Deadly dreams

The other night (or day, as it may be), I dreamt that father died.

It wasn't so much that I witnessed his death - the news seemed to have been conveyed to me via either the telephone or text message.

I found myself alone at home at that time - but yet the front door was open, with the gate shut.

A bunch of people had gather outside the gate, clamouring for something, and I found myself hoping they don't breach the gate.

But they somehow did, and they surged in. I try to hide, but instead found my fingertips being pressed against all manner of unknown documents.

Then I woke up.

Later that day, a new funeral popped up at the foot of the neighbouring block of flats.

Chicken Little

The trouble with going on turtle patrol alone in the middle of the night is that for people afraid of the dark, it's a horror flick where the never-ending music is on the screeching violins. And the trouble with being afraid of the dark is that it sounds ridiculous as a reason for refusing anything.

So, on turtle patrols I went.

Out there with a little headlamp where only the infrared bulb was allowed (white light scares away turtles), paranoia. The wind is high. I will myself not to run away screaming with every rustle of a leaf. Still, chagrin, as it gets hard to walk doubly fast in the fine sand. Easier on the firm sand along the waterline. But the waves are deafening and in the limited light, look dangerously like they're rushing in to devour everyone, anyone on the beach. I don't walk anywhere near the waterline.

The sky is invariably black and heavy with stars. Is it sucking me into space, or is it coming crashing down me on earth? Am I breathless from the expansive sight, or suffocating because I'm too small to bear the weight? I have to look away, focus on the sand. But I dwell on Chicken Little, I might know him.

It's always a relief when patrol ends, when I throw down the headlamp and flee to bed.

But then, a new perspective presents itself unexpectedly - in a motorcycle sidecar.

If you look up into the laden night sky as you hurtle along the narrow path snaking through the forest, it's almost as if you're travelling through space. What a rush.

The New Tioman Episode

I've been going around telling people that I stayed with a conservationist in Tioman, so I'll stick with that, although I can't be sure if the term "conservationist" needs to come with special qualifications. Let's just peg that at moving to Tioman from the US 6 years ago, living on a sometimes inaccessible island to build a compound from scratch, all for the sake of protecting turtles.

A nondescript entry on Wikitravel and 8 days of leave to clear conspired to bring me to Tioman. It's funny though, that most still think a "volunteer" gets free board and lodging. I'll admit I was one of them, until I started to look into it more seriously.

When I arrived around mid-afternoon, there were two other people there, besides the conservationist (male). One, a German female, in her 20s. Subsists mainly on cheap cigarettes. Long stayer - will live there till September. The other, Australian female, in her 50s or 60s. Like me, just a temp - 10 days. Loves to chat about herself and her lifetime of substantial travels - Africa, America, Europe, she's done it all. I am bunking with the German.

On the tour of the place, the conservationist remarks that I am funny, because I refused to do any research about turtles prior to arrival, opting instead for "physical labour". He decides to start work on the little pool that his blind turtle is housed in, the day I arrive. The plan is to tile the inside of the pool (outside already tiled when pool was built). So the turtle, measuring perhaps 70cm in diameter, is moved into a giant black plastic tub. Then we try to scrub away the algae that coat the cement walls of the pool. Somewhat futile, but work is work.

In the subsequent days, I am roped into tiling the pool, hammering together the frame of a big picture someone has painted (I proceed to hammer it into the wooden floorboards), digging a giant hole (to house the septic tank for a couple of new chalets being built), chopping up dead trees (subsequently burnt), chopping bamboo at a bamboo grove (even though I knew bamboo groves are mosquito hothouses, I still ended up with over 20 new bites just from that outing) and general cleaning (I actually elect to clean the kitchen floor on my hands and knees).

The bamboo poles are eventually used to build a turtle hatchery, which, with the participation of 5 new volunteers who arrive on day 3, I am able to not really do any work for. Did I mention it was under the beating mid-day sun? Getting a beautiful satay-hued tan is not for me. But hey, they did a great job!

That was on day 6, the day I have 2 sausages for breakfast. The conservationist saw me getting a new packet of them from the fridge. At lunch, he asked me how many sausages I had. Upon examination of the package, he had appeared to conclude that I had 5 sausages. In fact, I had cooked 4 and gave the German girl 2.

Later, of course, I had to ask. 'What's wrong with eating 5 sausages?'

He said, 'It's not economical.' And proceeded into a spiel about the difference between how Americans and Asians eat. 'An Asian would eat rice with 2 ... no, ONE sausage.'

No wonder he'd been looking so keenly into my bowl of instant noodles on previous days. For want of some fibre, I had thrown in some remnants of bean sprouts and cauliflower I found in the fridge. I wonder if he gave the same lecture to the Australian, whom I saw eating two eggs for breakfast (despite claims that she needed to watch her cholesterol). Probably not. No one wants to bully old ladies.

On day 7, I handed in my RM960 volunteer fee. Took no food from the kitchen except 2 slices of bread. Trekked to a nearby waterfall and did no work. Walked to the nearest village (about 20 minutes on foot) to pack dinner.

On day 8, I left, even though I wasn't due back home until day 9. I stayed the extra night in a clean inn in Mersing and treated myself to Kentucky Fried Chicken and Marrybrown. Between bites of fried chicken~ I reckon there must be a line one crosses from being a reasonable human being to becoming a wildlife champion looking for the next donation. The turtle gets squid and fish twice a day, while the humans get random vegetable scraps.

Is it me or does something funny always happen in Tioman? The last time I was there, someone fell off the seabus into the sea - but not before trying for an impossible split between the boat and the jetty. Must be something in the Tioman water (100% potable)~

又着地了

今年，老爸跌倒并受伤的机率似乎高了许多。

二月份，他在洗澡的时候滑倒了。这大概是我赶时间失算而导致的。当时他血糖太低，迷迷糊糊地从浴缸爬了出来，就出事了。从厨房跑过去，就看他全身湿透四脚朝天。接着我又让他继续洗澡，他身体弯曲，吸气有一种嘶嘶的声音。换好衣服去吃饭时，他说，左边肋骨疼痛 - 看起来痛得直不起身。我让他去让医生看看，可他硬不去。过两天，我出国了。

旅行途中，听说把他拉到诊所了。X光显示 - 是肋骨骨折，肺脏挫伤。严格上得住院观察，但医生说看起来有愈合的现象，所以可以不住院。不过还得准时到医院复诊。医生还说，骨折是很痛的，老爸竟然还能忍受。。。

三月份，我又出国了。不在的时候老爸又在冲凉房跌倒了。这次不知怎么样，割伤了头，流血了。

回家后，我问他，有没有跌倒？他回答，没有。我又问，哪里痛？他说，头痛。

为什么痛？

我跌倒了。

四月份，清明节又到了。我们开车上马国去扫墓。坟场地面凹凸不平，对老爸来说是个大挑战。虽然他平安地走到了爷爷坟前，没人注意的刹那间，还是摔倒了。本来安分地坐在坟墙上，偏要站立，结果失去平衡，直接往后倒在邻墓上。因为坟墓上长满了草，没受到什么伤。

过后又问他，有没有跌倒？他说，有。

在哪里？他说，在我们住的家。

哪里痛？屁股痛。

Don't stand so close to me (not just in winter)

On the bus, it reeks of down (jackets). (I wasn't wearing one.)

Winter. The season that brings the urge to huddle together for warmth. To that end, the space between you and the next person is already greatly reduced due to the bulkiness of your clothes. It's a real squeeze on the subway seats.

But that's not my grouse. It's with the fact that on public transport, the air doesn't circulate ... much. And the fact that people don't cover their mouths when they cough, sneeze ... talk loudly. If you're unfortunate enough to breathe in your neighbour's germs, highly likely in a usually crowded bus, you will be infected. So that's how I arrived home with my nose running like a tap.

If it's a bun stall, buy a bun!

Buns, or 包, are more popular in southern China than in the north. In the north, another kind of bun with no filling, 馒头, are popular. But don't buy a blueberry pie at a bun stall. At first I bought a 豆沙包, but just out of curiousity, I decided to buy a blueberry pie too. The bun cost Y0.80 and the pie, Y1.50.

Of course the bun tasted better. I only ever bought buns after that.

And a 烧卖 in China is a steamed glutinous rice dumpling, not a Hong Kong-style pork dumpling.

What's this, an umbrella for a drizzle?

When people whip out umbrellas for a little drizzle, it makes me think this is a place not used to rain. But southeast China ought to get a fair amount of rain, I thought. Perhaps not downpours.

But if they're going to tote an umbrella for every little drop, at least practise some etiquette. How do they manage to keep poking my head with it even though I'm so short? No self awareness?

Girls = better hygiene? Surely you jest.

Dormitory living in China in the off-peak seasons have opened the door to a new specimen of fellow travellers - single, yellow, female. Many of them bring tons of stuff in a roller suitcase, and spread this stuff around their beds, under their beds, anywhere they can. These are also the kind of people who buy a piece of papaya, take one bite out of it, and leave it open on the table in the room for days, peel an orange and throw the peel on the floor. Maybe no one has ever impressed upon them the function of a waste basket.

Thankfully, the cleaners mostly clean the room everyday. Maybe. I suspect someone stole at least Y5 in coins out of my coat pocket. And I'm not saying it's the cleaners.

I look forward to returning to Hangzhou in better climes.

Because soggy shoes are absolutely hateful. And I forgot to purchase a new bottle of 花雕酒.