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Myanmar De-mystified

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 14:45:00 +0000

If you're ever plonked into Myanmar with only a map and no knowledge of Burmese, well...good luck. For one, there's no satellite, so you don't have the option of calling someone to seek help even if you have international roaming on your cell phone. Two, road signs are scarce. (Yes, this may easily be a repetition of my blunder in Prague, but I swear, I looked!) And even if there are road signs, outside Yangon, it's all in Burmese, with no English translation.

Wait, which side of the road
should we be driving on again?

Heck, the road system itself took me some time to figure out. The taxi we'd taken upon arrival in Yangon International airport was a right-hand driven vehicle. Preoccupied with taking in the Yangon scenery on our way into town, it wasn't until much later - during one of our hairy dashes across the chaotic traffic - did we figure out that Myanmar drives on the right side of the road. Yet, less than 50% of these vehicles are left-hand driven. It's the weirdest thing. So how, you may ask, do cars overtake other cars on the road? According to Wikipedia:

“

All vehicles are driven with a passenger called a "spare" in place to watch the oncoming traffic and inform the driver as to whether it is safe to overtake or not.

”

My numerous taxi rides in this country tells me otherwise: Drivers simply ease their cars to the left side of the road and pray that there's no oncoming traffic. Jeepers.

Day one in Yangon was spent in Bogyoke Aung San (Scott) Market shopping for semi-precious jewelry and exchanging money. Turns out that the forums on the www are right. The Burmese accept only clean, crisp, new-looking US dollars. Notes with a distinct folded crease down the middle, or those with slight scribbles, inked, or even the most minuscule tear are rejected. With no ATM machines or credit card terminals, we found ourselves with hundreds of "unusable" US dollars that no merchant was willing to accept. The ironic thing is that local Burmese kyat notes in the most deplorable conditions can be used. One grocery store owner in Nyaung Shwe attempted to return our change with a torn 500 kyat note - the missing half of which was patched with paper to complete the rectangle shape of the bank note.

Bagan

Bird's eye view from Pyathadar Pagoda

Absolutely astounding. While our three attempts to view the sunrise and two sunsets in this ancient city failed spectacularly - rain for the first two sunrise attempts; ominous looking clouds sliding over the sun and remaining there for exactly the duration for the third sunrise and both sunset attempts - we had a brilliant time there.

The failed sunrise attempts provided the unexpected privilege to see a group of alm-seeking Buddhist monks making their way to the market. The footfalls of the burgandy-clad monks, crunching quietly into the sand and mud, as they trek across the still asleep town, is a far cry from the scene in Luang Prabang - or so I think. Mind you, I haven't yet have the opportunity to travel Luang Prabang, but I imagine the scene there to be quite the circus, what with chattering tourists jostling to take pictures of monks on their morning rounds.

Maybe it's the off-season. But life in Bagan is simple, unhurried. Horse carts share the roads with locals on bicycles. Trucks packed with people and piled high with sackfuls of what-not putter past women balancing huge baskets on their heads.

Left pic - Burmese women promptly balancing their empty basket on their heads after being dropped off
Right pic - A lady giving alms to Buddhist monks in the early morning

The classic way of traveling around Bagan is by horse cart. The other way is to rent a bicycle and explore on your own. We did both, the latter of which we sweated lakes under the hot afternoon sun. The last time any family member ever did any proper cycling - bar the older sister who up until a couple of years ago was a serious rider - was at least seven years ago (30, for mom). The experience made for some pretty hilarious moments. At any point in time where we had to cross the road to a cluster of temples located on the other side of where we were, my lovely mother, so diffident was she in her cycling abilities, would break abruptly while jamming her feet to the ground. Once her rickety bicycle screeched to a painful halt, she'd hop off her bicycle and proceed to wheel it across the street to where we needed to be.

The romantically lit stair-
well of Temple 2007

With the exception of Shwesandaw Pagoda, our clambers up the narrow, steep staircases of the temples are often enveloped in darkness and overwhelmed with the smell of bat poo. The adorable little brother of a caretaker in Temple 2007* together with his equally little friend lit candles along the stairwell for us. Our climb(s) were rewarded with unparalleled views of Bagan:

Note*: Most of the 4,000+ temples are unnamed and identified only by numbers.

Magnificent panaromic view of the temples and pagodas of Bagan from Shwesandaw Pagoda

The impressive Ananda Pagoda.
(Had to wade through an icky ankle deep puddle to take this picture!)

Inle Lake

From the dusty, hot weather of Bagan, we arrived to the cool climate of Shan state where Inle Lake is. Running low on kyats, we were dismayed to find that the taxi drivers outside the airport were quoting a fare twice than what we know it to be. No driver budged from their asking price, and in the end, we decided on sharing it with a couple of Canadian boys who'd disembarked from the same plane. Now, sharing a car with six people isn't usually a big problem, unless,

(a) The car is small, or

(b) The passengers are taller, like, way taller than the average Asian and of football player size, or

How we managed to squeeze into the teeny tiny car, I don't know. But after an hour bouncing on roads full of potholes and driving through calf-deep water (it had been pouring rain earlier that morning), feeling like squished sardines and desperately hoping that the car doesn't break down half way, we finally arrived at Nyaung Shwe, the town a few kilometres north of Inle Lake.

We took it easy that first day, meandering through the busy town, trying out various street foods by pointing at dishes ordered by locals seated at another table. It should be mentioned here that any traveler visiting the Shan state of Myanmar should most definitely try the very tasty Shan noodle. The closest thing I can liken this dish to is Malaysia's gan-lao kuey teow (干捞粿条), though it tastes nothing like our dish and is soupier, stickier, spicier, and peanut-tier. Yummers.

We left for the lake bright and early on day two. Five minutes into our journey, we spotted fishermen afar doing the one legged rowing that is unique to the region.

A lone fisherman fishing while maneuvering the boat using one leg only

Boats filled with sacks of tomatoes packed to the brim sped along in the opposite direction. When asked where the tomatoes are from, our boatman steered us into a maze of canals and we found ourselves in the midst of a tomato farm - rows upon rows of tomato plants floating on the lake. It was explained to us that to create these farms, the farmers anchor thin bamboo poles to the lake bed and create these strips using mud and water hyacinth dredged from the bottom of the lake. Tomato plants are then planted on these strips, absorbing the necessary nutrients from these man-made islands. Most fascinating.

Floating tomato farm at Inle Lake

We had the wonderful opportunity to meet a beautiful long-neck lady of the Paduang tribe. The brass coils, we were told, are first applied to an eight-year old child, then longer coils are added at eleven, and again at fifteen. It doesn't look it, but gosh, these rings are heavy! They had one of these on display and it weighted about four kilograms by feel.

Upper left - One legged rowing fisherman
Lower left - Farmers harvesting water hyacinth for the tomato bed
Right - Beautiful long-neck lady from the Paduang tribe

Yangon
The heat was a slap to the face after Inle Lake. We arrived at our accommodation feeling irritated, hot and hungry, but all these were forgotten when greeted with the view from our room.

Wowza! Shwedagon Pagoda from our room.

Up-close, this great pagoda is positively marvelous. The yellow you see in the pictures? REAL GOLD. And there's a friggin' diamond at the very tip. Seriously.

“

The golden glow can be attributed to the 8,688 solid gold bars plated on the lower pagoda whereas another 13,513 bars are plated on the higher pagoda. The tip of the stupa, visible only to the gods or for those who get a birds eye view of the Shwedagon Pagoda is set with 5,448 diamonds, 2,317 rubies, sapphires and other gems. About 1,065 golden bells help in praying to the gods whereas a single 76 carat diamond winks to the gods from the very top.
Read more here and here.

”

76 carat diamond! That, my friend, is one super whopper of a diamond. Some person - a tourist, probably - decided to make life easy for fellow Lonely Planet readers and took the liberty to mark "X's" on the ground behind one temple. Depending on which "X" one stands (when it's dark out) and look at the tip of the pagoda, one would be able to see the tip glinting in that precious stone's colour (i.e. ruby red, emerald green, white diamond, yellow & orange gems.) Very cool.

We spent a good five hours people watching and getting bedazzled by the various sparkling temples in the vicinity.

To think that we first arrived with no itinerary and no plans, only vague ideas of the places we'd like to hit. It all worked out beautifully in the end.

Taiwan...Touch Your Heart?

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 13:40:00 +0000

Clockwise from left: The staircase of Jiufen, turquoise waters of Tarako Gorge, the Theatre
at Chiang Kai Shek Memorial, Taipei 101, Sunrise at Alishan

Cliche tagline, but dang, if it wasn't right! The vibrant city of Taipei bustling with youthful energy is in complete juxtaposition of the peacefulness and tranquility exuding from the forest of Alishan. Chilly dawns reminded me of frosty mornings in New Zealand while mild temperatures during the day brought me right back to my gallivanting days in Victoria. We were gobbling ourselves silly with the crazy varieties of food available - explains that additional doughnut ring around the waist while ushering into the new year.

So, why Taiwan? In jest, I laid it out in ten words on a friend's Facebook wall:

A little background here: by cutie-guy, I mean this hottie who sat behind me in Math Class in first year university, whom I had a bit of a girly crush on. His debut in this detective TV series mid-last year propelled him into one of Taiwan's hottest hearthrobs.

M.A.C aka Math Asian Cutie. That was the nickname I bestowed him. Little did I know that that was close enough to his real name - Mark Chao 赵又廷 <-- To
those reading this (all five of you): I've made it easy for you to go Google him.

Clearly, the seduction failed to take place. I was however, lamblasted with life-size cutouts of him promoting Let's Cafe coffee in most Family Marts and 7-11s available at just about every street corner of Taiwan. Le sigh. And I quote my sister, "Wow. You really did miss the boat on MAC. Who knew that dudes that look like that exist in our world?" I know, Jie. I know :( Better luck next time, I s'ppose. But for now, here are some selected pictures from Taiwan.

Next up: Family Reunion in Europe. Hola!

Indescribable beauty of Tarako Gorge

Frost in the morning at Alishan

The forest railway tracks leading through Alishan

Elder Sister Lake at Alishan. Legend can be read here.

Egypt in Adjectives

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 09:35:00 +0000

Showing him my sad face after the Egyptian boy refused my counter-offer price for a magnet I was attempting to purchase, he attempts to sweet-talk me, "You are beautiful, yes. But I cannot make you happy."

Good businessmen, these Egyptians. They know their priorities and would rather take money over a good-looking girl. I never got that magnet I wanted, but I was much tickled by the 5 marriage proposals I received that day. Not that it's anything brag-able, since Egyptians men pretty much on anything that moves.

The three pyramids at Giza

It's indescribable, the feelings I went through when I first saw the pyramids. They are...stony. Bricky. So...quadrilateral. One big masonry mass just to house one corpse. Nuts. There's the huge disappointment you deal with when you realized the highlight of the pyramid is in fact, what you see on the outside. While it had to be done, the venture into the pyramid was not as I imagined. No intricate carvings on the walls (you get those at the Valley of Kings); just a long ape-like crouch-crawl in and out the passageway, into this empty square in the middle of the pyramid. And that was that. Great thigh toners though. Dad walked around like a duck, cringing in pain for every step he took for the following two days.

All things Egyptian: Camels & Pyramids

Chaotic would be the first thing that comes to mind when in Cairo. Buses, cars, and motorcycles all surge to move forward in traffic that stretches for miles whilst people and donkey carts jostle to cross the roads.

Luxurious is nary a word I use to describe my travels in the past two years. This time around, it wasn't your typical slugging-it-out, crap-I-only-have-20-dollars-left-so-let's-eat-peanut-butter-sandwich-again-so-I-can-get-more-beer backpacking trip. More like, wow, Hilton hotels; ohmigosh, full-course buffet meals.

I could get used to traveling like this.

Sand, sand and more sand. Sunrise on our way to Abu Simbel

Felucca-ing into the sunset in Aswan

Ma pulls a face of Horus at Horus, after seeing sculptures of this God one time too many.

Bali Bliss

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 20:53:00 +0000

A place where greedy monkeys with sweet hairstyles run wild, and I am a millionaire.

Literally.

Things to do before I hit 35:
1) Skiing / Snowboarding
2) Surfing
3) Skydiving

It's one down, two more to go. And no, it's not skiing/snowboarding. Rather, it's surfing. I know I know. I've lived in Victoria and was, for the past four years, within half a day's worth of travel to snowy peaks such as Mount Washington or Whistler, and I've never had any snow action. Shocking, innit?

Surfing was great. It also caused great pain: I got owned by the waves; stupendous wipeouts, crashing headlong / butt-long / sideways and just about any other way you can imagine, into the bare, gritty sand. ("My goodness, what happened to you?!" exclaimed my very concerned parents upon seeing the spectacular black and blues I sported on every visible part of my body.) I think I have Bali sand permanently ingrained into my elbows and hips. Hot.

In hindsight, this trip was highly necessary. A bit like having the dessert before the main course (this is written in relation to my slowly easing back into life in Malaysia). I think I found some sort of consolation and - for lack of words - inner peace that my decision to move back to my homeland is the right one.

Balinese sunset

One of the many Hindu temples on the island

Peace & tranquility

The Quarterlife Crisis

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 20:58:00 +0000

Stephanie Sun's 天黑黑 lyrics of:

我走在每天必须面对的分岔路
我怀念过去单纯美好的小幸福
Daily, I face crossroads ahead
I reminiscent about past innocence, bliss and happiness

exactly depicts the range of emotions I have been going through for the past few weeks. I wish I was a 3 year old kid again. Life used to be waaaaaaay simpler. My only worry back then was wondering how the heck I can write my name right: "廖燕斌" instead of "廖燕文武". Rough life.

Adulthood on the other hand is just filled with deadlines and bills to pay off. If I was this parent, I'd shoot myself. (Sorry, I got sidetracked. Having spent the past 10 hours writing papers and case analysis, my attention span is hair-wired.)

Anyway, as graduation looms, I'm suddenly inundated with indecision as to whether I should stay or leave Canada. Funny how the brain works. Two weeks ago, I was adamant that I will live the North American life for the next three years. I've been thinking seriously about heading home since then. The thing with being this globalized is that I sometimes feel like I don't have a sense of belonging anywhere in the world.

Here's a hypothetical situation I've been pondering over: If - IF - Malaysia is to be so unfortunate as to have a repeat of May 13,1969, where should I seek refuge?

Being 3.5th* generation Chinese in Malaysia means that I'm not "pure" Chinese. I highly doubt that the P.R.C will take me in.
New Zealand hasn't been home for the past five years, and is henceforth irrelevant.
Even after 7 months in Prague, my typical response to someone speaking a string of Czech to me is, "Pardon, třebaže mluvím trochu český ale nerozumím. Prosím vás, mluvíte anglický ?" [Translation: Excuse me, even though I speak a little Czech, I don't understand. Please, do you speak English?"] If the person responds with a "No" (which, mind you, means "yes" in Czech), the conversation goes on. More often than not, they usually respond with a shrug. So no. I probably won't survive the Czech life.

Which leaves me Canada. I remember the times I spent back in Malaysia during the summer months. Friends thought I was putting on a show with my North American accent (sidenote: the Manglish does somewhat return after three weeks in Malaysia.) New friends think I'm an ABC (American-Born Chinese). Americans think I'm Canadian. Canadians think I'm local ... until I say things like "full-stop" instead of "period" - this happened barely 5 hours ago in my group meeting today.

The question still stands: Where in the world should Yan go?

I guess I'll just have to leave it up to fate; return back to 3 years ago when my life's philosophy was,"I'll go where the wind takes me."

我相信一切都会平息
I believe everything will calm down

Note*: My reasoning on this equation arouse from a somewhat complicated background: I'm 2nd generation Malaysian Chinese from my mom's side, but 5th on my dad's side of the family.

One Reason Why I Should Leave North America and Bugger Off Somewhere

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 22:05:00 +0000

I received an unexpected e-mail from a former manager seeking advice in regards to his upcoming trip to Penang, Malaysia. Problem: the last time I was in Penang was 8 years ago. Having an excellent impression to uphold, and in order to deliver a quality response, I frantically sifted through websites, scanning for information that could be somewhat helpful.

Did you know that you can fly from Kuala Lumpur to Singapore for € 5 or to Phuket for € 30? I want to go!

The travel bug has hit me unexpectedly and it has hit me hard.

It's been 55 days since I left Europe, and boy, do I miss the continent. That "not wanting to live the life of a nomad" feeling I mentioned in the previous post? I take it back. In my hectic schedule, juggling between school, a part-time job, and looking for a full-time position after graduation (anyone looking to hire a kick-ass, fabulous person?) I'd overlooked the fact that Reading Break starts on Thursday. What do you do with six days off? Travel, of course. If I still live in the Czech Republic, I can hit two cities, heck, two countries, in six days.

But I'm not in Europe. And I don't have friends scattered all over North America. What I do have is a sister who lives out in the east. Inspired, I set out to find the cheapest ticket to fly to D.C., gullible enough to think that I can find a return ticket for less than $400.

$1,500?!?! Seriously? I can fly home for less than that. Or fly back to to Europe for half that amount. Jeez.

England Revisited

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 02:30:00 +0000

If you refer to Random Fact #4 in my previous London post, I mentioned that streets in (the City of) London were once named after the primary business lining the street. I highly doubt streets in Luton were named this way, but a meander through town did bring up a few how-do- you-pronounce-these: street names such as Thrales (Thra-less? Th-rails?) Close, Havelock (Have-lock? Ha-ve-lock?) Road. Ah! My brain hurts!

No one summed up better than Bill Bryson in Notes from a Small Island*:

“

There are a few streets that sound like medical complaints (Glycena Ave, Shingles Lane, Burnfoot Avenue), a few that sound like names on an anatomical chart (Thyrapia and Pendula Roads), a few that sound vaguely unsavoury (Cold Blow Lane, Droop Street, Gutter Lane, Dicey Avenue), and a few that are pleasingly ridiculous (Coldbath Square, Glimpsing Green, Hamshades Close, Cactus Walk, Nutter Lane, The Butts)...

”

So here I am, back in England, my eight months abroad slowly coming to an end. While I still have a week or so before my long, dreaded flight back to Victoria - and can thus, hop on a bus and visit places like Stonehenge - I am at a point where I am ready to settle down for a little while and get away from this nomadic life.

Anyway, Stonehenge is a little ways away, and if I'm being absolutely cynical, it's only a pile of rocks. OK, maybe not only a pile of rocks. It really was a rather incredible accomplishment. And I quote, once again, from Mr. Bryson's brilliant book:

“

It took 500 men just to pull each sarsen, plus 100 more to dash around positioning the rollers. Just think about it for a minute. Can you imagine trying to talk 600 people into helping you drag a 50 ton stone 18 miles across the countryside, muscle it into an upright position and then saying, 'Right lads! Another twenty like that, plus some lintels & maybe a couple dozen of nice bluestones from Wales and we can party!' Whoever was the person behind Stonehenge was one dickens of a motivator, I'll tell you that.

”

A quick search through on the www, and I almost changed my mind. It does look mighty impressive......until I found out that there's a perimeter rope around the area and access into the stone circle is a whopping £12.00. Plus a return bus ticket of £26.00. Nah uh. World Heritage or not, I cannot justify paying that much. I'll just chill in good ol' Luton, where my aunt has made it her mission to stuff me with lots of home-cooked food before I leave. Yum.

* For those who haven't had the pleasure of reading this book, please do - especially if you've been to England. A word of advice: read it in the privacy of your own home. I've emitted one un-ladylike snort too many while reading it on the bus en route to Cambridge.

Penis Everywhere

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 14:17:00 +0000

The title just about says it all. My 10-day backpacking trip included my glimpsing on not one, not two, but four penises, one of which belonged to a deranged old man clad in spandex. Yep, travelling is never boring.

With only one day to spend in Florence, I aimed for the Galleria dell'Accademia to gape at David in all his naked glory. Scrutinizing the statue from every angle possible, I couldn't help but wonder why David's penis seemed disproportional in size. Regardless, I still think David is one of the most marvelous sculptures I've seen to date. I went on to Piazza della Signoria where is initially stood. A copy of a weather-beaten David stands there now. I then walked up Piazzale Michelangelo to look at the bronze version of David. It was a lot of Davids in one day.

Now I'm sure you are very intrigued with the story of Spandex-Clad Old Man. My experience below answers my ex-roommate's - she'd lived in Nice for two years - question of, "So, did you meet any perverts when you were in Nice?" Yes Silviya, in fact, I did:

I was probably in my fourth hour in Nice. The friend I was staying with had gone to school; the weather was too beautiful to be spent indoors, but too cold to be lying on the beach for a tan. Armed with a book and decked out in sunglasses, I sat on one of the benches lining the promenade, basking in the warmth of the sunlight.Engrossed in book, I looked up a couple of minutes later to see a man, approximately in his late 40's, orbiting around my bench on his bicycle. He then proceeded to park his bike in front of me, and plonked himself beside me, on the other side of bench. He gave off a creepy vibe, but I wrote that off as paranoia on my part.

Apparently not. I sneaked a look in his direction after he emitted a couple of chuckles, only to see that he had pulled his shirt up and his pants down, and was playing with the little boy downstairs. Noticing my sudden stiff posture, he leans over in an attempt to touch my knee. Horrified, I shrieked a string of immoderate language at him before stalking off with as much dignity as I could muster.

So much for Nice being nice. Welcome to France, I thought wryly.

36 hours in Venezia

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Sun, 20 Apr 2008 21:30:00 +0000

"You might want to cut out one day for Venice. One HALF day was enough (for me)."

So goes Swan's advice when she found out that I was staying two nights in Venice. I was surprised. Friends who've gone to Italy raved about Venice. But Swan and I have similar tastes and travelling habits. She is the older, wiser sister who knows me well. With some minor tweaking, I was to spend only one night in Venice and leave for Nice the second night.

As I weaved through the throngs of people on my way to the hostel, I felt this teeny twinge of disgruntlement on having listened to Swan. Well, peeved on myself for being so easily swayed by someone else's suggestion, and grumpy that it had to hail and snow when Swan visited Venice four years before, fueling her dislike for the place. Because, 3 minutes after arrival, I deducted that I. Love. Venice.

Gelato was cheaper than Rome or Florence; the place looked serene and exceedingly fetching in the sunshine.

This feeling of affection didn't last long.

I stepped out into pouring rain the second day. Honestly, I have the worst luck with the weather when it comes to travelling. (If you're an avid reader, then recall my misery in Bosnia, Croatia and the Netherlands.)

Rain battered madly and fell to the pavement in an endless clatter. Glumly, I gave up plodding through the driving rain and seeked shelter under an awning crammed full with other gloomy tourists, looking like they had all spontaneously taken a swim in the canals.

Now, this is a sight you don't often see. Not so romantic anymore, eh?

I left Venice, full of woe that the weather Gods just don't seem to like me. It better be sun and sea in Nice!

Oh, Me Sore Muscles!!!

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Sun, 20 Apr 2008 09:19:00 +0000

My irritation on potential hikers crowding the pathways at the Cinque Terre hiking trail gave way to peace and content as I breathed in the fresh air and listened to the waves pounding onto shore. I could do this everyday - listen to the waves. Nature's most glorious music. It's times like these when I look at people with their iPod plugged to their ears, and I think, "What a shame."

Having lived in Prague for the past seven months, I think I've gotten just a little bit jaded with fancy European architecture. The coastline, bubbling creeks and wineyards at Cinque Terre was a refreshing change.

Absolutely, breathtakingly stunning. The hike wasn't too bad. More of a walk on a nicely paved pavement...until I hit the Corniglia - Vernazza trail. Skipping and balancing on strategically placed rocks for muddy puddles as big as lakes, jamming my foot into the crumbly earth to keep from executing yet another butt slide, and clambering up steep steps definitely took its toll - the effects of which showed when I resorted to waddling around like a duck the second morning instead of walking like a normal homosapien. Owwwww....but, no time to waste! I'm off to Venice next.

A Gelato a Day...This, is Italy.

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 21:46:00 +0000

The Arch of Titus with the Colosseum in the background

Dad said that the Colosseum is essentially like any other stadium. To me however, there's just something wonderful and fascinating about it. Much like the Eiffel Tower at night, I can look at the Colosseum all day and not be sick of it.

So I did just that. Tired of just wandering around looking at yet another pile of rocks, I plonked myself down on a random piece of marble outside this magnificent ruin, opened up my umbrella (it was spitting rain somewhat), and just stared at this hunk of a very old, rather damaged amphitheatre. I was riveted with wonder and admiration at the thought of people in togas cheering on in vernacular Latin as a gladiator fights off a charging elephant shipped in from Africa in an inconceivably distant past.

While I love Rome for its rich history, the roads (system and drivers) suck. Crossing roads in the city freaked me out. Cars don't stop for pedestrians. You just have to take a deep breath and step onto the busy road, hoping to God you don't get mowed down. (Someone I met in the hostel later told me that it's best I stick to a group of at least three because drivers are indecisive when there's only two of you waiting to cross the road. Even better, find a person pushing a baby stroller. Drivers would never want to hit a baby.)

A dumb habit I'd developed - before I received this very useful tip - was to dash across with my head bowed and eyes downcast. The way I saw it, if I don't see the drivers, they won't see me.

I am an asinine fool.

I am also useless with directions. But we've already established that earlier in the year. My first day, I got lost trying to find the Colosseum. It turned out I'd overshot so far I was out of the map area. It just irks me that most roads in Rome almost always lead to piazzas. From there, I'd have to once again dig out my trusty map to figure out my directions. It's during one of these Yan-stares-at-the-map-totally-befuddled episodes that I got chatted up by an Italian man: [pointing at the Colesseum] "Do you know what that is? Is the Trevi Fountain, no?" being his pick-up line.

"Do you see water spouting from it?" I wanted to retort. But you gotta give him points for originality.

He was your typical smooth talker. I asked him whether it was in his daily routine to wait in front of the metro station and ambush tourists. He said only for the pretty ones. No matter how many times I attempted to excuse myself to leave, he was like a leech you couldn't scrape off.

He also took it upon himself to be my personal tour guide for the next two hours. I definitely got to see a lot more of Rome than I planned. So "Leorendo" (alas, I cannot remember whether it is "Leonardo" or "Lorenzo"), grazie - and my apologies for giving you a false name and a fake number.

Trajan's Column

Overheard while waiting in line, "Wait, whaddaya mean the Pope lives here?!?!?"

The Pantheon

Hoi, Holland!

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 22:34:00 +0000

And here I am, in denial that spring isn't here and winter isn't really over. Hence, all decked out in my light spring jacket, I endured it all: rain, high winds, hail and snow. Of course, Peter forgets to mention that the local weather forecast also warned that it was going to be the coldest Easter in the past 40 years. Thanks, Pete.

I guess I shouldn't have taken it literally when a family friend whom I was going to visit requested in his e-mail to "bring along sunshine from Prague." Yes, Prague, for the past week has had sunshine - with lots of snow. I hereby apologize to the Dutch for such terrible weather.

This trip turned out to be a weekend of reunions. I also got to see a lot more of the Netherlands than initially planned - although Brussels sadly didn't happen.

Peter, I met last semester in Prague during our university exchange shenanigan. Karin and I were AFS students in New Zealand 5 years ago where we attended the same high school and played in the school rugby team. The van Gompel family has known me since I was a fetus. The meetings were short, but it sure was good to see familiar faces and catch up.

- Back in the days of wooden clogs, homeowners paid taxes on the width of their property. This encouraged narrow, tall houses where floor space was at a premium. -I guess the homeowner of that maroon house really didn't want to pay his taxes.

If there's one word to describe Amsterdam, it would be "unique." Wonky buildings lining the canals look like they're trying to pull the Pisa; drugs are tolerated and prostitution is legal - there's even a nursery situated in the middle of the Red Light District. My first venture into the District was by accident rather than on purpose. The first indication telling me that I was in the heart of it was the sight of a vertically challenged and...horizontally gifted woman clad in glittery lingerie. Hmm...

The Dutch government's ways with dealing with certain social issues - drugs, for instance - is quite ingenious. While the rest of the world wastes billions on this seemingly unending War on Drugs, the Netherlands decided drug use is more of a health problem than a criminal issue. By officially allowing such coffeeshops, they separate smokers from criminals who would deal drugs if they were illegal and it works. In my humble opinion, the rest of the world has a lot to learn from the Netherlands.
Weather aside, this trip has been absolutely super. Like the Terminator would say: "I'll be back."

Chrząszcz...whaaaat?

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Sun, 24 Feb 2008 22:14:00 +0000

Be able to pronounce "w Szebrzeszynie Chrząszcz Brzmi w Trzcinie" and you'll be branded a true Pole, or so I was told by a friend of Polish nationality. Seriously, Slavic languages have too many consonants and not enough vowels. I thought Czech was hard enough with the tongue twister "Strč prst skrz krk." But Poland gave me a headache with words like "źdźbło." Say what now?

In all honesty, I wasn’t quite looking forward to that nine-hour train ride to Krakow. Not when I was suffering from an incessant sore throat that refused to go away. Then I found out that the couchette train ticket I’d bought was in fact a seating ticket in an eight-person compartment. (Holy cow! A full six-person compartment is already unbearable. Eight should be made illegal.) Resigned, I sat down with a huff. But hey, I’ve done it with the sister before. What more, I’d rather be sharing the compartment with a man who spoke no English (he left halfway through the journey) than with an overzealously friendly man whom we got tired of entertaining three hours into our journey from Zagreb to Sarajevo.

All in all, a very uneventful journey. After checking into the hostel (free breakfast even on check-in day?! Heck, yes!), I wandered into the city centre. I had five hours to kill before Paula, a dear friend and ex-flatmate in Prague arrives from Warsaw - our meeting being the main priority of this trip.

Castle. Check.
Jewish quarter and synagogue. Check.
City square with a clock tower that ~~chimes~~ trumpets (and abruptly cuts short) on the hour. Check.
Castle. Again.
City square....again?!?! Damn. Krakow is small.

A nice, laughter-filled relaxing day before the mentally draining day that was Auschwitz. The familiar words "Arbeit Macht Frei" (Work Makes (one) Free), emblazoned on the iron gate leading into the camp is probably, in my opinion, the most cynical taunt of the 20th century. This mockery wasn't really the initial intention: my tour guide at the Dachau Memorial - a History major - mentioned that the message held out the prospect of salvation. That prisoners should aspire to achieve freedom through work in the spiritual sense, even though such aspirations are, in most cases, hopeless.

-Thumbnail pictures above taken from Auschwitz.org-

As I stared at the mounds of suitcases, artificial limbs and human hair on exhibition, I was suddenly overwhelmed with anger, sadness and horror. As Holocaust survivor Abel Herzberg said, "There was not six million Jews murdered; there was one murder, six million times."

It's hard to believe that merely 68 years ago, this was the hell on earth. The horrible dream that really happened.

I spent the day wandering around the camp in silence and reverence for those that perished. This visit, while unpleasant, was a good reminder of what ignorance and evil can do if allowed to flourished. Lest we forget the history of the Holocaust, remember then the haunting words of George Santayana,"Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it."

Implusiveness...

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 19:58:00 +0000

...is never a good thing.

Two weeks of being a desk monkey, staring at a computer screen eight hours a day, processing endless amounts of data into the company system, has gotten me antsy. After a high of backpacking with the sister, I was rearing for another trip.

On impulse, I whipped out my credit card on Monday night and bought plane tickets: I decided that I needed an "appetizer" before my massive solo backpacking trip at the end of the semester. So I can get into the groove of traveling alone.

The destination? Amsterdam. And Brussels. And I only have 57 hours total for the long Easter weekend because of flight scheduling. Absolute madness, I know. But totally doable.

Only one minor, insignificant problem: I had overlooked the fact that it's a long weekend and hostels are booked solid. Even the sketchy ones that are smoked-filled with stoned kids, smack dab in the heart of the Red Light District, are unavailable.

FAB-ulous. I suppose the benches at the train station will have to do.

Ho Hum

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Sat, 12 Jan 2008 22:26:00 +0000

Trust the best bus company in Czech Republic to not have a ticket counter in a city like Vienna - where tons of travellers rely on this cheap and efficient mode of transportation to get to/from the two popular destinations. Indeed, I spent more time waiting outside the Vienna Airport for a Big Yellow Bus than exploring the city itself. Reason being that I wanted change my date of departure back to Prague to a day earlier.

My love for Vienna the first time I was there is unbeatable. The city's charm was lost on me this second time around. This is highly likely contributed in part by the fog that followed us all the way from Ljubljana. Also, at that point of our trip, I was ready to take a break from all the downsides of backpacking. I was craving hot, home-cooked food (no more PB-no-J sandwiches, please!), waking up as late as I want, and tired of worrying about accommodation availability and being on schedule to catch trains. Backpackers' spontaneity is only enjoyable when one has no time restriction.

Regardless, Vienna was fun for an entirely different reason: an old friend of Swan's from Slovakia - whom she'd met in New Zealand eight years ago - hopped on a train from Bratislava to meet up with us. We had a blast catching up and reminiscing about our good days in KiwiLand.

All in all, a good way to wrap up our 17-day shenanigan traipsing around the Balkans.
Read more here

Zbogom, Republika Slovenija

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Thu, 10 Jan 2008 11:34:00 +0000

My ex-roommate's boyfriend's roommate backpacked around Europe last summer and mentioned that Slovenia was his favourite country out of all the countries he'd visited. Conversations with fellow backpackers sealed our decision in making a quick pit stop to Slovenia's capital en route to Vienna.

Ljubljana was...boring. Even the castle was lackluster. Fine, I admit to my docking off major points for a lousy cheesecake I had in a popular kavarna that came highly recommended by Lonely Planet.

The ~~only~~ two cool things I did were:

(1) Stay in a former prison on the site of former military barracks - which was also the Slovenian headquarters of the Yugoslav National Army
(2) Chow down on a horseburger. Yes, I do mean those beautiful (but smelly) creatures that go neigh-hey-hey-hey.

This ginormous hunk of a horseburger puts McD's puny beefburgers to shame

A thick fog shrouding the city made us think twice about our initial plans to head to Bled the following day.

Me: Do we stick to the plan, or just forget about Bled and head to Vienna earlier?

Swan: Well...we've seen lakes, right? We've seen castles too. (ponders) You decide.

And so, I decided that we head to Vienna earlier. Na svidenje, Ljubljana. I don't think I'll ever see you again.

Powering Through

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Wed, 09 Jan 2008 16:29:00 +0000

Much as I'm a city girl, I also love the sun and the sea. Nothing makes me happier than spending hours lazing under the sun while listening to the waves pounding onto the shore. We barely spent 24 hours in Split but managed to absorb some UV rays (yay!) and feed the bed bugs (yikes).

Granted, while Split may be more of a harbour town and lacked sandy beaches with big waves, it was still nice (sans the bed bugs). But in no way comparable to Dubrovnik.

Read more here

Dammit, Damp Dubrovnik

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Mon, 07 Jan 2008 13:11:00 +0000

The weather hates me. From pouring rain in Mostar, we arrived to a relentless drizzle in Dubrovnik.

Getting to the Old Town and finding the guest house we wanted to stay in wasn't hard. But when five minutes of hammering down the door drew no response, we started having a sinking feeling that looking for accommodation without any prior booking wasn't so smart after all. It's early Saturday evening, and the town was dead. Where IS everyone?

I dug through my coat pockets for other accommodation options...and drew out crumpled balls of paper that are almost in mush. We could barely make out the directions - I'd forgotten to write down the address or phone number; you'd wonder how I made it to university - but decided to chance it anyway.

It turned out to be a jackpot with this one: the Papa ushered us into their home without as much of a blink of surprise upon our unannounced arrival. The Mama fussed over our cold hands, steered us to the dining table, then set a plate of cookies and wee silver goblets filled with home-made slivovka in front of us.

This is unlike any hostel stay that I've experienced, and I liked it.

Dubrovnik is pretty. Pretty wet, that is, even on the second day. There are also more pigeons and stray cats (plus one dog) around compared to people. Seeking shelter from the rain outside the front doors of Palača Sponza meant that we had a chance of befriending them.

Note the Burberry-esque umbrella between the cat and the dog. It was kindly loaned
to us by Mama Milka; one that didn't turn inside out or flop uselessly on one side.

The rain finally let up on our third day. Rejoice!

Pace of life in Dubrovnik is unhurried. Rather refreshing from the hectic city life that I'm used to. It's lovely here. At the same time, having to deal with a warm 14°C compared to -13°C a mere two days ago in Sarajevo was, in my opinion, quite excellent.

Canon by the cannon. Say "Aaa-ar!"

Read more here

Mostar, I Wish I Saw You on a Dry Day

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Sat, 05 Jan 2008 22:35:00 +0000

It was pouring rain when we arrived in Mostar. We had vetoed the idea of staying the night and even though there were no night buses running to Dubrovnik, we bought the tickets anyway. Meaning we had only three hours to plunder through Mostar in the rain. Fun stuff.

People who know me well will know that I am not good company when I am in one of my moods. Combine that with:

Lack of sleep:

we woke up at the atrocious hour of 5.00am to catch the first tram to the train station

Hunger:

we had survived on Turkish coffee, white bread with peanut butter - AND skipped dinner - for the past three days. Totally our fault, but STILL.

Torrential downpour and a broken umbrella

I must have looked hysterically ridiculous walking around like this:

Yup, I'm trying to set a new fashion statement here

If there was anything that could've put me in a foul(er) mood, wet jeans and wetter socks did it. I was pissed M-A-D at everything and everyone. I'm just glad that Swan was tolerant enough to not just walk away and leave me at some strange Bosnian countryside.Oh yeah, the sh*tty crap of an umbrella is lying somewhere in a Dubrovnik rubbish dump.

Thinking back, Mostar is a quaint little town with its own unique set of war stories to tell. I think I would have quite liked the place had I saw it on a rainless day.
Read more here

Snow-Woah-Jevo

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 23:09:00 +0000

As I huffed and puffed up that killer hill to my hostel (dang, I really need to get back in shape), Muslim prayers from the mosques echoed around Sarajevo. It brought me right back to my childhood/teens in Malaysia where I would wake up such sounds at 6.00am to get ready for school. My knowledge of Bosnia and Herzegovina consists of fragmented memories from news broadcasts, of people running helter-skelter for their lives as the kerrump of shells and the clattering of bullets punctuated the air in the Bosnian War.

Headstones as far as the eyes can see. Date of deaths are between 1992 - 1995.
There are tons of cemeteries like this one in Sarajevo.

I remember that day very clearly. Everywhere, there were pieces of papers on fire flying around. The sky was black. How could it not be? 5 million books all burnt.
- Mustafa, our tour guide relating to us the day the bomb hit the national library -

What did I know about war and death back then? While I was busy sitting in front of the TV watching Captain Planet kick major butt to "Save the Planet", children of the same age were living their lives in terror on the other side of the world, wondering whether they would be able to live and see another day. Kinda ironic, if you ask me.

To see buildings with empty windows gaping like skeletal eye sockets, and lots still carrying the scars and bullet holes from years passed, I can only imagine the terror and devastation of the people during that awful time. How ignorant and naive a life I have lived; but how blessed. What an eye-opening experience.

Sarajevo will remain one of the most fascinating cities I have visited. It helped that they served great Turkish coffee in cute little copper mugs. Definitely gave new meaning to coffee "Oomph".

Turkish coffee rocks my socks

Read more here

The Sensational Foot Flub

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 19:28:00 +0000

I bailed royally on an icy step today. It was rather spectacular, really. There was a misjudgment and misstep of my footing, my arms flailed around for a bit, my feet desperately seeking some sort of traction, then ˝PWFUMP˝ I sat down hard on my butt. There was a second of silence before Swan burst into peals of laughter - but made no attempt whatsoever to help me up.

Ah, sisterly love.

山啊、水啊、雪啊、冰阿

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Tue, 01 Jan 2008 22:02:00 +0000

Title Translation: Hills, Water, Snow, Ice

40 minutes of waiting and shivering out in the cold, waiting for the bus that was to take us back to Zagreb, the random lyrics "I don't wanna wait another minute, put me out of my misery" churned repeatedly like a broken record in my head. What possessed us to think that taking a walk through Croatia's famous Plitviće National Park - the paths of which were buried under 3 inches of snow - on New Year's Day was a good idea, I don't know.

X X X X X

08.36
We were despairing over the fact that we only had USD$24 worth of Croatian kuna in our pockets after our bus ticket purchase; there was only 4 minutes left to catch the bus, but without local currency, we had no way of returning to the city. Right. We decided that Swan would go delay the bus driver while I run to the exchange office. With the entire bus and the cranky, grumbling conductor waiting for me, I sheepishly found my seat and contemplated digging myself a hole to hide in. What a way to start off the new year.

10.55
We got dropped off at the entrance of the park - the one that was closed, that is. Entrance 1 was 3.5km away. Bloody brilliant. But the trek was well-worthed it; my pictures of the park does it no justice whatsoever.

13.45
Tired of trudging through snow and slipping on icy steps, we retreated to a café that promptly kicked us out at 15.15. And hence, we found ourselves sitting out in the cold, waiting for the bus that was due to arrive 1.5 hours later.

15.55
Swan started counting cars that passed by, convinced that by the time we hit the 100th car, the bus would arrive. I sang out loud to take my mind off the fact that my toes had probably fell off and was rattling around like dices in my shoes.

16.45
89 cars later, we breathed a sigh of relief as we boarded the crowded bus in the advancing dusk.

Read more here

ZZzzz-Zagreb

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Mon, 31 Dec 2007 18:35:00 +0000

I don't know what it is about this city. Maybe it's the fact that it was snowing and freezing cold. Or maybe I've seen too many European cities and this one lacked the charm and prettiness of say, Prague or Budapest. Either way, the city fell short of my expectations.

And thus, I took to taking pictures of tombstones in the Mirogoj Cemetary and icicles on trees...

Read more here

The Monk City

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Sun, 30 Dec 2007 19:13:00 +0000

Who knew that "München" actually means "monk" in German? I definitely didn't.

I started feeling a bit apprehensive the morning I was due to leave for Munich. If there's one thing I fear in life, it's loneliness. The thought of traveling alone for the first time was somewhat intimidating, but I figured a city in Germany was as good a place to take the plunge as any other city in Europe.

No regrets.

I met great people and spent most of my time hanging out with these new-found friends in the beer halls that Munich is famous for. I had one of the best meals - roasted veal with Swabian noodles - in Augustiner Bierhalle; Hofbräuhaus is as jolly, as festive and as loud as it gets. Pot-bellied, full-bearded Germans were all decked out in their lederhosen, knocking back litre maß of beers and chowing down on massive brez'n (pretzels), while jamming to traditional Bavarian music.

Brothers Greg and Brett whom I met on the Free Tour and hung out together after

I still cannot get over how tasty European beers are - and I have absolutely no idea how I'd be able to go back to North American crap wen I get back to Canada. But that'll be something to worry about when I head back. For now, prost!

The Glockenspiel - voted the second most over-rated tourist attraction in Europe, after the Astronomical Clock in Prague

The skyline of Munich from Peterskirche (St. Peter's Church )
- Climbing up the 302 narrow steps after our Hofbräuhaus visit was, in Greg's words, "Super-scheißen"-

Paris, je t'aime

noreply@blogger.com (Swiftlet) — Mon, 24 Dec 2007 17:15:00 +0000

Thank goodness I refused to heed my parents' advice of skipping this trip when I was down and out for the past week with bronchitis:

(1) I had paid more than I intended for plane tickets. There's no way in hell that I'd be forfeiting my tickets after the fortune I shelled out;

(2) Wallow in self-pity, and feel absolutely miserable and lonely in a deserted dorm where all my friends have already left for home vs. coughing my lungs out in Paris.

There was no question about it. I was determine to head to Paris even if I have to leave behind a lung.

Paris is...indescribable in words. Every sight I saw - the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Château de Versailles - gave me goosebumps - and it wasn't because it was -6°C and all the fountains and even the Grand Canal of the Château de Versailles was frozen solid. Nope, it was because I was so awe-struck by these wonderful pieces of architecture. Architectures that I have read in books, seen in movies, all looming majestically in front of my very eyes.

There's nothing like watching the crazy dancing lights come on the Eiffel Tower when the clock strikes the hour. The collective gasps of delight that rippled through the throngs of tourists is something you have to be there to experience.

The Sister (whom, by the way, has finally updated her blog) had warned me beforehand that three days in Paris wouldn't be enough. She was right. And just because I'm her self-proclaimed #1 fan when it comes to her writing and photography, below is an excerpt from an e-mail Swan wrote to the family three years ago when she was in Paris:

“

Paris is gorgeous. I was walking to my hostel at night and the Eiffel Tower loomed closer and closer as I followed the Seine. Suddenly, I turned a corner and there it was.There’s really nothing quite like it. I remember how prettier it was the closer I was. I was lucky enough to be at the bottom of the tower right at the hour when the lights came on, turning the tower into a huge Christmas tree. I will remember the collective gasp from the people who saw it, followed by the smiles and wonder reflected in their eyes.

Beautiful.

I took my time exploring the city. One of the joys of solo traveling. As I approached the Arc De Triomphe, instead of making a beeline towards the center, I instead took a step back and spent 10 minutes trying to figure out how the traffic works. It’s really interesting. The way I learnt in driving school is definitely different than the way the French does it there. Cars in the roundabout give way to traffic approaching the circle; but the system works regardless. Another one of those situations where you don’t knock it until you’ve tried it!

I became an expert at crossing the roads. It’s a game of chicken. Who dareth wins. You just stare death in the face and start walking. I walked the 374 damn stairs and more to get to the second level of the Eiffel Tower. That was 5:30pm. The sunset was at 7:20, so I had a lot of time on my hands. I really did not mind the wait though. From that vantage point I could see how big Paris is. I was standing by the North Tower, trying to pinpoint where I’d walked that day.

Let’s just say I averaged 8 miles a day on foot.

While staking out the sunset, I saw this lady in a wheelchair roll herself up to the side of the tower, and slowly pulled herself up and out of the chair so that she could see over the railing. That was a very touching moment, to see her face transform out into a soft smile as she caught sight of the hues of red and orange in the horizon.
...
And finally, the food! Never had I experienced such good food! Food made with love. Food that stimulates every single taste bud in your mouth. Crepes, baguettes, ice-cream (I'd sell my first child for more ice-cream!) Cheap wine! Great cafes. Now, this is where the French people definitely know how to enjoy life. Order a petit latte, sit and watch the rest of the world go by. It was a rude awakening when I came upon Starbuck’s by the Opera House. Let’s just say that it was an in-your-face moment. It was so … gaudy in comparison to the rest of the architecture around it.

”

The (entrance to the) Louvre.

For now, it's au revoir, Paris. It's a crash back to reality in a dusty room and empty hallways for the next...16 hours. Swan boards the plane in five hours and I'm counting down!

The front and back of Notre Dame de Paris

A shot of the Louvre from Jardin des Tuileries

La Grande Roue - Place de la Concorde, where the guillotine once stood

"Vélib" bicycles for rent line the streets of Paris

Sunrise at le Square de l'île-de-France