Indonesia 1: Where Time Stopped

* Pictures courtesy of Johann Annuar

Have you ever stepped into a place where you felt time stop? Where the figures on your watch/PDA/mobile phone were meaningless, where the days and nights were marked by the rising and setting of the sun? Where minutes and hours passed not by the creeping tick-tock of the hands of a clock, but by the clucking of chickens, the rustle of the wind, and the lapping of waves?

Down the infamous 44 hairpin turns that lead from the town of Bukit Tinggi, in the middle of Sumatra, to the village of Maninjau, is such a place.




Each hairpin turn seemed to raise a little more the curtain that covers this beautiful place, and when you reach the last turn, you would have passed a portal that brings you to a haven of peace and quiet. A layer of mist lightly covers the village when you enter, you see the paddy fields and Minangkabau-style houses through a hazy screen, almost as if this is a place in your dreams. Twisting and turning you go down into the crater, and the full panorama of Danau Maninjau (Lake Maninjau, in Bahasa Indonesia) slowly appears before you in all its subdued elegance.





There are several backpacker-style places to stay in, and we took the chance of "walking in" -- there must had been some providence at play here, for we did find a room despite this being New Year's eve season. The guest house we stayed in was rudimentary by many standards, but the hosts were gracious, the rooms were clean, the beds had sheets, and the local chickens were friendly. With a balcony outside that overlooked the crater walls circling the water, a lounging area that let us step directly into the lake for a refreshing dip, what more could we ask for?







We checked into the guest house in time for sunset. The clear lakewater quietly lapped against the steps leading down from the guest house, it was too good an invitation to turn down. Floating in the middle of the calm waters of a crater lake, created by Mother Nature's own fury and beautified by her soft touch, evident in the layers of clouds above, lined with whimsical silver edges. The lake was soothing and balmy, and as the waterline crept from my ankles to my thighs to my chest and finally to my neck, I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into the embrace of Maninjau until I was finally lost to its spell and enfolded in the arms of the crater walls that cut off the rest of the world from me.



Time and air and space in this place moved along its own rules. With only my head above water, I looked at the sun setting in the groove between two hills - the gentle "V" a natural nook for the sun to go to bed in. Purples, blues and pinks were alternatively mixing and matching into the most amazing profusion of colors - or was the humidity trapped within the crater walls playing games with my vision?



The crater walls were majestic hills, dark silhouettes under the sun, trimmed at the bottom with little villages, paddy fields and the occasional coconut trees. The water was rimmed with fish traps, kelongs, and little huts on stilts with boats lashed to them. The boats rocked gently on the water - lazily moving in a rhythm that was hypnotic and beautiful. I found myself treading water and breathing to the rocking of the boats, my movements unconsciously propelling me in a slow turn that let my senses drink in 360-degrees of Maninjau's beauty. I heard no sounds beyond my breath slowly hissing through my nostrils, my heartbeat echoing dully in my eardrums, the water trickling around my armpits and lapping around my chest. I was lost, and I didn't want to be found.



When my arms finally got tired and the slight chill in the air reminded me I was 800m above sea-level, I climbed out of the water and sat by the lounge to watch Maninjau go to sleep. Our cameras could do no justice to this place, but we tried our best - trying to capture moments when it seemed only right that we were there. When a little dragonfly, or a tiny flower, seemed to be the biggest star in this amazing interlude of nature's creation.





Hours may had been spent that night watching the lake, but time had no meaning to us then. I went to sleep that night already dreaming.



Go to Indonesia 2: Motorbike Happy

Kitty

In an average child's life, how many pets would have died under his/her watch? And does that number include the ones our parents flushed down the toilet but told us "The fish has gone to live with his mummy and daddy"?

Last month, I put my cat to sleep. Some people may feel I killed my cat. Others may feel I had put my cat out of its misery of kidney failure. All I know is I looked into her eyes, listened to her plaintive and weak meows of pain, felt her legs tremble under her skeletal frame, wiped off blood-stained vomit from her whiskers, and my heart broke into pieces.

I still don't know if I made the right chioce. How can one tell if it is the right thing to end a life? All I know is it was a decision made out of love. My most loyal companion, my bestest friend, and one whose love I know I had without prerequisite or condition.

Since childhood I have had many pets. Or rather, my parents took care of my many pets. We had a lot of dogs -- my favorite, when we were living in Malaysia, was Lucky, the timbermill mongrel who bore lots of puppies and created a dynasty ruling the west end of Penang, Malaysia. There were also several bunnies, chicks, little goats and a fat guinea pig. That was when we had the luxury of cheap land.

Then we moved to Singapore, where three kids squeezed into a 10 by 10 bedroom. The pets shrank accordingly and we fostered little chicks, terrapins, and guppies. My class was bought a hamster, whose coat was so luxurious we named her Velvet. I seem to have the good fortune of being acquainted with fecund animals, as Velvet seemed to have no problem finding a mate everytime she twitched her little hamster whiskers. Velvet was the matriarch of a hamster empire that managed to provide a pet to almost every one of the 30 kids in my class.

Subsequently we moved to a larger house, and we adopted a dog from the pound (which was an excuse, really, for us to visit the nearby pound to oooh and aaah at cute dogs). A cross-dacshund we named Lady, she was the epitome of stylish elegance. The way she folded her body into a neat bow before she sat down, the way she raised her chin when our mean neighbor walked by, the way she would stand alertly when she knew we were coming home just by the sound of my father's car coming round the bend. Lady seemed to know more about our lives than we did ourselves. I always thought she was the smartest pet ever had, and it was proven to me one day. We let her out for her daily walk, and she never came back. Our parents told us she decided it was her time to go, and she'd rather go away then let us see her last day.

After college in New York, I did have, for a short time, a pet albino hamster named Dante, as its red eyes reminded me of the seven levels of Hell. After which Kitty came into my life. She was picked up from a warehouse during a snowstorm, with the vain intention of bringing her back to the warehouse after the snowstorm was over. She stayed for 10 years, through five different apartments in New York City, living on a boat for a year, heat waves, snowstorms, cement yards, fire escapes, a short stint with another cat, another short stint with a Siberian Husky, and one bout of bladder infection.

Kitty moved with me to Hong Kong, and earned the high praise from the pet transport agency as "the most poised cat we've ever transported". She sat through the cross-pacific trip with admirable endurance, with very little disturbance. In our new Hong Kong home, she found her own little nook in a hideaway shelf in my living room cabinet. She continued to sleep by my back as was her habit in New York. She still refused to drink from her dish, but daringly lapped at water in my glass, soup in my bowl, and jumped on the bathroom sink to look at me expectantly when I went to wash my hands, hoping for a chance to drink from the bathroom faucet. She could tell whom I liked or disliked, and was friendly enough to let the ones I liked pet her back and rub her forehead. She liked to sleep in the same bed with the people I liked, which was great praise, I suppose, in cat-world.

Kitty was 13 years old in human years when she left. Kitty's ashes are now in a stylish marble urn, back in the little hideaway cubbyhole that was her favorite spot. My flat is no longer covered in cat hair, my clothes now need less brushing. But there is a big hole in my heart where she used to be, the bed is less warm now that she's not there sleeping by my back,and my flat seems emptier than before. I miss her unconditional acceptance and uncanny ability to know when I'm feeling blue, when I'm happy, and her stubborn reluctance to let anyone tell her what to do.

I fill the gaping hole in my heart every now and then when the little bell on her collar, which is still latched around my bag, tinkles sharply. I am thankful that she spent so much time loving me, and I hope that she knows I will miss her forever.

Nightime on the Promenade

So I came back from hanging out with my friends listening to a lousy girl band that think they do grunge music, they're uni kids from China that are in HK for a holiday - I don't know how my friend got to know them, but they sucked. Think that weirdass Japanese girl band in Kill Bill 1 when Uma goes into the Japanese bathhouse to kill Lucy Liu.

Then I got too wired to go to bed so I went walking along the promenade and I started to write. A real letter on paper with pen and stuff. Realized my handwriting was such chicken scratch and would be horrible for anyone's eyesight to read, so instead it's been transcribed into a blog entry! So in a way readers of this blog post will be the lucky recipient of a letter from me in these many years.

"Lucky" is subjective and debatable, I guess. I'm most likely going to write about nothing at all - just random thoughts as I sit here, with the breeze on my face, the night silent and comforting, like a good friend that sits there and says nothing, the mere presence enough to soothe and calm. I love nighttime for this reason. There are no harsh sunrays to show you the ugly realities of the world. You know they're there, but for these few hours the bad and undesirables have gone to bed with the sun.

All you see is purity - the clean lines of the moon, crisp scattering of the stars across the sky like diamonds, mute clouds that cushion the background as pillows for these nocturnal jewels, all divinely arranged on a velvet canvas.

All is quiet, at rest - except for the boats. I'm looking at Aberdeen Fishing Market, from which fishing and gasoline boats continue to ply through the water like so any busy ants in their watery hive, strangely making barely a whisper of a splash. There must be some reason for their industry, I'm just not sure what.

The twinkling stars are reflected down below, not just on the water, but in the multitudes of blinking apartment windows and the lights in them. Funny how I never see the same effect in New York and Singapore. All these skyscraping condominiums that HK is (in)famous for fade into the dark night, their only trace the blinking lights visible from residential units. From afar, they look like columns of starlight. Twinkling and blinking, they dazzle me, because I know behind each star is a home, with people and lives and a story waiting to unfold. Every night these "stars" arrange themselves into a different constellation because time doesn't stop and every day, the story is different. Our mundane everylife, in its own way, reflective of the greater story that is the cosmos, the universe, the earth, the sky, the wind, the stars.

Have you reckoned the earth much? asks Walt Whitman.

I just gaze at the stars above, look back down at the stars below, breathe in the sea air, listen to the waves and am happy to be here.

I am starting to, Mr. Whitman.

Trailwalker

100 kilometers.

62.13 statute miles.

8 mountains.

3 pairs of socks, 2 bottles of Red Bull, 7 liters of water, 6 sandwiches, 3 t-shirts, 3 chocolate-flavored power bars, 15 band-aids.

Surely all of this can be fit into 48 hours? That was the challenge Oxfam throws down during its annual Trailwalker event, a fundraiser for the poor and needy in Asia and Africa. The company I work for is the sponsor of this event in Hong Kong, and has been for the past few years. As such all employees were encouraged to be involved.

So for newbies like me, I thought that meant collecting donations, designing tee-shirts, etc. In other words, the cushy assignments. That is, until some brave soul in the office said to me one day:

Brave Soul: C’mon Pat, I’m sure you can do it. Great way to meet new people and get to know the geography of Hong Kong. Go on, I DARE YOU.

The fateful “d” word was spoken! And so began the frantic search for teammates, intense months of weekend training (as I am starting quite late into the process), earnest pleas for sponsors and girding my courage for the longest march of my life.

The 100 km is actually the (in)famous MacLehose Trail, in the New Territories region of Hong Kong.


This trail is known for its spectacular views, difficult terrain, beautiful beaches, aggressive monkeys, woody campsites and some pretty interesting climbing spots. It was also where the remarkable Ghurkas, Nepalese soldiers garrisoned by the British in Hong Kong, trained for operative fitness before 1997. As a momento, the Ghurkas continue to participate in Trailwalker, winning the grand prize almost every year. This year, they broke their previous record and came in at 12 hours and 30 minutes. This works out to an average of 8 km/hour, which means these dudes must have ran the whole way.

So lest there be any misunderstanding, Trailwalker is not for the faint of heart. Aside from the Ghurkas, normal people and insane hikers (like me) like the challenge of overcoming our physical limitations and push our determination and willpower to the limits, scale new heights, lift our spirits and cast our eyes on some of the most spectacular views Hong Kong has to offer.

And raise funds for Oxfam’s good work along the way, of course. You try and keep that in your mind as you trudge through numerous peaks and valleys (see altitude/distance chart), concrete paths, uncountable steps, loose rocks, smooth boulders, shifting sand, tumbling gravel, and start at the sounds of an occasional snake or wild boar.


The hike is continuous, with 9 checkpoints in between complete with breads, cakes, water, coffee, tea and the oh-so-necessary first-aid and podiatry stations. Our brave State Street support team members were an inspiration, with unfailing good cheer, strong words of encouragement and hot hot food. They stayed up all night, trudged up the hills themselves with bags of food and care packages, provided back rubs, massages and the occasional corny joke or two. Without them this experience would have been that much drearier. So a shout out to these great volunteers, you guys are awesome.

But that’s all logistics.. the question remains: So how did you feel during the 100km hike?

In three words – Mind Over Matter. The first 20 to 30 km was relatively smooth, there is the excitement that pumped adrenaline through my veins and buoyed me past the first few checkpoints. Somewhere after 2 a.m. about 15 hours into the hike, the body and the mind start to have some very interesting tussles.

The body says after Checkpoint 3, that the steps are too steep and the roads are bloody long. The mind says, step with your heel first and fully extend, then breathe in and out every alternate step.

Your body says at Checkpoint 4, "Hey, it’s 3 a.m. and we’ve been going for 16 hours straight, let’s take a break." Your mind says "Blink your eyes and look at the beautiful night sky and the rolling shadows of the hills yonder, let's see how much more there is of this beauty."

Your body says at Checkpoint 6 that these bloody (literally) blisters are too painful and it's time to sit for a while. Your mind says to bandage them up and the pain will fade after you establish a solid walking rhythm, and what are you, a crybaby?!

Your body says at Checkpoint 9 that it’s almost the end, let’s reward the hard work with some well-earned shut-eye. Your body says, what the hell, another 12 km to go, let’s push on!

So after 36 hours and 48 hours, muttering to myself “Gotta push on, gonna make it, must finish…” as a chanting refrain with every painful step, occasionally shouting to myself out loud “Why am I doing this??” and my teammates responding “Cos you’re insane! We’re all insane!”, I was finally at the end. Clutching my hiking stick like it was my last lifeline, toes soaking my socks with blood and sweat, hat askew, clothes sopping wet, eyes gritty from lack of sleep, I let loose a sobbing shout of relief when I saw the finish line.

Forgetting protesting kneecaps and blistered toes, ignoring tired muscles and sweaty body, I grabbed my teammates’ hands and we ran full tilt into the finish line and danced with joy at 11.48 pm Saturday November 6.

This was a challenge for four veritable strangers to hold on to our determination, push our limits, support each other, and persevere when every muscle, bone and sinew is telling you give it a rest. Our team of four successfully raised over HK$20,000 for Oxfam, thanks also to all my friends and colleagues who supported our cause (including many from Securities Finance!). And surely that was the point of it all, to do some good and help the needy, sharing our fortune with those that haven’t see any of late.

Would I do it again next year? I say, ask me again when the scars on my toes fade, or if someone dares me again...


Stage 1


Stage 2


Taking a break


View at night


Keep going


Three-quarters of the team


Up, up and up


Walkers and Supporters


We made it!