ghost in a book shelf

Happiness is a warm book sale.

Yup. Nothing would wake me up from the dead quicker or make me brave a typhoon than a magical message that says ‘Book sale now on.’

A message which Ari (as in Aristotle Onassis hehe?! I just luuuuv giving my friends chic nicks they haven’t found out – yet) so aptly termed as ‘the call of damage’.

Sigh, yeah man, damage being the final dying word groaning from my wallet.

Of course not all book sales are warm.

At the MPH Expo sale, the aircon blasts are usually cold enough to freeze a penguin’s tits (if penguins have tits, that is).

On the other hand, at the Times AMK sale, the warehouse heat is enough to bake a goose (not MY goose, but you get the drift).

Dignified ghosts and beheaded spirits would probably haunt castles and mansions.

I’d haunt bookstores, book sales and libraries.

Cos books are my corruption.

And some of my truly dear friends support my addiction by sending me timely (and untimely) notices of such events.

Which totally spoils Singaporeans. And what’s wrong with getting spoilt that way.

Books are getting so ridiculously expensive nowadays, upwards from $16 and more for a freaking paperback. Why pay so much for something you probably won’t read again in the next decade or 2?

If a book is expensive and I can live normally without needing to buy it, what will I do?

Borrow from library lah! And I have a knack for getting my paws on mint copies too.

But if library don’t carry or book got borrowed then how?

Aiyah easy lah!

Go to a bookstore and read the damn book a few chapters at a time lor.

If cannot finish, just dogear that page you’re stopping at and come back for it the next time.

Simple as that. Hideous and shameless? I know. I do it all the time. :p

Someone once teased me that I frequent Borders so often he found my bookmarks and paw prints all over the place.

*evil eye*

Now I’ve graduated. I leave dogears.

I even break spines and write on books. It’s called talking back to your books. I’ve been a convert since reading Anne Fadiman’s Ex Libris.

But I’m no library- or friends’-book vandal. I only tattoo MY own books lah.

Even so, my bookish friend Al is not convinced I'm capable of restraint. He thinks I should be jailed, or at least medicated.

After hearing of my book mutilating streak, he goes ballistic and manic every time I breathe near his book cabinet, trying to yank away the grinning cat who’s eyeing his prized canaries.

Anyway, I digress.

Book sales are therapeutic. I fully support book sales. There should be more of them, not just once every 3-6 months.

Feeling depressed and dejected? Go to a book sale! Wanna ante up on your intelligence quotient? Book sale! Wanna get rid of spare cash? Book sale! We need more book sales!

Note: book sales are feet killing and back breaking therapy (quite oxymoronic eh?) but who cares.

The joy is in the hunt. You never know what you’d find. It’s the surprise in finding an unexpected gem that really thrills me.

I’ve learnt that from numerous sale haunts. Don’t expect and don’t anticipate, or you’d be solely disappointed. It's 'as good as it gets'.

I’ve learnt not to break a bank to satisfy my book craze so I just pick titles like a mad farmer while elbowing others aside and sift through the chaff later.

Which is why I can spend a whole day – LITERALLY – waltzing in the cold (but never the heat) squinting and squatting over banks of books, cracking me bones. So like mining for gold.

Which makes Ari quite amused. Well if SHE can while her time away in boutiques…!

And imagine how much you can save at a book sale. $6 for a freaking mint copy of the latest or not so latest title??!! $8 for a brand new hardback??!! $20 for an omnibus you’re dying to have??!! Where to find???

*cue in incredulous looks and upward crooking eyebrows from anti-book amoebas*

ANYway. Suit yourself. For some people, it’s up there with sex, chocolate and wine.

*grinny cat with feathers sticking out of mouth*

Yum.

bibliothario booklanderer

I’ve got a sickening habit when it comes to books.

I’m an unabashed bibliothario, a recalcitrant booklanderer.

For people who jump from one bed to another, I abandon one nubile book to jump to the alluring next while still lying on or deep into an unsuspecting another.

I do that to whole bodies of works, in all shapes, sizes and age.

For a bibliophile comme moi, it’s criminal.

I can’t recall when exactly this maladie d’esprit overcame me.

But I think it must have taken root when I accosted my fourth book – yes I’m absolutely photographic about my virginal foray – which was endowed with an Imperial Chinese theme, spun from the deft Pinkertonia fingers of a Western authoress.

While skimming its heavily padded (read: heavy handed, o clueless one) Orientalism morsels, my eyes – and fingers – drifted towards an irresistible and incomparable confection by that selfless soft porn purveyor to all curious teenaging book gourmands, Saint Sidney, the Sheldon Salacious.

Henceforth, Lucifer the Literate is born.

Among booklanderers, a common olfactory syndrome bears witness. Like the severe cases, I’m a sucker for premium paper stock aroma.

I fall for the aged, sleek-dusty, woody musk of smooth Mungkin, treated or untreated, from the US. Or the robust, chloroformic piquant tang of velvety Vellum, from the Euro.

I snub the vulgar, cheap cologne, awkward metallic squeak of pulp from Sin-Pore and In-Dearth.

But that’s not all that makes me go astray.

Free spiriting agrees with bibliotharios and I assign my whimsy to subdue my mind.

Anything – from cover, author and spine colour to price, publicity and place – will and can make me grab that new bride and abandon the old faithful. But mostly, it’s BAD or BORING WRITING.

Despicably wanton. I agree.

To testify, a recent body of evidence:

I sullied the academic Living It Up: America’s Love Affair with Luxury to flounce at the homoerotic charms of Irish Peacock and Scarlet Marquess on Oscar Wilde’s tragic trial only to flunk it for the high drama of true queens in Elizabeth and Mary and then spent my energy in A Year in the Merde in order to fly with Angels and Demons just in time to break The Da Vinci Code and lick The Devil’s Dictionary while keeping a free hand ruffling The Nine Emotional Lives of Cats.

Without a doubt, I am quite adept at multiple bedside partners. Reading partners.

It must be my progressive age.

I’ve become less and less tolerant and forgiving of limpid storylines and lame writing. I get distracted and unfaithful and cruel.

I no longer choose to read the long tiresome road to The End.

Hence many a notable book has died by my severity, Seven Years in Tibet, Papillon, Lord of The Rings, Last Orders, Brave New World, The Last Temptation of Christ, The Alchemist and The Girl with the Pearl Earring among those strewed atop a mountain of mutilated and unredeemed corpses.

But when the mood cajoles, I am merciful. Following intense frolicking with various literati’s litter, I returned to Q many times over and finally laid the humungous kitty to bibliophilic rest. After many intermittent fluid exchanges, each lasting no more than 2 days. It was a long and belaboured death.

I suppose I live it up to satisfy my acquired whimsy.

I am an avid reader honed over 20 years and an ex-editor to boot. I know in a snap a filet mignon from a fried guppy.

When a book takes me by the breath, I am all consumed and afire, a happy hippo savouring every bon mot.

But when it drips, I drop. Sentence passed. Next prisoner.

I don’t foresee this condition abating and I actually don’t welcome it.

Because switching bedfellows is much more fun.

PITBAs

Apparently, some local bus passengers have very big balls.

They tend to grow big or bigger when they’re sitting in a bus.

I don’t know if it’s due to the powers of recycled filthy canned air, cheap felt of back-breaking butt-busting seats or despicable scent of persistent price hiking.

But whatever it is, these passengers must stretch their feeble legs SOOO wide and occupy SOOO much leg space you’d think they’re born with fucking testicles the size of Chihuahuas.

I love taking the bus but nothing – absolutely NOTHING – raises me bony heckles and peeves me to high fucking heaven MORE than having to suffer seat bullies and their pai-kia coolie spread-chicken sitting habits where their leg invades your sitting space.

With a quick and trained glance, a seasoned passenger can tell the seats where the pain-in-the-balls assholes (PITBAs) are spreading their legs just by their nonchalant I’m-lounging-at-an-awkward-angle-cos-I-got-tennis balls-for-ding dongs-and-I’m-airing-them-so-there posture and air.

And when the bus is crowded or your choice seats – I have mine – are highjacked, woe betide you plonk your sorry butt beside them cos you’d be met with a My-leg-has-superior-rights-to-part-of-your-seat-so-I-dare-you-to-nudge-me onceover and you’re forced to sit like a castratee and put your hands on your laps and pout like an osteoporotic geisha.

These damn PITBAs come in all awkward shapes and stupid sizes, dirty colours and shitty races, smelly youths and wrinkled ages.

Whatever their genes (or lack thereof), they’re just genetically programmed to ABSOLUTELY REFUSE to close up their legs when someone else takes the empty seat beside them.

I’m not into deportment here – I couldn’t care less.

It’s my SITTING COMFORT I’m griping about here, goddammit.

What-Is-So-Bloody-Difficult-About-That???

Like they would fucking get a groin stroke, explode a blood vein and die if they close their legs just a TEENY bit??

OR scared their fucking balls would BURST like in Alien izit??!!

Worst. Even women have grown testicles. Today I encountered the first female bus mutant. Fucking arrogant balls she got there too.

It’ll be one of my lifelong pet peeves I’m afraid, until I get a Bentley and an Ahmad, which will probably be in a next life…

Whatever or whoever they are, I just feel like pointing an elephant gun at their groins and blasting their pathetic wieners into jello.

I’m always stumped by them. Don’t their parents teach these PITBAs any manners? (I know mine did – my legs hurt at the memory.)

Or they don’t have parents?

I conclude only idiot PITBAs breed idioter PITBA-lings.

WEELLL. Tit breeds tat then. It’s war against PITBAs.

I’ve seen a wily old lady brazenly crash one ah mah foot against a petulant young punk’s errant limb to mind his ball-park space.

Good for her. But I don’t have her advanced age not to suffer a broken nose.

So. For the length of the journey before my PITBA alights, I suffer in osteporotic silence.

When the Thing has the ill-luck to stand up and alight before I do, I swing my legs out to give a wide berth.

But just before It can step off the seat, I swing back hard against the Knee and block the way while staring out the window with a Gee-I-think-I-saw-a-flying-pooty-tat puppy stare.

I got murdered by their looks and sulks many times as they banged against me leg and struggled loose – I just couldn’t be bothered to look at their faces.

The fuzzy warmth of petty revenge was therapeutic enough for me.

orpheus descending

Orpheus is descending.
He is dried up and hung over and totally uninspired with the morning sun. An endless numbing headful of bees. He resents everyone in the Cave thickly and surely. He resents his Cave and Her intrusion, Their victimhood.

Orpheus is descending.
He is rudderless and flaying for no one to see. The centre cannot hold and the chalice is poisoned and the cup was never filled in the first place. He makes fire without smoke so no one in the Cave can see, will know. He wants to burn Those Wretched Feet.

Orpheus is descending.
He smiles darkly, coos sweet nonchalance with practice. In place of heart a matt obsidian orb. Sharp as words, ferocious with ennui. In time, both feet in a miasma, swirling confused in apathy.

Orpheus is descending.
He is drained and void and smells the putrid pus-fumes from his pores. Exhaling a breath of rotten vegetable life. Humours rage havoc in constant bloating and a system in awry. The killer sting-nails digging into feet.

Orpheus is descending.
He is wary and weary and pays surety to unsureness. Made sick from the smug and snide kindness of friendly strangers. He sees well, strains the fist-grip pressure of flotus, and contorts his face into Learned Feste, eyes cutting to the quick.

Orpheus is descending.
He walks in, and she turns her head, Solitude standing, leaning against the window sill. He is struck by her black silhouette, by her long cool stare and her silence. And she turns with her hand extended, her palm is split with a flower with a flame.

Orpheus is descending.
And she says I’ve come to set a twisted thing straight, I’ve come to lighten this dark heart. And as she takes his wrist he feels her imprint of fear, and he says I’ve never thought of ever finding you here.

Orpheus descends.

a belated compendium

Gabrielle: "Great friends pretend nothing happened."

[Later]
Bree: "Good friends offer to help in a crisis. Great friends don't take no for an answer."

I liked the lines a lot - struck a chord in me amidst the moment of events. Anyway…

*****

My sis got back from Bangkok on Sunday late evening. Got moi berms, monkey shirt - green! - and onyx ring. And a bottle of Absolut Raspberri for our display collection. Just waiting for the Vanille and Pepar to appear. Slurp…

*****

It’s hard to believe that you can be busily unemployed and busy when unemployed.

Whichever way, I had that last week.

So many trivial things that take up much of your time you don’t know where to start or what to do. Or maybe I’m just a hopeless straggler.

It’s one of those Twilight Zone moments where I can’t even recall what I did. Certainly not busy finding a job, duh.

*****

our england not powderful enough

If there is a funny bone in the brain mine is tickled pink after learning about the latest National Epidemic -- Bad English (apropos to the topic what happened to that rock band...).

Apparently, some Power That Be deems our 'gasp of Engrish is fine but not prefect enough lah' (my inspired garble, not his). What? As compared to the mainland Chinese or offshore Eskimo?? Hah.

Anyway, tickled pink I was as I recalled, with fiendish delight, morsels of phonetic faux pas committed by people gathered through eavedropping or bitching with linguru friends.

After learning that a college friend got pregnant, the irrepressible Uber Bimbotica in my Arts Fac spluttered this immortal but unforgivable fart:

'She go to a very top range goonycologees one'.

*tight brain cringe*

What's more, this totally hopelessly clueless tongue-challenged walking dartboard of a bimbo who can't even 'pronoun her nim' to save her eyeballs is now unfortunately but ACTUALLY working in a Financial Times subsidiary - REALLY!!

There is no Gourd.

If she ever gets pregnant I'm gonna stuff her kid in a goony sack...

I can't decide whether this linguistic rapist is really clueless or gets a kick from doing it but what amazes me is she does it so sincerely and innocently!

In her bloodied world, we would be shopping in Crabby and Evil (I kid you not!), eat at Hyt, drive a Merkidis... The list is endless.

During my secondary school days, one of my English teachers Betty Wong - utterly fierce and tyrannical but totally effective and efficient - overheard a teen say:

'Wan come to play in my how?'

WHA? How?? Where???

Whereupon, Betty, ever civic minded, gave the runt a complete thrashing in public. Serves him right. I bet he gets tongue cramps everytime he hears the name Betty.

While I'm totally immune now to people going through a 'dye-vors' due to a misplaced 'ling-a-ree' and trying to be very 'sub-tal' about it, new critters manage to pop up when I least expect them to make my skin crawl.

At the wine section in 'Car-four' one fine noon, 2 dandy fellas passed me by and exclaimed: 'That Care-bee-nert very cheap. Wan to buy or not?'

Huh?? Cabinet? Uncle, here got cabinet?

'And must get that Sow-vik-non and Mer-lord ohso.'

The Lord wept.

Ok, I can understand why sooome pathetic language murderers can't be bothered about 'fruenting' their French or Swahili or whatever.

But people who cannot even 'pronoun' simple NIMS properly??

Last year, when Loon still had a pathetic band to call his own but not anymore, I introduced him to a flamboyant and shoot from the hip Miss Wildheart who used to work in an animal entertainment facility (very Silence of the Lambs, eh).

Not to entertain the animals lah.

It was for a public performance in the facility and Loon gave Wildheart's contacts to his cheena-educated stat-board-manager band leader.

Cheena Manager called Wild and said: 'I wan to speak to PAH-MEL-LAH'.

BANG.

That set off one of the most colourful tirades Mr Stat-Board has ever received.

Naturally, Loon called me, his toes laughing, to say his band leader want to complain that she DARED complain about his Engrish...

It takes all kinds.

Still, there is 1 good thing about this hopeless 'bettering (or battering?) our England' campaign.

A constant 'sauce' of human entertainment.

tripping in asia

Since budget airlines broke wind in our Asian neck in the woods, people I know left right up down and off centre have gone for, are taking or are planning intermittent trips cum mini breaks like they would to the shopping arcades.

After leaving left her previous job, Zanissa spent dreamy mornings in Vietnam and brought back Viet coffee for us. Likewise, Nicholas the trekking honcho in my Kelantan trip will be fumbling towards Indochine ecstacy this coming Vesak too. Some unexplored mountain ridge sans landmines, I believe.

Whereas Sabby just came back from that Eternal Sunspot of Teresa Teng's Demise and despite having had a ball of a time there, complains she's gotten 'fat and broke'.

I don't know about her but saying 'fat and broke' in the same breath gives people wrong ideas. Very wrong ideas. Hehehe...

My sis flew off yestermorn for shopping in ballsy Bangkok (pun intended). I expect she'll lug a boutique sans the kitchen sink back. And Ike has already banged up his 'extra curricular programme' for June.

Gen and Wee must be feeling pretty peachy in beachy Bali now: Wee on work assignment and Gen assigned for company and to work the 'sweat' shops. Sweating from the bargaining, no less. Nevertheless, I can't think of a tighter couple.

Moi? I'm still waiting for KL to happen. Flight - or rather coach *sheepish look* - delayed. But I'm sure Badawi won't mind if I drop in a tad later for tea...

It's the latest buzz.

Like it used to be 'Let's have pancakes at Beauty World' and now it's 'Let's have salmon sashimi for beakfast in Bangkok on Saturday'.

Or 'I went for a facial yesterday' has become so passe that now it's 'I washed my hair in Bali last night'.

Know what I mean?

While I would love to take a leaf (I'm on 'leaves' everyday now anyway) from these good fellas I want to maintain my ideal itinerary though.

Bali? I'll go back there in a beat cos I had such fond college memories from my last trip. It was like touring with the cast from Dallas and Falcon Crest, but that's another story...

Bang the cock? Maybe. I'm gunning more for Phuket or Phi Phi.

Le Vietname? Desolee, non merci, un autre fois dans un autre vie, peut etre...

I'll never go to Hong Kong. I don't fancy China at all, but not Tibet. I'm not wowed by Japan. I hate Korea. I loath Taiwan.

I'd love to see the Philippines. I'm curious about Nepal. I like Fiji. I'm interested in Papua New Guinea. I think Malaysia has many unsung gems. I don't mind Indonesia.

Then again, I change my mind easily. So never say never.

That's for the mini breaks.

The real die-die-must-go-once-in-a-lifetime-when-first-prize-lottery-strikes get away trips for me?

1. France - bread and pastry, gay Paris, lavender in Provence, escargot, Merlot and Cabernet, grapes in Loire, TGV, Pyrenees, Mont St Michel, soak atmosphere, stalk Juliette Binoche, watch, sit, breathe.

2. Holland - tulips, Vermeer and museums.

3. Russia - Trans-Siberian Railway, St Petersberg, Moscow underground train station, GUM (for shopping, not chewing hor).

All I need now is someone who knows how to rob a Swiss bank and get away with it...

ambe(e)r's animal adjectives

Found some redundant but interesting gems while dipping into Charles Harrington Elster's There's A Word For It! A Grandiloquent Guide To Life.

Useful when needed to cast in the face of offensive people you meet oftimes.

Here's a sample:

anserine: like a goose

batrachoid: like a frog

blattoid: like a cockroach

cynocephalous: having a head or face like a dog

hircine: goatlike, or smelling like a goat

limacine: like a leech

ovine: like a sheep

saurian: like a lizard

xenarthral: resembling a sloth, anteater or armadillo

And if 'Amber' is some repulsive bitch who's been stepping on your toes once too often, just slime her by changing her name to 'Ambeer'.

It may sound like a cool jug of Heineken (yeah right, a heiny can) but it's got nothing to do with beer.

'Ambeer' is that disgusting liquid spittle produced when you chew tobacco.

So next time you meet her, just spit this nugget at her, yeah?

kingdom of heaven

With much Satruday night expectation, I caught the lastest Ridley Scott with Al, Dra and Pin last night.

It wasn't a breakthrough, not when it's driven by an ok script with 1 super lame plot hole the size of Pavarotti's panties.

Al was the first and quickest to note its greatest and bullshitest conceit:

Bloom's hero, the perfect high-and-mighty holier-than-thou ordinary Balian refuses to 'commit a small evil for a greater good': namely marry the Queen and kill an ambitious, blood-thirsty power-mad racist frog (Anglo-speak for French), which led to pointless bloodshed and the tragic deaths of thousands of innocent men, soldiers, women and children.

AND YET, utterly unbelievably, the script makes him out to go on to lead armies, square off with the Muslims, protect That Crumb of a City Jerusalem, emerge the ULTIMATE HERO and capture the (soon to be ex-) Queen's heart. All without a tinge of blame or remorse at his own utter STUPIDITY.

Duh.

Al and I also had fun digging at Bloom's 'I am a blacksmith' line at the end:

How the devil walked unnoticed among ordinary men, how the devil pulled the greatest trick ever by convincing the world he didn't exist, how 'blacksmith' compares with Christ's whitewood carpenter, how not to draw the connection between Bloom, Balian and Beelzebub (get the drift?), how Balian got away from everything with evil ex-Queen in tow...

We had a riot...

Nonetheless it was competent and watchable stuff, with Scott's typical cold, dirty bottom-of-fish-tank blue stop-motion cinematography 'perfected in Gladiator', as Al announced. (Scott's Kingdom feels more secure and assured than Wolfgang Petersen's dismal Troy.)

But Gladiator it was not and somehow Dra and I envisioned Russell Crowe in the Balian role instead of Orlando ill-in-his-medieval-Bloomers. Most times he seemed lost in his surroundings.

For all the eye candy he hogs in posters, trailers and write-ups galore, Bloom's screen time and presence hardly justifies all the scream. Though suitably buffed up in muscles, they were given short exposure, and he looks positively drab in black locks.

Eva Green's Queen Sibylla - not bad but not regal enough. Jeremy Irons - an amazing talent I love to watch, he did ok here, but not a bang-out job. Liam Neeson - impressive, died too early but made best of it. Edward Norton - HUH? Where got? Didn't see him leh? Waaait a minit...! You mean that leper King Baldwin, face totally encased in metallic mask is babyface Eddy boy??!! Nuff said.

Surprisingly I was rooting for the few Muslim characters, especially Saladin.

Ghassan Massoud lent such captivating and unforgettable presence to the vengeful yet honourable Saracen leader. There's something about his eyes, face and voice that manage to evoke so much fear, awe, wariness and respect, so effortlessly.

And the way Ghassan Massoud skillfully portrayed Saladin, you believed in his stature. It's no wonder that Saladin inspired the best one liner from the whole movie:

Convert to Islam now. Repent later.

william blake

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forest of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Something Loon said during the trek up Mt Stong has been buzzing like a pesky fly in my head.

Out of the blue he sang verses from The Tyger.

I don't know what on earth sparked him off (most prob the heat got into the brains lah). Under normal circumstances I'd have found that a neat talking point.

But NOT when you're desperately trying not to die from the heat and weight and strain and catch your thinning breath and give an intelligent reply ALL at the same time. I just grumbled and willed him to shut up.

By giving it a silly lala tune, scouts and guides have routinely neutered The Tyger. I could never for the life of me understand why they chose this piece out of Blake's others (or any other). Could be the Christian overtones and wonder of Creationism in the poem. WHATever.

Anyway.

When I first read it (in JC I think) I had the benefit of not studying it for O level Lit so I was freed of all that Cliffs Notes rote religious crap and could interpret it on my own terms.

I reacted to it on a very human level. I associated it with Frankenstein.

And in a further sense the wonderment and - at the same time - delicate trepidation of the power of science and the uncertainty of choice that comes with creating.

Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Good poem, but not my favourite. I could appreciate it as any former PC student would (it is still Blake's defining poetic achievement) but the rhyme didn't work for me and the hook wasn't there. It didn't feel complete or revelatory. I was not impressed.

My fave Blake is a lot simpler. One that impressed me and spoke to me on a deeper, more feral and primordial yet profound level which I could associated with in terms of people and events:

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe;
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I water'd it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with my smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree

I discovered The Poison Tree by accident. Someone had left a printout on my table (unintentionally, I hope!) when I first started work in my first company as a lowly paid writer. I still have that prinout; I've recently binded it with some other nifty stuff I collected.

The company is... still around. Barely.

I grin with glee every time I recall the connection.

partial towards polars

that antifreeze tastes funny...

gunung: going, gone

Yup, that about sums it up for me.

Some imp-ressions from my nasty Mt Stong trip:

Night 01 - 29.4.05
Moi scampering like an overloaded camel from the cab with Loon and his Loonette into TP Railway. Felt so like Amazing Race. The moment all 16 of us boarded the train at 9.30pm it immediately started to chug along. We had stalled the train service for 25 minutes.

Day 01 - 30.4.05
12 long hours of rocking, squeaking, shaking, jerking, rumbling, grumbling, whining, groaning, straining, chugging, screeching, puffing.

Hardly any sleep. My book (A Year In The Merde) as soporific failed. Annoying lights. Dead bugs in suggestion box next to my head. Bed next to entrance-exit door and pot chambers. Feel the bliss.
Mood meter: upbeat

Day 01 - 9.30ish
Dabong Station. Literally 'in the middle of nowhere'. Derelict, oh so kampong, tall lalang on 1 side of track; modern, half-developed structure on other. Ain't Kelantan quaint.

Breakfast at Le Cafe Machik, a makan stall a la 70s. Stretch arm and you touch wooden beams on ceiling. Food as gourmet as those from Ubin. Bon appetit.

The Malaysian guide appeared (costly but mandatory). Skinny monkey named Yo (duh) with cocky attitude and loose mouth, oily shoulder length hair, long shiny black leotards beneath PURPLE micro hot pants.
Mood meter: *eyes rolling*

10.20ish
By large sand pit. Sampan boarding to other side of river in rich teh tarik colour. Can't recall if anyone tried to taste it.
Mood meter: thrilled

11.30ish
Going up to 'Stong Resort' *snort*. Hottest and crammiest coach trip ever. Windows all sealed. Noon microwave. 16 chickens roasting in a fucking rotisserie, sweating in hell.
Mood meter: burning

12.00ish
Reached resort. Togged and geared. Set off. Hobbits heading up Mt Doom.

1.30ish - 3.15ish
Very steep inclines. Lost half me weight in water. Fat sizzling off me pores... Cocky rushing us like a demented mountain goat without a thought. Bloody nerve. Mood meter: irritable... Something stinking to high heaven - that monkey dumped shit pile somewhere in bushes mid-route ahead of us. Bastard... FUCKING HEAT. Lots of laggards now. Panting like bikers in Triplettes of Belleville. Cocky taunting us. Irritating asshole. Worst than Ophir. Feeling weird now. Are we there yet?! MERDE. Why did I come?? Mood meter: dying... Some feeling faint. Others feeling fine. I feel like a grape squashed under Hagrid's heel... Cocky still rushing us like crazy. Am so not enjoying this. Feel so close to kicking his bony yoyo ass...

3.30ish
FINALLY! Base camp. Every cell and bone bursted with relief. Breathtaking view too.
Mood meter: 'Feeling like Sunday morning...'

4.00ish - 7.00ish
Pitched tent and went waterfall hopping.

1st waterfall: Nice
Great curtain of smooth granite surface and flowing water. Climb 1.5 storeys high onto surface and slide down waterfall. Lots of lookers but few takers.

2nd waterfall: VERY VERY NICE
Smallest water curtain. BUT the IMPACT and SPEED and NOISE - awesome! Great for shoulder and feet massages - just sit under the OSIM water curtain and let it pound away.

The main thrill - dipping into hidden potholes with waterfall gushing above you.

You hold your breath, drop into hole and stand in there as long as you can. Totally submerged (someone had better be around to hoist you up or else...). A nearly 2m tall Scot in group jumped in one and totally disappeared underneath. Roar of the waterfall deafening even underwater.

Scary but super exhilarating! Unbelievably cold too (my lips turned purple) but worth it.

3rd waterfall: Ok lah
Twin waterfalls snuggling next to each other. Game over. Next.

7.00ish - Midnightish
Unpack. Laundry. First au naturel bath at 1st waterfall - chilling, dark, funny.

Dinner. Small talk. Nice chats with Alan the Scotsman and Karki the Nepalese ("It's spelled 'c-a-r-k-e-y'!").

Giving summit a miss this time. Too dead tired to even bother.
Mood meter: damn shack but recharging

Day 02 - 01.5.05, 6.30ish
Hardly slept a wink - even less than in train. Incessant nattering from 2 human flies in tent all night. Humid, not chilly enough. Grumpy as hell from lack of sleep. Woke up to catch sunrise. What a letdown - foggy and cloudy. Can't see a damn thing. Hovered at cliff face for photos and breeze.

11.00ish - 2.30ish
Troopers went back for seconds at 2nd waterfall. I passed to try book soporific again. Peace and quiet - lounging on mat under tree. Nice and drowsy. Dozing off, almost in lalaland... Clowns came back - ruckus. Shit. Prepare lunch. Loon said he slipped and dropped digicam. Double shit. Clear up.

2.30ish - 4.45ish
Broke camp. Dismantle. Pack up. More delay on account of Cocky. Getting on me nerves. Finally, descent. Surprisingly easier and faster than expected.

5.00ish
Foot of Mt Stong. Hurray.

Alfresco shower - awkward, freezing cold but cleansing. Just chalked more years of rheumatism, that's all *sigh*. Ate my last apple - simple pleasure yet so divine, glad I brought them.
Mood meter: utterly drained, refreshed, pensive

6.00ish
Waiting for that moving microwave of a coach. Sky overcast. Rumbles. Shit.

7.00ish
Queuing to board sampan. Sky threatens. This is sooo not good.

7.30ish
On sampan. Halfway across river. What's that haze in front of us???

7.31ish
*Sampan enters drizzling rain patch*
Mood meter: FUCK

7.34ish
Rain pelting bathed skin and hair. Mad scampering onto sand spit. Bags ruthlessly dumped on sand. Feet flying.
Mood meter: (off the chart)

8.00ish
Total drenched chickens strolled into Le Cafe Machik to find it totally packed with other trekkers.
Mood meter: punctured

8.30ish
Soaking wet. No empty tables. Queue neverending. Sleepy as hell. Thirsty as shit.

Madame Machik speaking in tongues, me feeling tongueless. Imagine Marcel Marceau trying to buy casava from a Masai.

Thank goodness for a kindly Malaysian trekker in the group, making sure we got our stuff. "Lima goreng puteh, ayam dan telur. Ini, ini lah..." Learnt something new that night.

9.00ish - 10.00ish
Great nasi ayam dinner. Guzzled everything despite spying Madame's cooking tongs for frying the ayam falling onto dirty floor minutes ago.

Rain stopped. Nice chill time. No sight of train till 10.15. More drinks and banter ("We go 'club hopping' in this town later ok!").

Lapped up engineer gossip and inside digs - nice decent bunch. Football on telly: Kedah 3, Selangor 0. Raucous crowd. Just lacks beer or wine.

More join our table. Someone orders cold bandung (very soothing) for all. Nice and cosy.

10.10ish
Train arrives. Another dreadful 12 hour drag back to Sing Sing.

Day 03 - 02.5.05, 6.30ish
Did not sleep a SINGLE wink. Sitting car so disagrees with me: TV noise, BLOODY LIGHTS - can't someone just dim them or something?! - and snoring.

And man - the train was so FUCKing cold (in a good way lah). Worse that the mountain. Was in T-shirt, pullover, windbreaker AND sleeping bag and STILL not warm enough. Pathetic moi stayed up like zombie all night waiting to catch sunrise.

BUT. Best experience of whole journey for me was spent in that train.

Dining car, to be exact. 2 blissful (no chamber pots or dead bugs) hours spent alone just watching the outside view streaming by while enjoying warm Milo. Nothing spectacular or outstanding but like getting visual massage or stretch.

Wonderful endless expanse of land and space. Unpatterned carpet plots of fruit trees and vegetation revealing further and further. Sticks of banana trees with heads lobbed off. No flats or buildings in sight. Rolling hills and double mountains. Sight for sore eyes. Bliss.

9.30ish - 10.30ish
Stopover at JB for bak kut teh, gums and au revoir les amis.

12.00 noon
'And I feel like I just got home...'

Overall mood meter: Not a delightful trek compared to Ophir but has high points.