sit back and enjoy their profits (they don't speak English, but are happy to mime things with you) and the youngest daughter cleans the rooms in between school and homework. Travelfish.org (one of the most helpful sites on the web for this part of the world) gives this place a rave. My one reservation is that since Travelfish was last here, the walls have acquired their coat of Vietnamese grottiness. The floors in Vietnamese homes and businesses are spotless, but there are often dodgy looking smears and hand prints on the walls of even the best places. However, smudgey marks don't bother me and I recommend this place to people looking for a comfy hole away from the madness of Hanoi's streets. The bigger US$18 a night rooms look pretty great with all of the stuff my room has plus balcony, fridge and more space.
I did say my room was small, this photo was taken with my back against the wall while standing in the 20cm gap between the two king-single beds, the door goes to my bathroom:
If you are staying in Hanoi as a tourist (or traveler if you must take umbrage to the seemingly innocuous term 'tourist') it makes sense to stay in the Old Quarter. 95% of what you will want to see and do will be here.
You won't be able to walk 20m without someone calling 'Moto, Madame?'. A moto is a 250cc (or less) scooter that operates like a taxi. Make sure you have a map and that the guy (they are always male) knows where you want to go (it'll be your pronunciation that will foul up communication) and settle a price before hand (enjoy the haggling experience - hahahahahahaha!). Often you'll say 'No thank you' to one chap, and three more sitting right next to him will also ask. I think they are hoping that you had deemed his moto to be substandard, while their own, superior vehicle will be acceptable. Just smile and say 'No thank you' again, and again, and again. Then you'll start saying 'No!' before running into the nearest cafe to get away from them all. To be honest, I've not got on a moto this time 'round. This is partly because the Old Quarter is small enough to do on foot, partly because my wrist is making me a little timid and mostly because the traffic scares the spit out of me.
Cyclo's (pronounced 'siklo') are pedal powered thrones. Sort of like a rickshaw. Again, these are everywhere. They draw your attention by tingaling-ing a little bell. Agree on a price before hand or you could get really fleeced. I have only used one of these once this time round, I was so full of food, addled by beer and utterly lost, that 8000d seemed like a great deal to get me home. It turns out it was. I was really far from my hotel and the guy had great English and excellent knowledge of the area etc.
There are so many places to eat and drink that I'll stick to the ones I have returned to a few times, plus a few that I would have if my budget had allowed.
I've already done a food blog and I'd recommend having a quick look over it before you keep reading. Back? My love of pho at 'Pho' at 10 Ly Quoc Su St knows no bounds. The place rocks.

Here is the table setting (note the classy plain crockery, makes a change to the ode to gaudiness of the usual pho-hole)

Here is the soup in all it's deliciousness
Just near the Cathedral (St Joseph's Catholic Cathedral) on Nha Tho Pho (pho is also the word for street) is a slew of slightly higher than (my) budget eateries. Cafe Moca is one I've gone back to a few times. The food is good and they have a pretty respectable menu of Western, Indian, generic 'Asian' and Vietnamese favourites. They also have an extensive wine and spirits list and their very own boutique beer (called 'Red Beer', yes, it's pretty red. I prefer a cleaner, pilsner-y type brew, this is a good hearty beer). The building itself id made up of two French colonial villas and would make for a gorgeous little bistro in any swanky burb in the world. The massive windows open out onto a street with strangler fig trees, swanky silk, jewelry and homewares stores for you to stare at while you sip the Moca Cafe blend (roasted on site). I could sit here happily for hours.
The blue shop in the pic is a boutique called *Tina Sparkle* by Ipa-Nima (Ipa-Nima is a bona fide Vietnamese fashion house, great stuff).
That just tickles me.
Here is Cafe Moca's green Papaya Salad with Beef Strips, it's fabulous.
I also recommend their '3 eggs' breakfasts. You choose how the eggs are done (scrambled, fried, poached, boiled) and they bring it out with toast, bacon and mushrooms or tomatoes (vegetarians can get something else instead of bacon). It's huge and costs 42000d, and makes a change when you're over pho for breakfast.
Across the street is La Salsa Tapas Bar, great food, great wine list, great atmos, bring your wallet. Also opposite is Mediterraneo, run by the most glam and gorgeous blond Italian woman I have ever seen. This place has the comfiest dining chairs in Hanoi. I came here after pulling an all-nighter to finish an assignment so I was treating myself. I can only blame my addled state for choosing to try squid ink risotto. The rice was perfect (suggesting that other risottos will be really good), lots of squid too, but I don't think I like squid ink. It's very inky (duh) and reminded me of when I was nervously chewing on a pen during an exam and it ruptured in my mouth. It's also tres expensive.
I have to give a massive rave to Cyclo Bar and restaurant on Duong Thanh. Inside, all of the tables and chairs have been converted out of old cyclos, so the place looks fab. Out the back is a lovely little courtyard. The food and drink is excellent, as is the service. Mains cost about US$4.
Little Hanoi on Hang Gai (this is the street to get custom made silk frocks at the higher end of the market) is a lovely little place with bamboo decor and a fantastic range of baguettes and other sandwiches. I had a Banana Flower Salad with Beef strips for 18000d and it was gorgeous, though not intended to be a full meal so get a desert!
Pepperoni's is a pizza bar with so much more, like a delivery service. It's on Ly Quoc Su opposite 'Pho'. They do a 35,000d all you can eat pasta and salad lunch. Tthis is amazing value for such good pasta and while I've only done it once (their green papaya salad is fab), I do recommend it.
So onto the street food. For the most part I have stayed loyal to 4 vendors, all near my hotel. The first is a thing, that I don't know the name of so here are two pics:

It's a steamed bun, served hot with...stuff in it. The roundy thing is a quail egg, you get two of these and the mushy stuff is meat and veg all smushed together. The pic doesn't show the true glory of the sludge green colouring. But I really, really like these things. The stall I get it from is on the corner of Yen Thai (a tiny alley that my even tinier alley terminates on) and Duong Thanh Pho. It's opposite Hang Da markets (it's three stories tall. No missing it). She closes up shop at about 3pm. I think the real price is 2000d, but she initially charged me 3000d. Bargain either way.
If you are at the end of Yen Thai, facing the Hang Da markets, turn right to find my three other favourite street food vendors. The first is a 'Kebab' place that is a little stall that sets up inside a sugar cane juice (super sweet, gag) place (look for the smashed up sugar cane outside). It sells a baguette with yiros/souvlaki/doner kebab meat, cucumbers, herbs, sliced red cabbage and onion with a mild chili sauce for 10000dA few steps further and you'll hit a little bakery. Everything here is good, but I'm a big fan of this 2000d, 10cm diameter, slightly coconut-y biscuit (artfully presented on a map of Hanoi)

Finally we come to the super cheap, super filling, basic Hanoi Baguette. 5000d gets you either a 3 eggs omelette, pork 'meat' (it's processed pork fat AVOID, although this is the one the pic is of), stewed beef, Vietnamese pate (for the South Australians it is very similar to fritz, but a with spices) plus a few I couldn't work out, with herbs and chili sauce.
So there it is.
Next stop, Ninh Binh.
* I expect that this title combo may be used several times as I continue my travels. For each of posts with this title, I'll write something else - just so you know I'm not cheating.

2007-04-18T06:56:00.000-07:00

Older and Far Away
This is a tricky post to start. so much to say, so many qualifications, second guesses and general reassurances seem to be required.
I am not going to stay in Vietnam and teach, instead I'm going to backpack around the region for 3 months and come home in mid July.
Apparently it was not that tricky.
First off, I am OK. Nothing vile or life changing has occurred to make me change my mind, I just know it's the right thing for me to do.
So now I come to what will no doubt make up the bulk of this potentially long missive; the 'why'. It really comes down to my personality and headspace (now that's a word that deserves a place in any WankWord Bingo game). In brief I am too old and too female to do something like this in Vietnam alone.
First off, even those single guys who are not searching for short term sexcapades at bargain prices* are likely to find a well educated, middle class Vietnamese girlfriend within about 5 minutes of landing (I mean an actual girlfriend, not an employee). This is a single western man's paradise, Mazel tov. Although some of the pairings I have seen lead me to suspect that Charisma Man has landed in Vietnam.
Now, while I think fondly of my years of nightly public drunkenness with friends and strangers alike, I have realised that I am now pretty well past them. Well, in as much as I no longer like to drink 'til I bleed and find trees terribly attractive (So tall, and environmentally aware!). This activity seems to make up the bulk of the entertainment for unattached, young female teachers. I am sure there are some fabulous chapesses of the English teaching sorority who would be interested in joining me for great food and reasonably priced DVDs to watch over a few drinks. Alas they are not at the bottom-feeder end of the teaching market, which is sadly where I am 'qualified' to work.
Which brings me to my next 'why': the reality of teaching English in Vietnam has changed. If you want to teach in a school that is in anyway morally culpable to its students you will need your degree and a CELTA or equivalent course. I do not have my degree as yet, and I have now decided to channel my CELTA money into an extended jaunt across South East Asia. The only thing that pisses me off about this situation is that I took some bad advice. I had been assured that I would have no problem finding work and I'm sure the advice was well meant. To be fair my scruples did get in the way of me taking jobs in schools that seemed to be either a dating agency for Charisma Men, or only interested in their students as cash cows. OK, one other thing annoyed me, people with degrees in areas that were formally covered by 6 months at TAFE (and who I can vouch have scant understanding of the mechanics of the English language) are teaching people here and being really well paid for it. This is utter crap, people pay a lot of money to get English lessons and they should be getting a good service. That said, things are getting better. The change in these standards is really a good thing, hopefully there will soon be enough native speakers with the appropriate skills to match their students dedication and thirst to learn.
My penultimate** reason for not sticking it out is that I really miss my people, friends and family alike. Some people are able to detach from their loved ones and cope well enough, I am not one of those people. I'm not suffering from rampaging home sickness (although the only time I have been homesick I was 6 and actually made myself throw up, so with that as a comparison I may well have set the bar too high to accurately judge my situation), I just know I won't be able to last for 12 months.
I said that I hadn't had any life changing events occur, but I have had a life changing realisation. I like my life. I love going to the Central Market with people, having a $6 bowl of something from Chinatown (OK, China-lane) and waiting for all of the veggies to get cheap on a Saturday afternoon. I love being able to afford decent wine! I love blue skies with white fluffy clouds. I love spending time with those who are important to me. I love looking at this view when I stay at my parent's house (or set up camp there for months on end):
I could put aside all of these and look at this adventure as enforced time away to make my heart grow fonder were it not for one thing. While I am here I feel like my life is on hold and that is an uncomfortable, nasty little thought that is eating at me. I want to start looking for a job that will lead to a career of some sort. I want to see my niece grow up and hear her say my name. I want to start acquiring things like a lovely sofa and some fantastic bookshelves. I want a car that is reliable, comfortable and doesn't smell ever so slightly mouldy. I want to have my own place that is a comforting space to call my own and a lovely environment to have friends in for dinner, crappy TV and cheap yet quaffable wine. I know it all sounds terrible consumerist, and it is, but it is also about creating my place in the world. In short I am really wanting to nest. I think I'll get a cat while I'm at it (I'll keep her off the couch so that allergic types can still recline in my abode).
I feel like I have cracked the quarter-life crisis! I don't really want a glamorous, high powered, high stress life. I want my life. If nothing else, this little adventure has been more fun, less time consuming and far cheaper than getting therapy to reach this wonderful epiphany. Ahhhh, relaxed and happy.
So, onto my immediate plan. My Ma had booked her ticket to come and visit me 2 days before I realised I was not going to make it here. I had been holding off saying anything, either on the phone, in emails or in blog form, until I was certain - under the misapprehension that this would be less worrying for Ma and Pa. Of course they knew something was up, all good parents do, and telling them that I'd made a little miscalculation was far easier than I had bizarrely thought it would be. I assured Ma that I wanted her to visit me here, as long as she took me home with her at the end of it all. My par's have agreed to loan me the money that I was going to use to do my CELTA so that I can jaunt across this corner of the world for 2 months before meeting Ma and showing her a few sites and then, blessed be, heading home to Oddelaide!
I am pretty sure of my travel route, but exact details are scant. I'll start by getting an open tour bus ticket south to HCMC, stopping in a few places I have never been along the way (Ninh Binh, Hue, Dalat). Then I'll head overland, on the bus route from hell, to Phnom Penh. I'll basically do the tourist trail in Cambodia, except for Siem Reap (home of the Angkor Wat Temple complex) because I am meeting Ma there later on. I'll go into Laos via the Mekong (fresh water dolphins!) and I plan on spending the bulk of my time here, going south to north. From north Laos I'll go to Thailand: Chang Rai, Chang Mai, Sukothai, Ayuttaya and Bangkok. Finally Ill go back into Cambodia (Possibly via boat from Trat in Thailand - ooooh!) to be in Siem Reap by June 22 to meet Ma.
So now I need to organise myself for travel. My hotel in Hanoi will hold my bags (I need to double check that they realise it will be for MONTHS, otherwise I'll need to get that sorted) so I can travel a bit lighter. I need to bring my laptop for work (plus it makes uni easier) but it will bulk up my bag, ah well. I need to get a few travel-y things like a silk sleep sheet, mozzie repellent and some sandal/thong/flipflop things for days when I don't want to wear my hiking boots (still taking the boots, the comfort and protection they offer far outweighs the heat of wearing them).
I'm looking at leaving Hanoi in a few days time. Wow. It looks very exciting when I write it all down and realise that I am about to start this adventure in a matter of hours (96-130 to be a precise. Ish).
I will keep blogging, and you can reasonably expect a few more travel related entries rather than lists of great websites and birthday wishes to my beloved cousins.
Finally a few big thank you's. First and foremost to my parental units, followed closely by those that calmed me before I talked to them; harms, kalliste, mtk and audrey.
Time for bed, I have a big day of organisation tomorrow. I am almost giddy. Hurrah!

* I haven't bothered to get into arguments with these guys, there's no point. They'd call me a jealous fat western cow, I'd call them a waste of a perfectly good ovum and nothing would be achieved. Except that both of us would have reaffirmed our initial opinion of the other. I would like to challenge the view they have that the prostitution is cheap here because Vietnamese women just like to please more than evil fat western cows (FWC is a common acronym on sexpat websites). I wonder if it has occurred to them that the same level of obedience, charm, personal presentation and acting (necessary to pull off this charade) are all available from prostitutes in the West, but only if you can afford to pay for it? I hate to break their illusions (liar) but the behsviour of the pros here has nothing to do with some sort of genetic subservience or cock-worship. Vietnamese pros are available to these guys because the economic value placed on the labour of westerners has been deemed higher than that of the Vietnamese prostitute; simple fact. In summation; they are clearly fuck-knuckles.

** This word should be in the BA essay writer's edition of WankWord Bingo.

2007-04-12T20:15:00.000-07:00

Bring on the Night
Tonight will see the celebration of the birth of an outstanding individual. Not coincidentally it is also her birthday. From mutual love of Rik Mayall - and past devotion to slightly scary music - we have come to this point of agedness together. I wish I could be there tonight, where much merriment shall ensue, and I am pretty certain no ubervamps shall be slain. But you never know.

I tried to find a clip of Harmony that would have been appropriate (ok, unlikely) but alas, you'll have to make do with Bill Bailey going all Chaucerian.

2007-04-12T05:36:00.000-07:00

I Robot... You, Jane
Like many a member of my generation (X or Y, depending on who you're listening to) I have fallen foul of the curse of internet love. While several of my pals have dipped their toes into the murky waters of RSVP and others have eschewed the illusion of dating and jumped straight into dial-a-cock territory, my love is more direct, more immediate, more pure. I am in love with the internet itself. I can surf for hours without getting bored and since landing in this land of oddness (the one that isn't Oddelaide) my devotion has only grown. Just as I think that I have may have to wander out of my WiFi enabled cell to find entertainment, my cyberlover provides me with something new and exciting. So, at the risk of turning this blog into a glorified list, here are the websites I use to wile away the hours (all uni and work related sites have been left off, otherwise you'd be follow exciting links like this one):

IMDb I spend an insane amount of time trying to figure out where I have seen the guy at the back of the bar scene in the made for TV schlock on HBOAsia. I also love reading the truly insane comments from fans and haters. My current obsession is following the movements of one 'shrekmichael' as he blasts indecipherable bilge that I can only be sure is right wing because he declares so many films to be 'ANIT MILTARY, ANIT AMERICAN'.
StuffOnMyCat This is as into 'cute' as I get. I prefer it when they look annoyed.
The Age I am quite proud to say that I read at least 5 articles a day before beelining to the entertainment section.
Go Fug Yourself Celebrity assassination via fashion critique.
Wikipedia I am seldom able to maintain interest in uni work, yet I can study the minutiae of my favourite films, TV shows and books for hours.
NNDb For those times when you want to be able to cross reference notable types according to their criminal record, sexual preference or belief system.
Gmail gchat has kept me sane.
The following sites comprise my second most surfed sites. Homes, furniture, renovation. I call it Nesting Porn.
And my number 1 website, both in hours online and in general joy achieved is YouTube. My favourite finds include

Dylan Moran's Monster
Mystery Science Theatre 3000

Happy viewing.

2007-04-04T21:11:00.000-07:00

Bad Eggs
Tis the season to stuff oneself with chocolate ovum! Unless, like me, you are in a country that doesn't pay much attention to the world's biggest chocolate festival. I'm not much of a chocolate person, but I am on the look out for where I can buy a good hot cross bunny-bun-bun. I love them. A few years ago I bought bags of them at Easter, froze them and had cinnamon-y deliciousness well into October. Ahhhh.
I thought it was time for a Vietnam based entry and so I present you with Nai's guide to not being a bad egg while visiting Vietnam. It is based in part on personal experience, but mainly on viewing the absurdity of others.

If someone doesn't understand English, shouting the same phrase at them will not induce a Babel fish to jump into their ear.
If you are eating in an el cheapo backpacker hovel, don't embarrass yourself by sending back the pizza because it isn't 'proper'. There are decent pizza places here, but they cost more than US$2.
Incredibly beautiful men (with incredibly beautiful children) who make eyes at loan female travelers should be aware that we know that your wife is just around the corner. You have that hopeless, befuddled, 'I'm waiting for my frau to take our children off of my hands' look. Continuing your attempts to catch said loan female's gaze once your lady returns is just irksome*
Yep, in the tourist areas people will try to fleece you. Remember no one is forcing you to buy anything! And they aren't all out for your greenbacks, there are plenty of honest traders, even the tourist haunts.
On a similar topic, always, ALWAYS smile, joke and generally be friendly when you are negotiating or haggling over goods and services.
Conversely, never, NEVER yell, shout, cry or otherwise hissy-fit during a transaction.
Do some rudimentary research before you hop on the plane. Wandering around Hanoi in the middle of winter in a singlet is a bad look. And bloody cold**.
Expect to get stared at if you; have dreadlocks, facial piercings, visible tattoos, are semi-naked, a grown man in shorts with socks, or without socks, the only non-Vietnamese in a venue, taller than average, blonde, red haired, fat, black, white, a solo female, a solo male, part of a large tour group, walking, talking or breathing. It's nothing personal, once you've seen the TV here you'll know why they need the entertainment you provide.
If you look European & converse in English with people, the guy who's selling DVDs out of a wheelbarrow will assume you are a native English speaker. Seeing as this is the case, it is very uncool to berate him for not stocking DVDs with subtitles before launching into your obviously well practiced tirade regarding English's position as the world's lingua franca. And no, this was not a French person.
No, you do not want extra chilli, you are just showing off to the luscious German lass who is too lovely to have even noticed you. Piss off, the Barmy Army is missing it's Vice-Admiral of formation vomiting.

*And yes, I have thought of you often and let a whimsical sigh pass my lips. Curse you.
**A little tip from the Voice of Experience

2007-03-31T01:23:00.000-07:00

This Year's Girl
Stepping away from my usual mandate to educate and entertain, I am sending a sweet sixteenth shout-out to my cousin, Ms H. Enjoy your later teen years and remember, these are not the best years of your life. Whoever says that they are is either a particularly sad ex-cheerleader type, a delusional and jealous middle aged sad act, or (and this is the most likely option) selling something.
I'll be at your 17th, providing I'm deemed young and hip enough to attend.

2007-03-26T21:43:00.000-07:00

Anne
I wrote this before I got an email saying that they had changed their minds. I removed the post immediately, but I have decided to repost it for posterity. I am now looking at doing my CELTA in May, in Hanoi. I'm ok about it all, I just wish that they had had the decency to tell me to my face, I really could have handled it.l I was shocked they were even interviewing me with my CV! It's part of the painful custom of 'saving face'. Eurocentrism be damned, this custom as got to stop!
I have a job. Well, I have 4 hours a week at a pretty decent looking school teaching some pretty adorable 6 year olds. The school has promised to up my hours (if they and the kids like me) as soon as I have done my CELTA and the other foreign teachers tell me that they are a reliable school who I can take at their word. I'll do the CELTA course in HCMC in June, so if you want to visit me then you'll need to come to HCMC and be prepared to never see me, the course is a killer! The new school year begins in early July, so they are looking at making me a 'more part time' (meaning part time, but lots more hours) teacher then. The head foreign teacher here knows of other schools looking for a nice white face to teach kiddies for the next 2 months (which is all that is left of the school year).
I am being paid US$15 an hour, which is a lot less than the other foreign teachers for a few very good reasons:

I haven't finished my degree
I haven't done any teacher training (CELTA)
I have no experience teaching
Due to factors 1 and 2 it is technically illegal for me to work in Vietnam

It seems my pay will go up as I get my degree, CELTA etc. The headmaster, a Mr Ving (not sure of the spelling), was very sweet and has already asked me to stay on as an 'official' teacher once I graduate from uni in December. Mr Ving and Vanh (again, no idea on spelling, but she heads up the English department) were both rather perplexed by my name, though Vanh valiantly attempted to spell it 'Anne'. Close, but no cigar. I think they both got it in the end.
Mr Ving and Vanh said that as long as I stick to their rules, and keep the kids happy and learning, I could be the Grade 1 supervisor in December. According to the other foreign teachers, the rules are simple and fairly enforced (be on time, teach the curriculum, do your best not to bore the kids to sleep etc), so I'm feeling pretty good about my situation.
They are really in need of teachers here because hardly anyone wants to teach kids. Is it too cynical to wonder if the lack of teachers for little kids has something to do with the majority of teachers in Vietnam being men scouting for girlfriends in their adult classes?
Anyway, I promised myself Buffy DVDs and something lovely and silk when I got a job. As I haven't quite filled my schedule, I went for a slightly less exciting binge at the local mini-mart, stocking up on hair and skin products. I have also decided on a beautiful duvet cover from a rather glam shop, but I won't buy that until I am earning enough to leave my savings in the bank. Instead I treated myself to a set of thick, white cotton sheets for when I get out of my shoe box and into more permanent digs. I have my eye on a room in a long-stay hotel that is nicer, bigger, cheaper and closer to the school than my current shoebox. I'll look at landing a sharehouse in July, once I am back from HCMC.

2007-03-26T06:04:00.000-07:00

Storyteller

I am a TV addict at the best of times, but away from home, with scant opportunity to chat with like minded fellows, I am glued.
Having already 'done' Hanoi (the tourist spots at least) and living in the twilight world of the newly arrived, I am watching the scant offerings of basic satellite TV with relish. Add to this my growing collection of DVDs (mostly TV shows) and the glory that is youtube.com and I am one well entertained nerd.
In celebration of my TV addiction, I have named this post 'Storyteller' both as a reference to TV being my favourite bard and as a tribute to one of my favourite episodes of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer. At the very least Storyteller contains the best Anya/Andrew moment:

Anya: For God's sake Andrew, you've been in here (the bathroom) for 30 minutes. What are you doing?
Andrew: Entertaining and educating.
Anya: Why can't you just masturbate like the rest of us?

I figure that the desire to use the names of all 144 episodes of the Buffster's adventures will keep me blogging for some time to come. I don't have all of Buffy with me here, but I will as soon I have a job. The complete series shall be my present to myself, along with something lovely and silk from a home decor shoppe. For the moment I am making do with most of season 2 and half of season 5. Please note, do not watch season 5's The Body if you are at all missing your Ma, SOB!
Aside from watching the Scoobies I have watched all 3 seasons of Deadwood. I had always meant to watch it, but it never happened. After picking up all three seasons for US$6, I barely slept until I finished it. First off, it is joining a long (and growing) club called, The 'They canceled this, but Everybody Loves Raymond went for 9 seasons' Alumni. Second, it is not for everybody. Plenty of intelligent, open minded people will not like this show based solely on the violence, most of which is of the mental and verbal variety. The language assaults you, but you do start to get used to it. Thirdly, aside from the swearing, the language is dense. Some people seem to have heard about this show, heard it was a western, heard it was violent, heard that (nearly) all of the women in it can rightly be called whores and got themselves an HBO subscription. What nobody told them was that yes, they do swear and abuse each other, but said abuse is written in Iambic rhythm. It is also laced with the most purple of Victorian prose making it impenetrable for the average violence junky. It's violence for smarty-pantses!
Before I discovered a good DVD store and the true potential of youtube, I was relying on HBO Asia. Wow, there are some crap films out there. But they also play quite a few glorious oldies.
Below is a review-ette of the films I can remember watching on HBOAsia

The 40 Year Old Virgin - So much better than I thought it would be. The musical number at the end was fabulous.
Against the Ropes - I'd rather go a round in the ring than watch this again.
Just Like Heaven - I really don't like the average rom-com. This is slightly better than average, but only because Reese Witherspoon and Mark Ruffalo are delightful.
Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy - I saw this once before and thought it was OK. I know I wasn't stoned at the time, but that is the only explanation I can think of for liking it.
Heaven Can Wait - I have always loved this movie. So sweet, so anti-corporate and wasn't Warren Beatty a hotty?
The 'Burbs - Tom Hanks before he sold out? A Corey? A silly plot with Cold War subtext? Princess Leia in a floral halter neck? This film has it all!
Beetlejuice - A comic ghost story from Tim Burton with Geena Davis, Winona Ryder, a Baldwin, Katherine O'Hara and Michael Keaton in his only great role. A firm favourite.
Money Talks - The pain of watching this distracted me from a US$3 bottle of whiskey hangover.
Prime - Not awful, which is an abysmal thing to have to say about a film starring Meryl Streep and Uma Thurman.
Hellboy - I've seen this before and I'll watch it again. One of the best comic book adaptations...
Catwoman - ...Is not one of the best comic book adaptations.
Feds - Rebecca De Mornay stars, nuff said.
Hitch - I like Will Smith when he's interviewed, he close danced with Parky and flirted with Julie Walters. Why can't his films be as entertaining?
Robin Hood: Men in Tights - It's not great, but there are more good bits in it than just the 'Men In Tights' show tune.

Before you deride my viewing folly, keep in mind that I have been selective in what I have watched. Note that Anaconda 2, Fletch Lives, Soccer Dog, Piranha II: The Spawning and Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo are not on this list.
Happy viewing.

2007-03-26T05:28:00.000-07:00

Switch Found!

Not really, but I do seem to have the cat-like ability to land on my tootsies.
I have a job interview tomorrow! I got it by asking how to go about finding affordable housing. See what I mean about my feline prowess?
I have been emailing the head English teacher at one of the few of Vietnamese private schools, and it seems that as long as I like kids (check) and the Vietnamese teachers like me (I'll be very, very charming and wear my best shoes and polish my satchel), I have a very good chance!
My interview is at 8am Vietnam time (about 10.30am Adelaide, 11am East Coast etc).
More details to follow, I don't want to jinx anything.

2007-03-25T20:30:00.001-07:00

I can't seem to find the switch

The switch that will get me moving and job-hunting, that is. I'm in a very comfortable and happy rut consisting of sleeping at odd hours, wandering around the Old Quarter of Hanoi, playing Virtual Villagers 2, watching HBOAsia and eating scrummy food. I know, it sounds like hell. And that's just my problem, I'm having a good time and I'm only just starting to see the benefits of changing my situation. The biggest benefit will be meeting people who I can have a conversation devoid of elaborate hand gestures and giggles at each other's unique take on the other's language. Don't get me wrong, it is kind of fun, but it's the kind of fun that is of the past.
I have met a few English speaking people here and there, but all of them have been backpackers who are leaving Hanoi within a week. I overhear expats chatting, and listen desperately for a way I can leap into the conversation - I am past caring if they later wonder why I was eavesdropping - but alas I am yet to find a plausible excuse. I have considered adapting one of the pick-up lines of Men Behaving Badly's Gary, 'Hello! My name is Nai. May I stand here?'. Anyway, with the joys of solitude and laziness getting old I am making a concerted effort to get work and find some permanent digs.
I decided to get my housing situation sorted out first. I was in one of my favourite places here, The Golden Drum, and one of the waiters started chatting away to me. He offered to help me find a place (seems he has a sideline in the real estate business). I gave him a rundown of my needs and requirements, that he seemed to understand, and said I'd see him the next day. Next day it became apparent that while he could follow buzz words like 'AC', 'ADSL' and 'Security'. He had completely missed my first stipulation (and the one I thought I'd drummed into him) that I want to move in to a ready formed house with other expats. I had actually stipulated this because I was having some minor 'alarm bells' about this fellow and I was pretty sure that he would say that they only rented out the houses and that they weren't in the friendship brokerage business, but alas he hadn't understood me.
It is worth noting that in Vietnam there is a particularly annoying custom of never saying 'no'. This can go so far as to not saying that they haven't got the faintest idea what you are trying to say. This seems to be slowly changing as it was far more prevalent when I was here 3 years ago. It is linked to the desperate desire not to 'lose face'. I am still struggling to come to grips with this concept!
Anyway, I ended up deciding to meet him at the offices of the company he works for. The 3 places he had found ended up being 1 flat. It wasn't right for me, but no big deal. Interestingly, for the more clairvoyantly minded of you, I saw a cockfight in the middle of the medium strip of a major road as I drove out to meet scam/stalker boy. The oracles tell me that this was not a fortuitous sign. Oracles are great in retrospect.
The next morning my inbox contained 3 emails from him. The first was a pretty standard 'I'll keep looking for a house for you', the second 'Can you please email me when you get this' and the third was 'Why haven't you emailed me?'. It was about 12noon when I read them having last seen him at 6pm the previous night. I emailed him straight back and was tooling around on YouTube when my room's phone rang. He was downstairs. I said I was working and couldn't come down. I was wearing knickers and a boobtube at 1pm in the afternoon and thought we'd all lose face if I headed downstairs to meet him thus attired. Also, I knew that I had never, ever told him where I was staying - I'm assuming that he followed me. I fired off a polite but forceful email along the lines of 'email first before dropping by, but don't email me 'til I email you'. I was annoyed in so many ways. Not least of which because I no longer fancied going to the Golden Drum if it meant seeing him there. His next email informed me that he 'was no longer working' at the Golden Drum (hurrah!) and that he would wait for my email (huzzah!). One week later and I haven't heard back from him. I'm hoping that he has interpreted my email as a 'fuck off', but with due consideration given to the necessity to save face.
He may have been totally innocent in his intent, (for the record I think he was gunning for a go at my wallet rather than my charlies) but this far from home and with a language and culture barrier that impedes my usual bullshit-o-meter from working at its optimal level, I'm not taking too many chances.

BTW Audrey, do you remember the book of the MBB scripts you brought me back from Newcastle? It's here with me in Hanoi. Along with The Expected One & The Labyrinth (books that are clearly cashing in on Dan 'Hacktastic' Brown's success and Audrey was justifiably shocked to learn I'd want to read but gave to me anyway), Adrian Mole: From Minor to Major and 2 volumes of the Norton Anthology of American Literature, As I Lay Dying is not good for your psyche. mymotherisNOTafish. mymotherisNOTafish. mymotherisNOTafish)

2007-03-20T06:31:00.000-07:00

Or not...
The road to WiFi (when you don't speak computer and those that do don't speak English) never ran smooth.
Not entirely sure why, but for some reason I can't seem to get a connection using wireless, but everyone else in my hotel can.
In other news, I have done something rather painful to my wrist. I have no idea what it is, I think it's a strain injury from typing with my hands at an odd angle (the desk I'm using in the lobby is permanently set for a particularly small Vietnamese 6 year old), carrying heavy bags and, well I'm not sure what else. The end result is that I am being forced to type one handed.
All up, i will not be blogging with a vengeance for a little while yet.

****STOP PRESS****
While I was out for dinner (more 15000d pho from 'Pho' on Ly Quoc Su Street, see my food post) one of the chaps at the front desk of the hotel fixed my wireless! Yes, I am typing this in the comfort of my very own room. No more waiting for Tuetonic computer hoggers for me. Huzzah! Now if I can find smeone to fix my wrist as well... Looks like I'll be using my travel insurance.

2007-03-15T03:28:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I'll have WiFi
I anticipate blogging the house down.
Stay tuned....

2007-03-14T07:24:00.000-07:00

The Good, the Bad and the Fugly of dining in Hanoi
Here it is, the much anticipated food post.
Generally speaking I have been munching on the local fare that I have found pretty well outside of my door. I am staying at Tung Trang Hotel on Tam Thuong Alley Way in the Old Quarter of Hanoi. It’s about a 7 minute walk from Hoan Kiem Lake and the One Pillar Pagoda (as long as you don’t get enticed into one of the many shops on the way there…). Basically, I like the place, I’ll give it a write up later on, this one is all about the food!
First off, yes it is possible to eat 3 square meals for about US$3 a day, but until you get pretty savvy (far more so than I currently am) you would end up getting pretty bored with your diet. If you occasionally spend a little more you can eat REALLY well.
For between 5000d and 10000d you can get yourself a yummy baguette with a Vietnamese filling that includes some meat or meat based item, lots of herbs (mint, basil, coriander, stuff I’ve never seen) and some sort of spicy condiment. Every time I’ve ordered one of these, the vendor has asked me if I wanted the spicy and herby stuff, so you shouldn’t be in for too many surprises, but I’d suggest trying it with the lot.

I have bought an apple and a mandarin for less than 1000d combined, I’m not sure what it was exactly, I was far too embarrassed to wait for change from a 1000d note to stick around and find out.
Did I mention that there is US$1 to every 16000d? The local currency is called ‘dong’, and yes, they’ve heard all of the jokes.
I have been frequently setting up camp at ‘Pho’ at number 10 Ly Quoc Su street. This place is clean, comfortable, doesn’t require you to sit out on the pavement on a kiddie stool and nothing costs more that 30000d (less than US$2). My favourite dish so far is a standard Hanoi pho soup with 3 types of beef (Well done, brisket and flank) thinly sliced into it costing 20,000d. For 12000d you can have exactly the same dish but with less meat. It’s still yummy and filling, but makes for a less rich dining experience. All of the dishes come with chilies, other sauces and finely sliced garlic in vinegar as condiments. It’s a family run place and they have started to become very friendly to the lone white giantess who stalks in every afternoon.
By the way, ‘Pho’ is a type of soup that you can find absolutely everywhere in Vietnam. It’s a rich beef or chicken broth with rice noodles, some vegetables and finely sliced meat. If you have ever ordered a soup from an el cheapo Vietnamese restaurant in the West, it was probably Pho. For more info, check out NoodlePie. The Pieman is still posting from his new home in France, but his Vietnamese posts are legendary among gastronomy minded travelers.

I had an amazingly good plate of morning glory sautéed with garlic at Victoria (the name of the place according to my receipt, look for a place with an old guy in a general’s outfit guarding the door) at 29 Hang Trong St in the Old Quarter. All of the food you can see in the picture, plus two cups of ginger tea cost 50000d. 30000d of that could easily have been left out, the tofu was the sort of stuff that makes died in the wool carnivores not understand why we eat the stuff, it was soooo fricking bland! And as you can see, there were enough of the greens to see me though without it.

I have also had a good few afternoon coffees and 1 meal at Moca Café 14-16 Nha Tho, just down form the Cathedral. This green papaya salad with beef and peanuts cost 39000d tasted great, and the scenery more than makes up for the (slight) increase in cost. It’s in a converted old French building and the place would be more than at home in Toorak, Burnside or Paddington.
My favourite place (so far) in Hanoi is a strange little bistro called The Golden Drum.

Scary...Scarier...

As you can see, you’d be forgiven for thinking that this stairway led to nowhere, or at least nowhere good. But this is such a great place to hide away from the chaos of the streets.

The beer is well priced (18000d for a 500ml bottle of Tiger Beer, other brands are cheaper), cold and served in a frosted glass. The dishes are made in front of you in the balcony kitchen and the staff are fantastic. There is a great (cheap) wine list and all of the usual spirits and aperitifs at decent prices. There are seats both inside and outside on the balcony and the staff take a very relaxed attitude to you whiling away a couple of hours reading a book and ordering the odd drink. To be fair, I’ve had far better food, but for around US$3 for a plate of decent Western style food (strangely their Asian food ain’t that good) and a great atmos, I don’t care. During the day they play French ‘chillout’ style music, sort of Air meets Muzak with a bit of piano accordion thrown in. It’s actually far better than I made it sound. By night everything changes, they have one CD (I am not employing any amount of hyperbole here) that they play at mid-decibel range all night, The Best of Creedence Clearwater Revival. If you can forgive it that, you’ll end up loving the place.
As a general rule be very wary of any place with grand and swanky décor and reasonable prices, the food will suffer. I ordered a meal in such an establishment (Hang Ngoc Hotel, 34 Hang Manh st) with bad results. The place was immaculate, the staff great and the feel was Europe meets Shanghai circa 1925 (but without the opium), but the food was just plain awful. The meat dish (which was meant to be stewed) was hard and dry while the chocolate mousse was unlike any other I have had. The key difference between it and others of my experience was that it was hard, requiring me to firmly grasp the martini glass it was served in and dig and chip for what chocolatey goodness was to be had.
So there you go, a food blog. (More food pics are on their way)

2007-03-13T07:02:00.000-07:00

Its time to go... John Howard
As I sit here, tapping away at the keyboard of my lovely (yet grimy) hotel's guest computers, the Vietnamese version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire is on and it's reminding me of a promise I made to friends, family, myself and my nation: I may be living in Vietnam for 2007, but I will do what I can to unseat Howard and co at the next Federal election.
With that in mind I am launching a small campaign to sign up as many overseas based Australians to vote as I can. Well, at least those who have had enough of this rodent ridden conservative government.
Some handy facts:

The overwhelming majority of overseas postal votes in Australian Federal elections are cast for conservative parties.
It is not compulsory to vote in federal or state elections if you are overseas at the time of the election, but it's very easy to vote if you choose to.
According to the criteria of Freedomhouse.org less than 50% of the world's population have full political freedoms. You can exercise yours by simply following these instructions and voting.
It will take you less than 10 minutes and (absolutely no more) than A$5 to get yourself onto that overseas electoral roll and on your way to exercising your democratic right to have a say in how your country is run.
Remember: 'Children overboard', 'Never, ever on the GST', 'L.A.W. Law', 'Tampa', 'Prisons in the Desert', 'Welfare reform', 'Suspension of the rule of law and the Geneva Convention', 'Anti-student Organisation legislation', 'Weapons of Mass Destruction' and 'Anti-Family, Pro-Industry laws' all occurred under the Howard Liberal government. Untold damage to our society has occurred as a result of this government's policies. It's time to go Johnnie.

All you need to do is follow this handy guide.

Download this form from the Australian Electoral Commission
Print off the form
Fill in all of your details on the form.
Fax it to the appropriate state administrator (the fax numbers are at the very bottom of the form)
If you want to know which electorate you should be voting in, look you 'burb up here
Finally, This is a list of frequently asked questions regarding voting overseas

I will be putting some info on marginal seats in the upcoming Federal election over the next couple of months. If you have any info that you'd like some help tracking down, leave me a message and I'll do my best. Likewise, if you have any info you think would be worth sharing, please do.

2007-03-12T03:05:00.000-07:00

The knickers shops have security guards here
I haven't been game enough to go into one yet ) or to take a photo(grumpy old men in 2 stripe general's outfits don't make me feel like my presence would illicit a cry of, 'Welcome!', but there are a few lingerie shops here that have security guards standing out front. Not casually dressed security guards, these guys look like they have gone AWOL from an actual army.
Other strange/amusing things I have experienced or seen include:

People with plastic shopping bags completely covering their heads to protect themselves from the finest of mist-like rain. They look like they are wearing an assisted suicide contraption.
Young taxi drivers are looking for Western wives, I have had two proposals, and beenpropositioned 3 other times.
Privacy is a dirty word. Last time I was here I assumed that I was the only person that was being openly stared at, I wasn't. This is a culture with no sense of personal space or personal business (at least as far as slaking their curiosity about Westerners is concerned). I'm almost over my paranoia, but as an extremely secretive person, I think this may be the most trying aspect of living here.
There is a Vietnamese version of 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire'. It's exactly the same format, camera work and 'Dum, dum dum duuuuuuuum' music with accompanying lighting effects.
VT1, one of the state owned channels uses exactly the same music when they flash their logo between shows as you hear at the end of BBC shows. I wonder if they paid for it, or if the rather lax attitudes to copyright have extended that far?
Speaking of lax copyright, I have found a great DVD place. I can't find the card at the moment, so I'll post details later. The young guy who runs it a) gave me a discount on the complete series of Buffy because it was International Women's Day (and because his favourite Scooby is Anya, like me) and b) when one of the DVD's he sold me didn't work, I returned it and he has replaced it and given me a copy of Happy Feet. Gold.
You haven't lived until you have watched 'Escape from New York' dubbed into Vietnamese with a very girly voice doing everyone's lines. Snake Plisskin has never been so scary. I can't wait for them to show Terminator 2: Judgement Day and the same femme utters the legendary line, 'Come with me if you want to live' in Vietnamese.

Food Entry will be coming soon, I'm just faffing bout with some of my picture setting etc.

2007-03-07T01:27:00.000-08:00

I have turned into a very cold man
After the less than gentle hints of various friends and dominatrices (or what ever the plural of dominatrix is) I have decided that a half-arsed blog from Sunny Vietnam is better than waiting for how ever long it will be before I have time to write something wonderful and expressive. With that in mind I'm sure you will all appreciate the short hand form that this post will take.
First off, if the link above tells you that the weather here is warm, be assured that as I write this I am wearing 4 singlets, a scarf and a cardigan. It's about 12 degrees at the moment and I (and many other similarly garbed Westerners) are providing both entertainment and concern for the Hanoians. I don't really mind the cold weather, it means that I can wander about for hours on foot without sweating like the proverbial porcine being.
I have never considered myself to be a girly-girl, so I am surprised by how much I have noticed how differently I am treated here. I never expect a door to be opened for me, or to be ushered ahead of a bloke. Similarly I am not the type to start screaming 'Misogynist Bastard' if a guy does offer one of these niceties. But here, it never happens. Not once. I am not offended by this, more very interested in my own reaction to it.On the flip side I got offered a great deal on the complete 7 series of Buffy by the DVD seller partly because he loves Anya as much as I do and partly because it is International Women's Day tomorrow. Cool.
Tomorrow I will be looking at some long term accommodation options and where I can by a wireless Internet card. Once that's sorted out, just try and stop my blogging!

2007-02-08T17:35:00.000-08:00

Fun with narcolepsy
It has been a rather fraught couple of weeks for me, hence my lack of blogging contributions. After months of people responding to my decision to up and move to Vietnam with oral odes to my bravery and feistiness, it has only just dawned on me that they may be right. Or more correctly, that it takes a brave and feisty person to contemplate moving somewhere where you:

Don't speak the language
Have no friends or family
Have no job waiting for you
Lack the qualifications to obtain a work permit
Little cash to start you new life
A propensity to fall in a heap when feeling a little down

Of course bravery and feistiness are not the only qualities you need. Rampagingly bad judgement and a fear of success are arguably far more useful traits.

My mind has developed a new and interesting way of dealing with the stress I have imposed on it; sleep. I fall asleep as soon as I enter my bedroom. I snooze on the couch, snoring loudly, while Ma tries to watch Spooks (or Dalziel and Pascoe or some other Brit show with bad looking cops solving gruesome murders). I have micro-naps in the shower and I do a lot of head lolling and nodding in the car on the way to and from work. Thank fuck I've not been driving at the time.

This would be less distressing if I wasn't a lifelong problem sleeper. I lie in my own bed for hours, with no light or sound getting in and yet not get a wink of sleep. Now I am in severe danger of falling asleep in the shower, banging my head on the bath and having hunky paramedics see me sprawled on the tiles, sans Spanx, in a pool of brain blood.

On the plus side I have managed to achieve the following (brackets indicate the mode used to complete the task and/or its current status):

I have paid for my insurance (Super-Lolly at Flight Centre)
Organised a 3 month tourist visa (Super-Lolly at Flight Centre)
Arranged a bon voyage BBQ (Ma is sorting it out)
Sorted out uni enrolment (grumble, grumble, won't graduate til December, grumble)
Applied for my CELTA course (Via the application form, no idea if I've been successful)
Seen my last bit of majestic Australian scenery (Road Trip with Audrey and Sved)
Organised my banking (They want my compound interest so they keep me happy)
Dealt with not being able to watch Eastenders for as long as I am in Vietnam (therapy)
Arranged to vote while I'm overseas (Print out this form and fax it to the appropriate number. Don't bother if you're going to vote for the Coalition)

18 days to go.....

2007-01-17T19:12:00.000-08:00

Too much uni is a bad thing
I have tried in vain to write some kind of review of Marie Antoinette, but I have discovered that due to writing several essays on film each semester for the past 3 years I am incapable of writing why I enjoyed the film. I keep rushing off on tangents about French Poetic Realism and possible homages to Barry Lyndon. In short I have become one of the wankers I despise.
But I shall soldier on!
I enjoyed Marie Antoinette, but I can see why people (some of them with excellent brainpower and artistic sense) would really dislike this film. I read somewhere, or perhaps it was on the rather dull interview that Miss Dunst gave on The (excellent) Daily Show (to that silver-haired fox Mr Jon Stewart) that the film is not so much a biography, as an impression of Marie Antoinette's life. It is told from her point of view and is sympathetic towards her. Elements that would usually make up the plot of a film set in pre-revolutionary France are barely mentioned (her over spending is never shown to be a real issue, you don't see any of the huddled masses until they are about to storm Versaille, etc). Instead the film concentrates on the things that mattered to Marie Antoinette, offering beautiful vignettes of; her difficulties conceiving (seems Louis wasn't allowed to go to class for those PE lessons), the idiocy of Versaille's protocol, courtly intrigue, her general boredom, her children, her friends, her dogs and of course her clothes.

From the disgruntled mutterings I heard from a couple of the matrons who did not enjoy the film, I gather the main gripe was that it was too long. At 2 hours long it is hardly epic, but it is at times a very slow moving piece. There are some moments that drag on for longer than is needed for the *plot*, but I think that they were entirely necessary to paint (forgive me for bringing in the art metaphor so early) this impression of her life. The early parts of the film are full of moments that show the reasons for her boredom, her less than fulfilling relationship with the King and her incredulity at court etiquette. These are all very amusing and engaging for the audience. Later on the slow, moody moments (that would be boring if it weren't for all of the pretty things that Sophia Coppola has placed in front of her camera) work to give an impression of Marie Antoinette's experience. Long, slow, boring and isolating, but surrounded by pretty things.
When this film was announced I was utterly taken in by the casting. I wasn't sure if I would love it or hate it, but I was intrigued by a film that would cast Kirsten Dunst, Asia Argento, Marianne Faithfull and Steve Coogan to play European aristos. In some ways each of the actors is in their own film, acting in their own way. Dunst and Jason Schwartzman (as Louis) could be at a fancy dress ball in a modern indy comedy. Rip Torn assembles all 5 of his acting molecules into a randy elder statesman type. The Italian Asia Argento, as the aging king's commoner mistress, reminded me of a Italo-American Mafia Moll (her nasal delivery of 'They don't treat me like a lady' followed by a massive burp at the dinner table was a cheap, but hilarious moment). Judy Davis as the etiquette crazed (though quite sweet) Comtesse de Noailles is in fine form, somewhere on the set of Elizabeth. Strangely, this odd mixing of styles works. Once again I come back to the point that this film is an impression of Marie Antoinette's life, not a strict biography of the times through which she was living. The actors give you recognisable types, rather than historically realistic types. Marie Antoinette and Louis are practically children when they begin their reign, so it is fitting that they be shown as feckless, prevaricating upper-middle class college students. Judy Davis' prissy concern with protocol would not work if she were in the same indy flick as the young monarchs, but her renaissance style is perfect. The characters are types and the actors employ the styles that best illustrate this to the intended audience. Keep an eye out for Rose Byrne as the frivolous Duchesse de Polignac, she is simply adorable. This comes from one who has never fallen under Our Aussie Rose's spell. In fact I used to think she was pants.
This almost goes without saying, but the cossies, make-up, sets and cinematography were all excellent.

Things I loved:

The casting (Molly Shannon as bitchy Aunt Victoire - genius!)
Siouxsie and the Banshees playing as the dancers swirl at the masked ball
A pair of cons being in plain site as the young Marie Antoinette tries on her new high heels
It was just so dang beautiful to look at.
The disembodied voices whispering about Marie Antoinette, coupled with the voiceless faces she could tell were gossipping about her.
The paintings of Marie Antoinette that had Revolutionary Pamphleteers' slogans daubed across them.

Interesting asides:

You be the judge: A frivolous young woman who is born to privilege, never expected to do a sod of work, a vulgar overspender, a party girl, who has too many yappy dogs each with their own diamond collars. Was I meant to start thinking of Paris Hilton and her ilk?
The point is made that one of the reasons the French peasantry and Middle class started a revolution was due to the heavy taxes that were imposed in order to fund the American Revolution. It is made clear that this is done to piss off the English, it had nothing to do with Liberté, égalité, fraternité.

Oh yeah. And I liked the soundtrack. Like the odd mix of acting styles, the music served its purpose.

2007-01-14T14:50:00.000-08:00

I am one unhappy polar bear...

I am hungover. I am at work. I am flat broke until tomorrow. I spent my last $3.60 on a 1.25lt bottle of Passiona in the hope that it's tart fizziness and abundant sugar levels will kickstart my body. I've stopped throwing up, so I'm writing it up as a success for the curative powers of Passiona.

Things that keep me going:

Tomorrow I won't be hungover, at work or broke.
I will be faffing about like a blue-arsed fly in an attempt to cross a few of the items off of my list.
Though the weather shall be hot, hot, hot tomorrow, I shall do my faffing in the air conditioned comfort of my Ma's car.
After all faffing is finished with for the day I will be seeing Marie Antoinette.
I have 16 working days to go before I quit my job!

I'm almost out of Passiona.

2007-01-11T21:35:00.001-08:00

A rose by any other name...
I have been following the current trend towards outrageously awful names, and the ensuing commentary from bloggers, with some interest. I must confess that I have a somewhat unorthodox name. It is not made up, but it is damn near impossible to spell, and is usually met with cries of 'that's unusual' or 'I've never heard that one before'. Add to this that I was named in honour of a French Bohemian author, who had a side line in porn writing, and I can see my name ending up on this sort of list. The only thing that saves me from such ignominy is my surname that, through no design of my parents, ethnically matches my given name. Through some glorious accident of mid 19th century migration (though we like to think it is far earlier, the French Revolution would be just darling) between France and Northern England, my deliciously Gallic surname has a partner in my first name.
I could deal with my exotic nomenclature if it weren't for three key factors; a) I'm as Skippified as they come, b) my first name rhymes with 'Janae' & 'Danae', and probably a virtual (topless) chorus line of others, probably made up so that the dreary bogans who doled them out can feel a little less dreary and bogan-y and c) the assumption made that I can’t speak English and that I must speak fluent (or any) French!

I have grown weary of repeatedly having to spell my name for the pizza delivery boy. And for adding, 'Yes, just like the perfume, but I came out first *titter, titter, titter*' every time someone recognises my name as being the same as the saccharine confectionery offered by Cacharel. It almost makes me wish for the days when some pervy chap would stare at my boobs/name badge while I (aged 16) bagged his groceries and ask if I had ever read the works of my name sake. Somehow, that seems even less tacky than being named after a perfume (with apologies to the lovely Charisma Carpenter).
But the real kicker to this tale of naming woe is that it could have been worse. Some of the other names that were considered by my parents in the (very) late 70s included Cinnamon (plant), Atalanta (Classical Greek heroine), Leia (pop-cultural brother snogger). All of these categories are listed in Redcaps round-up. And rightly so, GAH!!!
Oddly, If I had of been born a boy I would have been named Michael.

It has occurred to me that I appear to hate my name. I don't, I actually really like it. However, I do hate the endless pokes, pinches, prods and various other pains in my arse that it causes.

2007-01-10T00:27:00.000-08:00

Lists are the Devil's preferred tool of procrastination

A few sweat inducing thoughts have started to find their way into my mind. The reasons for these occurences are proffered for your perusal thusly;

I leave for Vietnam in 48 days time.
I have not saved up enough money.
Or enrolled in the CELTA course I want to do in Hanoi.
Or sold all of the crap I have on eBay to bolster my meagre savings.
Or negotiated my contract to continue to produce my (current) employer's newsletter from Vietnam.

I haven't even compiled an adequate (nevermind complete) list of all of the tasks I have to complete before I leave Australia and land in Ho Chi Minh City. To rectify this situation I am going to write my list now, on this page. The reasons for this are proffered for your perusal thusly;

I need to have some idea of how much I really have to get done in the next 50 days.
I want to have an aide memoir to assist me the next time I decide to cross the Equator on a permanent basis.
I intend for this blog to be a record of my adventures, and what could be more adventurous than attempting to obtain a credit card or to secure a visa?
In my grander daydreams I think to the day when some bright young thing, who is firm of limb and quick of mind, reads this blog in an attempt to orient themselves before embarking on a similar course.
I want my friends and relatives to be fooled into believing that I am stressed to the point of immobility. Rather than the simple truth; I am lazy.

As I complete tasks I'll post a quick descriptor that (will probably be very boring but) may help one of the aforementioned bright young things to get themselves organised. The tasks are proffered for your perusal thusly;

Get Vietnam Visa
Get Travel Insurance
Devise new and ingenious ways to save money
Sell or give away a few of my worldly goods
Organise my credit card
Discuss alternate payment arrangement on my personal loan with the scary bank person
Box up the gear that Ma and Pa will shelter for me
Pack my gear to take with me
Pack my gear for Ma to bring later
Organise online study for uni
Apply to do the CELTA course in Hanoi
Apply to vote from overseas
Compile all necessary documents and paperwork (tax stuff, bank stuff, passport stuff etc)
Say goodbye to everyone

I need a cup of tea, a Bex and a good lie down.

2007-01-06T03:04:00.000-08:00

Beta'd my arse
Or has anyone else got any idea why my last post, the one with 3 (yes 3!) comments, is unviewable in Firefox? I changed to the all new and improved GoogleBlogThingaMaGig after writing my last post at work using Explorer (rather than my usual Firefox) and now my crowning glory (the aforementioned post with 3 comments) is unviewable to those who have escaped the clutches of Bill Gates or whichever notable personage is responsible for Internet Explorer. As a side note, I have absolutely no understanding of the inner political conflicts in the computer world. As far as I can tell, from the few acquaintances I have who are at all interested in this field, Bill Gates is evil, Linux is great, iRiver's rock, iPods blow and Firefox is better than Explorer. Anyway, has anyone else had a similar problem when they have swapped between the two programs for their blog? Or when they have signed up for the new Google Blogger thing? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

I have just discovered that it is now necessary to use the 'www.' before the 'legend-of-a-cowgirl' bit. so my 'new', or rather correct address is http://www.legend-of-a-cowgirl.blogspot.com/

Or not. I never realised I was such a Luddite

2007-01-03T17:07:00.000-08:00

"From now on I shall be known as..."
As much as I love the song "Legend of a Cowgirl", and as much as I hope it will reflect my spirit of adventure (mtk and Audrey needn't look so shocked at mention of my previously untapped sense of adventure), I have decided that using the posting name 'Cowgirl' for my posts is a little lame. I can't help but think of all of the bloated and faded former prom queens from Cousinfuck, Arkansas who also use the tag 'Cowgirl'. I can see them painting their talons and back-combing their K-Mart extensions while waiting for Buck (or Chip, or Zeke), who was Big Man on Campus at Cousinfuck High in 1989, to come back from the used car salesyard to their matrimonial trailer. They will then head down to the local honkytonk to get hammered on the local brew before getting inappropriately tactile with old flames in the dank toilets.
All this from a name.
As you can see, 'Cowgirl' has been consigned to the bin of lame pseudonyms.

I have been having trouble getting this post to be viewable in Firefox. I am hoping to have this rectified ASAP. I apologise for any inconvenience caused to my 3 readers.

2006-12-25T20:55:00.000-08:00

Christmas

I love Christmas, I am not at all religious; in fact my appreciation of Christmas is almost entirely secular. I love the present giving, the present receiving, the eating, the cooking, the drinking, the mad and frenzied activity in the shops and catching up with friends and family. But this year was not how I would have preferred my last Christmas (for a while) with my family to have been.
Usually my parents have my brother, sister, myself, associated boyfriends and girlfriends over, another family (who are fabulous) and anyone else that is alone on the day. My brother and his girlfriend have international uni students staying with them and they are always invited (‘they can't spend Christmas alone! I don't care if they don't celebrate it at home, they can't be alone!' - Ma), plus any other strays that we may bring along. This usually makes for a great day. Sadly, this was not to be this year, we (Me, my Ma, Pa, Brother, Sister-in-Law and their housemates) went to my sister's ex-defacto's parents' house. Gee, did I feel like I belonged, or was I spending Christmas Day in a small regional branch of Purgatory?
Yesterday made me realise why people, who don't hate their families, don't like Christmas. It was 'nice', in the blandest and most boring sense of the word. I found myself talking to make up for the total silence and then feeling like I might be hogging the limelight, so I’d shut up. Then no one would talk, beyond 'So how's work?', and mispronouncing my name before asking if I'd like some of the cheapest fizz I've ever been offered by someone over 30. So I'd start chattering again, and the cycle continued. Also, due to a combo of our hosts not entertaining often and everyone being there to keep my sister's ex-defacto mother-in-law happy, it was all kind of awkward and depressing.

Especially, when the New-Age meditation techno was swapped for Eric Clapton Unplugged and we all had to listen to 'Tears in Heaven' with a perfectly happy, healthy, and in no way dead, 18 month old present (my niece, who was the sole connector of this awkward band of travellers). This was made worse by being told that the reason they like the song is because it came out at the same time as their daughter died of anorexia. At this point I really needed a drink, no matter how cheap, but none seemed to be forthcoming. We left soon after.
Ma and Pa have vowed to always have Christmas at our house from now on. I don't mind admitting that I've reminded them both that this will be my last Christmas with them for at least 2 years and that it would have been nice to have enjoyed it.

Guilt tripping is an ugly and low form of communication, but it does have its purposes.

2006-12-14T12:59:00.000-08:00

When I was an angsting 13 year old I was given a diary as a New Year's Eve present. I have never received a New Year's Eve present before or since, so I can only presume it was my Ma's way of saying, 'Sorry you can't go out and have fun with your friends as you are too young. Instead, you are stuck at this incredibly dull party with people that even I can't stand'. The next day (January 1, 1993) I started my entry with the obligatory 'Dear Diary', which I had convinced myself was actually a postmodern touch with ironic overtones, not that I had heard of postmodernism. Nor had I a working understanding of irony - I still don't outside of knowing that Alanis Morrisette was wrong and that Jane Austen's work is full of it. After waffling on for several minutes about my New Year's resolutions (exercise more, become very cool at my new school - especially if that meant that no one liked me, cultivate my sense of intellectual and cultural superiority, get a boyfriend) I concluded my first ever diary entry with:
"I won't promise to write in you every day, which is what wankers say, but I will write every week, for at least 5 pages".
You know how it ends. I picked that diary up about 4 years ago having absolutely no memory of its existence. It had only half an A5 page of my naive and faux-intellectual scrawl to prove that it had once belonged to me.
This blog feels like 'New Year's Eve Diary, part II', a well intentioned failure to communicate my ideas in written form. The only reason I felt compelled to write this entry was that I added a comment to another blog yesterday and I am now vaguely terrified that someone will be so interested in my mutterings on that blog that they will follow the link to my blog and discover that I have only made one entry. And a rather lame and uninspiring entry it is. Take note. Virgin blog entries should not be made after an afternoon of drinking on a birthday that serves to remind you of all the things you could have done with your life.
I would like to be proud of this blog, but I'm not sure what exactly it will take to make me proud of it. So for the meanwhile it shall be filled with (hopefully) entertaining and thought provoking waffle.

2006-11-11T00:44:00.000-08:00

I turned 27 today. I feel neither happy nor sad about it. However, I am one of the millions whose childhood self assumed they'd be doing something more with their life. At the moment I am trudging through an Arts degree while working in an average small office. So, having found myself dwelling in the land of blah, I have decided to move to Vietnam.
I have been to exactly 4 nations on this planet; Australia, Cambodia, Thailand (a transit lounge) and Vietnam. The last three countries were all taken in over a 4 and a half week period 3 years ago, so I feel confident that I shall have no problems adjusting. Did I mention that I am a master (mistress?) of self deception? Ah well. The point of this blog is for me to keep a track of my time in Vietnam (where I will follow the only path open to one with my expertise; teaching English) both for myself and for family etc. I'll leave Adelaide on February 27, 2007 with some cash, a laptop and as many bras, knickers and shoes as I can carry. I'm not scared or hesitant yet, but I know I will be.
My mind is filled with exotic, adventuresome and glorified snippets of my future life: monsoon rains, tailor made silk frocks and G&T's on a balcony each evening. I'll think about the mundane, dreary and troublesome realities later, maybe on Tuesday, but not on my birthday. But for the moment I am simply trying to get through my last essays so I can return to my daydreams, uninterrupted by my current reality.
Here I am.