"Daddy, be brave..."

The nurse injected the concoction of toxins into his veins. He groaned, and I grimaced as I watched his pain express themselves on his tense, sunken and hollow cheeks. The syringe was as thick as a thumb, and as long as a pencil. The air was stale, wafting with the sour, sterile, sickly smell of the oncology ward.

"Daddy, be brave... Daddy, be strong..." The three year old's voice was so sweet, so soft, and moistened my eyes. She stroked his dad's arm gently, with such determination and care. I turned away, looked into the sunlight blazing in through the big, transparent windows of the hospital, hoping the sun would evaporate the tears. This sight, this smell, this moment... all too close, raw and emotional for comfort.

It's only been eight months since I last saw him. A friend I met by chance a few years ago, and who's not more than a few years older. Then, he was strong, handsome, and preoccupied himself day and night with affairs of the monastery in the mountains I frequented. Today, he has become so weak, so frail that I was almost afraid to hug him.

I gently patted him on the back, but words choked in my throat. What can you say to someone who has lost twenty kilos in the span of a few months without sounding condescending or pitiful? How do you take someone's pain away, when the morphine drips themselves are too slow to work? I smiled, felt my leg tremble and fidgeted with my fingers. Not a smile of happiness... but a nervous smile, hiding the sorrow and disbelief at seeing a friend disintegrate to such conditions.

His abdomen swelled with water, and with liquid that had some seeped into his lungs, his breathing was laboured. The chemo had worn him down, bit by bit, cell by cell, strand of hair by strand of hair. He spoke little in the hours I was there, and when he did he sounded apologetic and sorry that he was wasting my time being with him. His arm was left with little but skin over bone, and his eyes were tired and heavy. The voice that once held such power, that spoke in rhyme and poetry, that once spoke about the way of the Dharma with such confidence and certainty, had become coarse, beaten and sorrowful. His young daughter's boisterous movements and cheerfulness was a great contrast, but brought much needed life and laughter into the hearts of the visiting relatives.

"How good it is to eat, to walk, to sleep well..." he said, remorsefully. Indeed, all these things we take for granted every day become painful struggles when you are bed-stricken. The best medicine, the best doctors, the best hospitals cannot take away the cancerous cells that have infested themselves deep inside. Do you give in? Do you give up? Do you keep on fighting, bear the pain, the humiliation and defeat of being reduced to nothing but a sordid heap of bone and skin?

These are questions that I have had to face for a number of years... in the life of my friend, and in my recently parted father. A question that too is haunting the relationship with my own mother. I watch... am forced to watch as they all grow tired and weak, sad and hopeless. I try to smile, try to laugh, to joke and poke fun at the inevitabilities and realities of life, sickness and death. I try to remember the teachings of the Buddha, to remind myeslf of letting go of attachments. But ultimately I can only watch, watch, and painfully watch as they slip away slowly from my fingers, out of reach, out of touch. Deep down, I mourn for my inability to change fate, to change the mysterious and illussive ways of the universe. What I would give to ease their pain, to share their burdens and blow away their worries and fears...

But what else can I offer but my tears?

Surprise

I had to leave that place as soon as the mellow music began to sound in the background. Tears were filling my eyes, and my vision became a watery blur. Wandering around Danshui, I stumbled into the former home of Dr. George Mackay, the humanitarian doctor and Presbyterian priest who established the hospital I was born in. The old artifacts and the little room, which used to be his consultation office, made me emotional, and the music was what pushed it. Merely a few hours after landing in Taiwan, I was crying. Belated tears which I held because I did not want to appear weak, because I did not want to see my mum see me cry.

Three hours earlier I arrived home, put down my suitcase, quickly showered to cleanse myself of the sweat from hauling my belongings up the five flights of stairs. My heart was racing, and I was smiling unexpectedly from the anticipation of seeing mum again. I called her, and as expected, she was at the hospital.

Immediately I sensed something was wrong. It was in her voice. It was so... sad, so... silent. Gone was the energy with which she spoke when we spoke earlier just before I boarded my flight at Incheon. I rushed to meet her at the gates of the hospital. When I saw her, she somehow felt me coming and looked up. With arms outstretched, she beckoned me to come closer. We hugged and I patted her gently on the back, close my eyes momentarily as I savoured that moment of reunion.

There was a sadness on her face. A sadness compounded with disbelief, and perhaps confusion or even fear. The prognosis is not good. There is a 'lump', this time around a lymph gland. The doctor recommends immediate chemo.

"Some things cannot be predicted..."

Eight sessions, with around a two week interval in between each one. Each one lasts around two to three days. And each one takes a week to recover from. Until the next session.

"I've been eating well, sleeping well, and even 'doing it' well. Who would have known?"

The treatment will be more intensive, and the drug will be stronger than before. Hair will fall out. We strolled slowly together. I was close to tears, but clenched my teeth so that the tears would not flood over my eye lids and run down my face. How that moment hurt. How, as those words left her mouth, I felt like a heavy, heavy weight weigh down on my previously flighty and light heart.

"Last year when I stopped the treatment, the effects of the drugs took a long time to go away. And now I have to inject more poison into my body. I will become so tired, so weak..."

Right then, I felt like turning away, running away and crying quietly in the corner where one could see me, where no one could touch me. I knew I could not. I must be strong. I must be there for my mum. But how strong can I be when even now, as I type, I tremble at the thought of my mum under going treatment again? How strong can I be to have to watch her suffer, watch her strength fade from day to day, helplessly watch her feel the immeasurable amount of pain and anxiety that I cannot do anything to take away?

Mum is at work now, for an hour or so longer until she finishes for the week. As I walked to kill time before she finishes work, she accompanied me to the door. I walked slowly away, and turned back to see her stand there in front of her office and look back at me. I gathered the strength to wave at her. And she smiled back. She still stood there, and watching me as I disappeared into the crowd. I turned back again, only to see her, with sunken shoulders and a lowered head, gradually make her way into the office.

Mum, I am home.

Homeward bound

Sitting here at the airport, about to round up my trip to Korea. It's been an eventful trip, with missed connections, frustrations at the lost lugguage, being unbearably lost in translation. But there have also been positive experiences too. This truly is a unique country, so steeped in tradition, history and culture, yet all those roots to the past and to the Korean heritage is so well grafted onto modernity, technology and hope for the future.

Just spoke to mum on the phone, as today is the day when she receives the results of her latest checkup. She sounded good, telling me to go to all these places and to travel around and enjoy myself. I told her that I was in Incheon (where I really am), and she said it's a big port city, where dad and her visited before when I was very little. She once told me that I was so happy to see them leave, and even waved goodbye to them. Yet little did I know they were going to be away for a number of days, probably the longest I've ever been away from them. I can't remember if I cried after saying goodbye.

I am in Incheon, but little does mum know that I'm at Incheon International Airport. She recommended that I go to Jeju, a tropical island that's supposed to be very beautfiul and famous. She said that it's best to fly there as the distance is far to travel. I said I'll think about it. And I smiled inside. Indeed, I'll be flying to a tropical island, but just not the one that she was thinking of.

Later around noon she will probably be at the hospital. It's also around the time that I arrive in Taipei. She said she's been asking the Buddha for blessings, and hopes that things will be alright.

I will find out when I arrive.

Stuck in San Franciscio

There was a chillingly cold breeze blowing in from the Pacific. Night fell, and the streets of the normally vibrant city emptied. I strolled toward the pier, the same place where only two months ago was packed with bustling crowds of curious tourists and sightseers. Now there was only the occasional couple braving the cold in one another’s embrace, and some random commuters trying to rush home for the long weekend ahead. Even seagulls, abundant in the hot, humid summer, seemed to have hibernated.

Beneath the yellow glow of street lights I wandered alone. Somehow, a sore twist of fate and missed connections landed me this moment of reflection in San Francisco on this breezy October night. Leaves fell and danced at my feet, as trees shuddered. The spells of anticipation and deep disappointment at missing my Korea-bound flight had already subsided. As I looked around, I realised I was not the only one wandering around the city aimlessly.

A man and his friend pushed a cart filled with plastic bags and salvaged bottles down the pavement. Another clung onto a soiled and ragged sleeping bag as he limped on. A few lay on cardboards close to holes that vented warm air as the subway rushed past. The clanking of coins in a cup sounded as I passed a dark alleyway. I looked down, only to be confronted by the sorry scene of an unshaven man in tattered rags huddled together trying to keep warm. There was a pungent stench of unwashed clothes and frayed human hair that had weathered the elements for far too long. In a set of sunken eyes was the sight of pity, sorrow, and of destitution. “Change… Give me change…” For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he meant spare coins or was begging to some unknown force to somehow suddenly transform his current sad fate.

On top of a flagpole, a gigantic star spangled banner, perhaps mockingly too big and majestic, gently waved and slightly wavered in the wind.

Eastbound

Already October, and the leaves are changing colours once again.

The windy night will probably blow many onto the road, sweep them away as if they never were part of the lush, dense, green foliage that provided shadow in the heat of summer. Soon, the trees will be barren again. Shame I will not be here to see that gradual transition of the seasons.

Second last night here in Montreal for a while to come. The luggages are half-packed, and in that apprehensive mode before embarking on this long trip eastward. It will be quite a trip, and to be honest I am not really looking forward to it. The first journey across the Pacific will be horrible... 22hrs of travelling, in three different planes at three different locations. That is, if I manage to catch all the planes on time. One hour of transfering does not leave much leeway for error or delays... Hopefully I arrive in Korea incident-free...

Then the presentation on Tuesday. I think I am prepared.... even though for the past two weeks I've been avoiding working on it. The person I was working with (or supposed to be working with) didn't do much, and in the end had lots of criticisms on how the visual presentation was set up. Fair comments, on being too wordy and to lengthy... but there were even comments about the background blue colour, which really put me off. So I've been pretty depressed for some time, wondering about the quality of my work... wondering if I'm going to make a fool of myself standing there in front of people and talking about such a simple (read cynical) thesis as space cooperation. I think, or at least I hope, after the presentation I will feel more relieved...

Then yesterday I spoke to mum, and she sounded down. Anxious, perhaps, about her latest checkup, and talking in a way that seemed to suggest that she might not be here this time next year. It hurt to hear that, and I tried to sound confident, even so deep inside I was already mourning... already crying invisible tears. I wish I could be there for her now, comfort her, make her happy and smile. But I'm not there.

The only way I can be there is to change my plans. Originally I planned to stay a week in Korea to travel around a bit, but I cancelled all that. And now I'm set to fly back to Taiwan a week or so early. On the day that mum gets her latest checkup results. I'm imaging rushing to the hospital as soon as I arrive and sitting there in that narrow crowded corridor waiting to be called in by the doctor...
I want to be there, whatever the news.

Maybe I cannot help her, but hopefully my being there, however fleeting and brief, will distract her from her dark, brooding thoughts...

The East is still Red at 60

Thousands upon thousands of soldiers, men and women, stood on Tiananmen today as President Hu Jintao cruised by in his Chinese-made limousine. These members of the People’s Liberation Army, Navy and Air Force are awe-inspiring, vigilant, and no doubt proud to have been chosen to be part of the meticulously planned parade to celebrate the People’s Republic of China’s 60^th birthday. Even the sky was bright, sunny and manipulated. The whole atmosphere surrounding the ‘Gates of Heavenly Peace’ must have been reminiscent of that revolutionary song “The East is Red”:

The east is red, the sun is rising

China has brought forth a Mao Zedong.

He works for the people's welfare.

Hurrah, He is the people's great savior.

Chairman Mao loves the people,

He is our guide,

To build a new China,

Hurrah, he leads us forward!

The Communist Party is like the sun,

Wherever it shines, it is bright.

Wherever there is a Communist Party,

Hurrah, there the people are liberated!

The pomp and show, Communist kitsch and symbolisms will no doubt have been broadcast and shown around the world. Hu’s normal Western attire of suit and tie was today traded for a black Mao costume. Even if the era of everyone dressing in the same drab clothing is long gone, on occasion the General Secretary of the Chinese Communist Party must don on that stern, sterile, smile-less look of a simple party cadre. A sea of children with red and yellow flowers and banners spelt out inspiring messages as "Listen to the Party," and "Be Loyal to the Party."

There were magnificent floats showcasing the People’s Republic’s achievements in the last six decades. There were floats representing all of China’s twenty-two provinces, and ‘autonomous regions’, including ones with happy, rejoicing Tibetans and celebrating Uyghurs all too happy to have been liberated and incorporated to be part of the “great rejuvenation of the Chinese nation”. Distant are memories and images of those dark times when the vast majority of the country was an impoverished mass of peasants suffering under the yoke of corrupt landowners and imperialist lackeys. China today is the world’s second largest economy, with shiny skyscrapers in bustling world-class cities like Shanghai, its very own Airbus production line, and the ability to send a man into outer space (and back). China, as a veto-wielding power of the Security Council, the only ally of North Korea, is undoubtedly playing a key role in regional and world affairs, and not afraid to show that its new-found wealth is fuelling vast investments and vested economic and geopolitical interests in Africa, and the developing world at large. There are even those who are quick to tout Red China’s recent decision to “go green” will be the trigger of most significant revolution in human history since the launch of Sputnik.

Then came the long awaited speech. There was silence, deafening, awe-inspiring, and glorious as Comrade Hu spoke beneath portraits of the Great Revolutionary Father Mao Zedong, and the Great Mastermind of “Socialiasm with Chinese Characteristics” Deng Xiaoping. Hu urged the millions of Chinese people, ‘told’ to watch the celebrations at home, to "work hard to achieve new victories in building a moderately prosperous society in all respects and write a new chapter of a happy life for the people". This is a different China, a new China, a China that is forever a “rich, strong, democratic, civilized, harmonious and modernized socialist country”. The waves and waves of applause and cheering must have rivalled the moment when Mao, on that very square, uttered in his squeaky voice that “the Chinese people have stood up”.

Dreams....

It's been a while since I last had such intense dreams. Must have been early morning, in that twilight zone between morning and night. It was so intense, I could feel myself 'cry' dry tears and cringe in sorrow. In my vision appeared two people I miss in my life, and who have unfortunately passed away already. And I never thought I would see them in my dreams... especially not together.

First to appear was my grandmother (on my dad's side). She and I were really close, as when I was young, I used to spend time with her during the summer. It's been a while since I last thought of her, but in the dream she was still the sweet and kind old lady I remember her as. A smile with few teeth remaining, wrinkled skin, and worn hands from years of working and toiling to raise a family of seven... I realised in my dream how much she meant to me, how I really miss her, and how little I've thought of her...

And somehow my grandmother merged into my dad, who appeared too. I forget what we did or said, but he was there. And it's been a while since he last appeared before me. He looked the same, healthy and thin, and that unmistaken smile. He felt warm, gentle, and spoke in a way that broke me, even though I no longer remember what he said...

I woke up, and felt so alone... naked, and exposed. I clutched onto a pillow next to me, and longed for human company. No matter who, just someone to hold me, to comfort me, and to whisper to me that things are alright. To just tell me that things are not as lonely as they seem...

Looking

What am I looking for?
Maybe if I stop looking, I'll find it.

Official song of the Deaflympics 2009

聽得見的夢想 (Dreams you can hear)
Sung by mandopop diva Chang Hui-Mei (A-Mei).





Translation mine:

The stars silently flash with light,
Humming and singing with the musical movements of angels,... Lees Meer
Breeze from the mountains warm up [your] raised chests,
Raising your silent and brooding expectations.
Cover [the], hand placed on [the] heart,
Close [your] eyes [and you] can see the distance.

Never been afraid,
You and I are the same.
There is nowhere [we] cannot reach.
The warmest treasure
Through the vision of concentration [we] hear dreams.
The most realistic strength
Hides the silent skies,[we] hear hope.

Laughter is love’s bridge,
In the process [we] treasure even the pain.
Maybe the journey is longer,
[But I] see you arrive with pride.
Cover [the] ears, raise [our] hands toward the sky,
Use the heart to receive cheer’s fame.
Sweat is the medal radiating with blinding light
Lighting the places you hurdle [across].

My Canada Day

Some nineteen hours since I left home, after boarding three different planes at three different locations, I finally made it across the Atlantic. A long journey it was, braving thunderstorms, missed connections, lack of sleep, and the cruel fate of forced (albeit temporary) separation from one of my suitcases full of my momentos. Still clinging onto my clothes was the scent and saltiness of the North Sea.

Though I arrived a little later than planned perhaps, last year, and on this very day, the warm breeze of a late summer’s night in Montreal blew in the winds of change. I remember my very first step on Canadian territory in my Birkenstocks. Despite the losses of the previous few months, I was fortunate to be given a new opportunity. A new country, a new city, a whole new world lay before me, waiting to be discovered. How exciting and refreshing that was!

I remember my very first meal, of couscous and shrimp brochettes, on a terrace beneath the shadows and reflections of towering skyscrapers. And I remember my very first sight of the Rodderick Gates, behind which in the months to come opened up a wealth of memories and learning at McGill.

That first night, I wandered through the unfamiliar streets of a then big and foreign city. I knew no one, and no one knew me. Cars, horns and sirens whizzed past, while the sound of random chatter and laughter passed me by, almost intensifying a growing sense of loneliness. The sky darkened, and night had fallen. And the closest thing I could call ‘home’ for the coming two weeks would be a downtown hostel.

Life hurries on, and at times I am left trailing behind trying to make sense of all that has happened. And of all that is still to come.

One year on, and I have slowly began to build up a life, a home, friendships and a sense of belonging. Right here, right here in Canada.

On Lake Katchewanooka

There was an ever so faint trail of mist, white, lingering and hovering over the smooth, smooth surface. Light was just dawning as the sun slowly rose. All was quiet, all was still, save for the sporadic birdsong and the creak of some lonely cicada. Or perhaps it was a cricket?

The lake, undisturbed and unstirred from a sleepy, moonless night, rippled underneath. The sky, blue and clear, lightly dabbed with clouds of cotton white, reflected on the watery mirror that spread into the distance. The sound of water drip-dropping from my oar onto the lake’s almost flawless face was almost embarrassingly loud.

With every stroke, a thin silvery whirlpool emerged and faded. With every paddle, the lake parted before the bow, bowing to form gentle waves that would ebb, flow and fall across the horizon onto silent shores.

Early morning and two people on a simple canoe glided over the Katchewanooka. I looked into the murky depths of the lake, overgrown with weeds and water grass, parts of which were so dense and thick that it resembles a nebula of greens. In other parts of the lake, the water was so shallow we seemed to be skirting the ground, ever vigilant of the treacherous rock or boulder that could sink our little vessel.

We skimmed the surface on the lake under my rhythmic movements. Pull, lift, pull, lift, steady as a beating drum, and the canoe rocked forward. In a field of reed we stopped and listened. To the quiet whisper of the winds, the soft flow of water, and the rustling sounds of grass dancing and nodding their heads.

For a moment we seemed to be alone in this great big world. Dark silhouettes of trees crowded the shores around us, and little lily pads floated to softly stroke the side of the canoe. Nothing but wild, raw nature, untamed in its beauty, unmatched in its tranquillity and serenity. We faintly drifted to the sway of the breeze and currents. Until the distant murmur of a roaring motorboat cruelly brought us back to reality.

It was such a simple joy, being there, paddling away, and at times simply drifting away to wherever the currents pleased. A simple joy of doing something so quintessentially Canadian in a little canoe on a big, broad lake.

“If you’re going to San Francisco…”

The taxi lurched forward, gliding gently over the paved pathway. Outside the transparent glass, a gigantic neon-light crab went by. A tingling crowd had gathered before a row of stalls at Fisherman’s Wharf vending steamy clam chowder and fresh king crabs. The scene was like the silent still of a travel documentary, yet lively and real.

“So you’re a visitor from out of town, right?”

“Yeah, just here for a few days. I’ve heard so much about the city, it’s so exciting to be here,” I replied.

“Yeah, San Fran is unique alright. Inspiring and rich in colours and culture everywhere you go,” he said with a smile.

On a street corner, a group of youths sat gathered in a circle shaped like a the crescent moon. One guy with long sideburns played a guitar, while a girl with long beaded hair and flowery dress danced. Her movements were carefree, light and mesmerising, as if she had not the slightest worry in the world. “Who were those people?

“Them? Hippies, they call them. And it all began in what they called the “Summer of Love” of 1967. Youngsters began to flock to San Francisco that year. To use a phrase of the time, they came to “turn on, tune in and drop out”, and they lounged on colourful psychedelic buses all over town, but mainly in the Haight-Ashbury area. They believed in free love, experimented with drugs to free the mind and experience different levels of consciousness. And they championed respect for the environment, spoke of “flower power” and “green power” even before scientists alarmed the world about the effects of global warming. Have you heard that song “San Francisco”?

“Not sure. How does it go?”

And with that, the he began to sing. His voice was mellow, yet forceful; calm, yet able to carry the words and their meanings across time and into my ears.

“If you're going to San Francisco,
be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.
If you're going to San Francisco,
you're gonna meet some gentle people there.”

“ ‘Gentle people’, huh?” I repeated, hinting that I was unsure what that meant.

“Yeah, I think Scott Mckenzie capture it best with his song. Hippies were not a bunch of idealist layabouts, as they were dismissed as in those days. They genuinely believed in something real. They believed in the possibility that love and human compassion can change the world. They spoke out against the establishment, which they believed was based on exploitation and oppression of the lower classes.”

“Classes? As in those juniors in my school?”

“No, ‘class’ was a social invention of the 20th Century. It was a psychological barrier created in the minds of narrow-minded people who believed themselves to be better than others because they had more wealth or power or influence.”

“But that’s outrageous!” I said, with disbelief in my voice, “Aren’t all men, women and children born equal, with equal rights and all deserving of the same respect?” We passed a group of tourists who stood in the middle of the road, posing and photographing. I gazed up, and saw a steep and crooked road wind its way uphill as vehicles meandered down. Pedestrians battled the sharp gradient, and climbed the steps that were highlighted with floral decorations.

“That’s how it is today, sure. But back in the day, some people did not have a say because of their gender or because of the colour of their skin. People with dark skin colour were traded as commodities and used as ‘slaves’. Certain people, because of their religious beliefs or traditional ways of living, were exterminated en masse. Many young girls and boys were forced into prostitution. And there was hunger, famine, homelessness and poverty.” The green, tiled roof of Dragon’s Gate gave way to the bustling market of vendors and hawkers swarming Chinatown’s narrow streets. The ring-ring of the bell alerted passerbys of ancient cable cars that climbed and slid down San Francisco’s steep slopes with ease.

“No wonder they called those days the Dark Ages. What a terrible place to be,” I said, reminded of pictures in my textbook of a ragged man begging on the street. Even now, I could see it before me. That soiled face, those sunken eyes wallowing in shame, in hopelessness and desperation. Something about that image made me look again. Though it was just a picture, I felt pity, I felt deep sympathy, and at the same time I felt resentment too at how the world then, with all its riches and fortunes, could possibly ever allow a fellow human being to fall to this dilapidated state of existence. Surrounding him, in dozens of hole-filled plastic bags, were all his belongings. Discarded plastic bottles he could exchange for a meagre few cents, left over bits and pieces of unfinished sandwiches and take-aways.

“Well, that’s all in the past now,” the driver said, his voice taking me back to the present, “Nowadays the future is clearer, brighter, free of all those miseries. Luckily, contrary to how Hobbes put it, life in the world of today is no longer “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short””.

I smiled hearing that, grateful that humanity has somehow, despite the struggles, conflicts, differences and wide range of beliefs, managed to find a common purpose. I thought back at how far human beings have come from those dark, dark days. I thought about how in exploring the vast, endless reaches of boundaryless space has allowed us all to realise how miniscule and insignificant we are in this universe. It was this realisation that spurred that communal will to mould weapons into ploughshares, to come together and embrace other cultures for the sake of humanity’s continued existence, and indeed, very survival. The vehicle jumped a little, and I was thrown back into the seat. Beyond the steep decline before us, the city sprawled like an organised maze of towering skyscrapers, brightly coloured Victorian townhouses and sporadic greenery. A wide body of water lay on the horizon, glistening magnificently like a mirror in the sun.

“Have you not heard that classic song, “Imagine”?”

“I may have. How does it go again?”

Once again, he broke out into song. His voice smooth, full of drama, full of romanticism.

“Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace”

I hummed along with him, my heart moved by the melody and simple, simple words. Outside, engraved on a rectangular stone monument, I could just about make out Rachel Carson’s saying that “those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find resources of strength that will endure as long as life lasts”.

A majestic, white building with majestic columns and graceful arches loomed before us, awing in sight and posture. Puzzled, I asked, “What is that building?”

“Oh, that. That’s the War Memorial Opera House. And next to it is its identical twin, the Veterans Building.”

“War memorial? Veterans?”

“You’re probably too young to remember. And you’re lucky not to have experienced or lived through wars. Those buildings were dedicated to the soldiers of the First World War—the first of many great, big wars to come. In fact, in the last century, war and conflict were commonplace. They fought for all sorts of reasons. For territory, for resources and for wealth. People tortured, killed and slaughtered one another like mad, and justified it in the name of racial or religious purity. And sometimes just for pride and for the sake of it. All sorts of atrocities were committed, including pillage, rape, extermination and forceful internment. Human beings were like savage beast then, but at least animals do not kill or injure others with the malicious intent of doing so.”

“But wasn’t war outlawed as an instrument of policy in the Kellogg-Briand Pact?” I asked, somewhat proud that I actually remembered something from History.

“Yes, it was. But the 20th Century—the so-called Century of Wars—was marred by war and conflicts. You know that the United Nations was established here in San Francisco, right? Yeah, right there, in the City Hall building. That beautiful building over there with the impressive gilded dome and spire.”

“I see it.”

“Well, after the Second World War, a group of Allied Powers came together in that very building and vowed “to save succeeding generations from the scourge of war”. They even promised to respect fundamental human rights, and obliged the international community to “practice tolerance and live together in peace with one another as good neighbours, and to unite our strength to maintain international peace and security””.

“Such noble causes! What happened?” I asked, curiously.

“Those idealists didn’t foresee that the idea of the Nation-State, which was so sacredly protected and which formed the foundation of the new world order, was founded on selfish interests and political ambitions of individual States and their politicians. How could one talk about an international community, yet still cling onto the idea of divided borders, of national interests and sovereignty? Whatsmore, the UN was fundamentally flawed in that the Allied Powers crowned themselves with the inviolable position of “guardians of the peace”. Yet in the face of humanitarian catastrophes and ongoing conflicts, the Big Powers did nothing. They self-interests triumphed over common understanding and sense.” The vehicle seemed to grunt in agreement.

“Those are such foreign ideas to me. Don’t we speak in terms of humanity, of Earth Home and of humankind as a whole now?” I said, even more puzzled now. What kind of world government is established and run by the select few and powerful?

A colourful mural of people of all colours and races, laughing, dancing, singing, hugging and handing hands, adorned the walls of a building. “Yeah, but this came only after many more wars, many more natural and human-made disasters that brought us to the brink of annihilation before we realised that there is more that unites us than divides us”.

The vehicle sped past a theatre. On its side, in large illuminated letters was the word “Castro”. Across the street, an enormous flag fluttered in the wind, bearing the colours of the rainbow. “So this is the Castro District, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, “I guess you could say the life of the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender community in San Francisco is itself a reflection of the gay movement. Life Magazine even named the city the “Capital of the Gay World”, and one of the first pride parades was held right here”.

“Pride? How are gays any different from straight people?”

“Well, there may be no difference today, but back then, gays were discriminated against. Some were even beaten up for holding hands, others were hounded by the police. And some were even killed by gay-bashers and religious fanatics who condemned the “homosexual lifestyle”. A layer of fog was by now forming. Thin, mystical like a gray, semi-transparent veil unrolled by an invisible hand in the heavens, the fog crept quietly over parts of the city.

“As if it’s a choice,” I said solemnly.

“Exactly. But people those days were blinded by fear and intolerance. When the AIDS epidemic broke out, some even gave it the derogatory name of “gay cancer”. It took courageous pioneers like, Harvey Milk who endlessly believed in dialogue and practiced non-violence, years of struggle to finally establish equality, marriage and rights that many of us take for granted”.

The vehicle rode on, through the dense and lush foliage of a park. Over the treetops, I could see the top of a Japanese styled pagoda. Next to it, a distinctive building made of twisted metal and mesh spiralled upwards and houses the de Young Museum.

In that muddle of reflections and thoughts that jumped between the past and the present and the world that flashed quickly before my eyes, I noticed the vehicle had come to a halt. The glass doors opened, and he pointed out into the distance. “We’re here. Look at that there. The most photographed bridge in the world. Probably,” he said.

“Thank you very much,” I said as I stepped off, “You’ve been so kind and welcoming. I’m really grateful”.

“Anytime. Enjoy your stay. And peace be with you,” he said, as he pulled away from the pavement.

I stared for a few moments, captivated by the sheer size and beauty of it all. All the pictures, postcards, movies and wordly descriptions could hardly do it justice. Out of the fog, two red towers soared skyward, unfazed and unshaken by the cold and ever-changing weather creeping in from the wild Pacific. A testament to human engineering and ingenuity, the Golden Gate stood like a causeway into the unknown. A bridge too far, yet connecting the wide expanse of the Bay in a long, straight line, almost as if cutting the wild ocean from the tame, tranquil waters embracing the shoreline and beaches adorning San Francisco.

Fog horns of the bridge and massive container ships sounded and echoed rhythmically like the call two long lost friends trying to locate one another through the subsiding veil. Seagulls spread their wings and caught the free current of the winds. Their flight was liberating to watch, their call was almost soulful, and their small bodies in the endless sky all around reminded me of how small yet connected we are in this great, wide cosmos of living and inanimate beings.

I looked across the Bay, at the inviting and unspoiled raw hilltops of the Marin Headlands. Their arched backs and curved bodies meandered along the tranquil shoreline, and the hills lay silently like gentle giants sleeping against the dusking sky. Stranded at sea, the rocky shores of Alcatraz rose like the shell of a half-submerged turtle. Behind me, the fine dome of the Rotunda peered above the treeline, and stood almost lonelily as one of the sole survivors of the devastating 1906 San Francisco Earthquake and Fire. Far away, in the heart of the Financial District, a pyramid-shaped white structure poked into the heavens alongside a host of skyscrapers all vying for a place. On top of a hill, Coit Tower stood like a well-wishing candle, and almost seemed to burn ivory white.

Greedy men have come and left this city in search of striking it rich with tales of gold. World leaders have once arrived here with loud sounding promises and yet departed without having heard or heeded the words of San Francisco’s “gentle people”. Mother Nature has many times unleashed her most deadly power and devastatingly shaken the city to a hollow hell of burning buildings and suffering. Yet, the spirit, liveliness and peaceful mood of this metropolis on the Bay continue to live long and prosper through and through.

It is through stories and lives of the American Indians who lived in peace with nature, the songs of the hippies, the industriousness of the Chinese and Hispanics, the perseverance and endurance of the blacks and gays that San Francisco today still maintains that air of human hope and unity.

Even if it is nicknamed the Foggy City.

Sleepless in Seattle

I was hungry, having not eaten much since the quick excursion to Wreck Beach before heading to Vancouver Airport to catch my flight southward. Hungry I was, until I took a few bites. A seagull stared down at my plate of halibut, fries and salad, and eyed my cup of clam chowder. A sea breeze blew in the scent of fish and salt.

My mind wandered, away from the hustle of the Seattle seaside boardwalk in the light of the dying day, past the emptying Pike Market, and back to the street corner where I first saw the lady. I only passed her by briefly, yet something made me turn around to take
another look as my footsteps carried me further.

Beneath the soiled, ragged clothes and a blanket she had wrapped around her to fend off the gathering evening chill, was a face of sorrow, a face of agony. It pained me in that fleeting moment as my eyes darted across her face. She leaned over a bench, on which her plastic bags of precious belongings cluttered. She held her hand to her face, her forehead and cheeks contorted into a powerful expression of human suffering right before my eyes. The rush-hour traffic was dying. Passerbys walked on by.

I too walked on by, yet the haunting image of the homeless lady lingered as I took another bite. The food I was looking forward to which came so highly recommended in the guidebook suddenly tasted so bland. The dusking sun suddenly seemed so dull. Only the moon, its face bright and pocketed, glowed in reminder of a face I came across not so long ago.

The seagull still stared at my half-finished plate of food. I got up and asked for a container, and quickly marched back toward where I first met her. The food steamed beneath the transparent lid, yet more and more it lost its appeal. My appetite was somehow already fulfilled.

I laid down the plate on the bench, and walked on by.

Pilgrimage to Paine Field

There is a reason why Seattle is alternatively known as the “Jet City”. Though the Boeing Company’s headquarters is now located elsewhere, this is still the region in which William Boeing first realised his dream of building a better aircraft to serve humanity. And indeed, some seven decades after the maiden flight of Boeing’s first flimsy linen and wooden seaplane, the company that bears his name continues to be a, if not the, jetsetter in aviation.

It was at the Everett Factory that the first jumbo 747-100 rolled off of the production line, down the runway at Paine Field, and soared into the skies. For decades, thousands more jumbos took to the heavens, bridged far away continents and shortened distances between people and places. Indeed, as the introductory film on the Future of Flight tour reminds us, compared to a 14 month epic voyage across the seas from London to Vancouver in the 17th Century, modern aviation is saving us both much precious time and money.

The Everett plant began operations in the late 1960s, and has today expanded to become (what is claimed to be) the biggest building on Earth by volume. It was said that due to the immense size of the building, together with the heat generated by the million or so light bulbs, clouds actually formed near the ceiling and that it would sometimes rain down on the thousands of workers below. Modern air-circulation systems prevented all that, and with the expansion of the plant came 26 overhead cranes capable of carrying up to 40 tonnes, and close to 4km of underground tunnels beneath the factory floor, the walls of which are lined with many more kilometres of piping and wiring.

All this is necessary to keep the production of Boeing’s twin isle wide-body jets going 24hrs a day. The mighty 747 may have today been overtaken by its European rival, yet Boeing’s innovative technologies, such as better fuel efficiency and quieter engine output, coupled with passenger comfort-oriented features, like ambiance lighting and bigger windows, have become integrated into Boeing’s latest products. The 747-8, with its swept back wings and composite alloys is nicknamed the Intercontinental, and will have the range to bridge city-pairs as far apart as London and Sydney or New York and Tokyo. Next to the reinvented jumbo is the world’s record-holding long-haul jet, the 777, which in 2007 flew non-stop for 21 hours from London westward to Hong Kong. Also my favourite plane at the moment, the Triple Seven is also the record holder for the passenger jet with the largest and most powerful engines, the GE90 Turbofan. And no future can be without dreams, hence Boeing’s 787 Dreamliner, with its much reduced noise and fuel emission levels, light weight and streamlined shape, is (said to) set to revolutionalise plane travel in the coming decades.

I gazed in awe at the immensity of the assembly plant, and began to feel so small. Spread all over below were machinery of all shapes and sizes, as cranes inched overhead on the ceiling. There were hundreds of cabinets containing precision instruments and tools, as well as rows and rows of computer terminals and stress engineers hunched over vigorously testing, and retesting specifications. For a plane to be put together, first the wings are meticulously put together, then sections of the fuselage, and towards the end, the wings, fin, wings and body of the aircraft is pieced together like a snap-fit model plane. At this stage, the fuselage looks green, the colour due to a layer of protective vinyl sprayed on to protect the metal from scratches and bumps during the assembly process. Meanwhile, as all the assembling of the exterior of the aircraft is taking place, seats (or cargo compartment if it’s a freighter), wiring, computers, and some 6 million or so bits and pieces of bolts and components are placed inside the plane. All this can be complete within 3 days, and it takes another 5 days for the entire plane to be spray painted to the customer’s custom logo and design.

I stood there for a while, breathed in the slight scent of welding, listened to the cacophony of drilling and hammering, and watched the (wo)men rush, sometimes on bikes or even golf carts, back and fro like busy ants below. In one corner of the 777 assembly line was a plane with the distinct orange and green fin of Eva Air, while two other 777s carried the unmistakable red dot of JAL. On another side of the hangar, the world’s first 787 to be placed in commercial service—which will soon enough bear the blue and white livery of All Nippon Airways— seemed to glisten and outshine the rest.

“All Asian airliners,” a local visitor muttered, “What happened to American carriers?” Deregulation, and years of heavy indebtedness, cutthroat and destructive competition, overcapacity, downward price pressures, and, at times, poor management sprung to my mind.

No cameras were allowed on the tour on-site, but I have seen part of the secret behind Boeing’s success, watched first-hand the stringent yet efficient production process unfold before my own eyes. I even gave Boeing back part of my scholarship money in exchange for scale models, T-Shirts and fridge magnets of my sponsor’s latest aircrafts. On the panorama deck I looked out onto Paine Field. A row of finished 777s stood on the tarmac waiting to be delivered. The last 747-400 ever produced hid in one corner, while two 787s stood still close to the runway, their lights blinking as if impatient waiting for the next test flight. In the distance, the gigantic hangar doors of the world’s largest plane assembly plant were closed tightly.

The runway was deserted, for now. But this very plant, these very paved tarmacs, and down this very skid-marked runway, planes will hurtle, rise and soar into the skies on their maiden flights.

Wild Pacific

Perched on the top of a tree, it looked down at the bay below. A pair of powerful talons gripped tightly onto a leafy branch, as its white feathery head turned and scanned the surrounding world. I inched closer, so close I could see the combed feathers of the mighty bird's coat, yet the eagle did not stir. Perhaps this traveller in a bright blue hoodie was not interesting enough.

Shrouded in mystery, veiled in mist, the light morning breeze was dense with dew. Water and the air merged into one, a curtain of gray that stretched into the distance and consumed the space all around. Surrounded by the faint figures of evergreens that swayed in the wind in the distance, and the low rumbling of a boat engine, there was a strangely attractive feeling of wild desertion.

Desolate and deserted nature may be, yet in the midst of it all, surrounded by the sounds, smells and emotions evoked, was often an unspoken sense of romance and liberation. A feeling that I, save for the clothes that I bore and the camera that I carried, have returned home to the wilderness from which we all came.

On the brochures that had originally lured me to the isolated little town of Ucluelet were breathtaking scenes of majestic mountains and green forests mirrored on tranquil water. Instead, for two days it seemed as if I had suddenly left the scorching summer heat of downtown Vancouver and been transported into the dead of a damp, blistery winter. Yet beauty, and especially the unblemished and raw kind, outs itself in different ways in different temperatures, and does not necessary need the sun to accentuate it.

Originally I had planned this stay in the far-flung western coast of Vancouver Island for myself, but seeing that my cousin had just moved to Canada, I thought it might be helpful for him to get to know and understand this country by seeing more of it. So at the very last minute I took him along. Together we packed lightly and set off, unsure really what to expect. But two days of hiking and biking brought us closer to nature. And closer together too.

Parts of the trail were dark and broody. Jagged and untamed rocks spread pierced out of the water. Waves ebbed and flowed into estuaries, and lingeringly twirled around in whirlpools. Lost driftwood, and at times even more lost bottles, struggled to keep their heads above the immense volume of water all around them. Other parts were green, and alive with vegetation and slugs that languished over the pathway beneath the footsteps of infrequent hikers. At times wild deer would graze on the roadside, then shyly step away to make way for the human intruders. Numerous signs adorn the pathwath that warn people to be wary of big hungry grizzlies, who
like to scavenge of leftovers.

Vancouver bound

(on board AC 111)

On board and around an hour away from Vancouver. Beginning a trip to the western Americas. Two weeks, first visiting family, then wandering southward to the San Francisco area to attend an ISU meeting. To be honest, for a long time was not really enthused about the trip, but for the past few days, maybe doing all the planning and itineraries, I feel more interested. Perhaps the trip will help me discover myself, help me recover that energetic and intelligent side of me. Help me get back to work and be productive again. I know I have been telling myself for the past two months that “Tomorrow I will start working…” or “Tomorrow I will go to the library”, but nothing came of these promises, and every day I feel more and more useless.

Hopefully this trip, to cities and on paths never before travelled, will help me rediscover how resourceful I can be. It is always good to go somewhere you’ve never been, and find your way there.

Like finding your way in the trip of life.

Opening Ceremony of the 2009 World Games, Kaoshiung

There are rare moments nowadays when I feel proud to be from Taiwan.
And the spectacular opening ceremony of the World Games 2009 in Kaoshiung is one of them.
It is beautiful mix of songs, fireworks, light displays and music that express the rich blend of culture, nature and humanity of Taiwan and its people. Amazing!


Budaixi, a unique puppetry art indigenous to Taiwan.



Chen Chu, Mayor of Kaoshiung giving an emotive speech in both Mandarin and Taiwanese
"We all believe, in this international community, every single country should not be forgotten and neglected. Everyone should join hands and cooperate. The whole of humanity, due to this continued cooperation to overcome struggle after struggle in order to make the world even better. Taiwan, Formosa, a beautiful, kind country that is struggling in the midst of difficulties. Kaoshiung is a warm, friendly city. Here, we together work for the 2009 World Games to create humanity's peace and prosperity..."



Hayley Westenra, Nada Sousou


Dance of the Tao Tribe from Lanyu Island.


The ceremony of the Third Prince, a revered local deity in Taiwan folk culture.




Fireworks of the Opening Ceremony

Night out

It's been a while since I last had so much fun. Started with a little "Wine and Cheese" at my new apartment, and four close friends came by to warm the house up. Not the first time I've had people over at the new place, but definitely the most people I've had at any one time here. And the food was elaborate, with cheese from Vermont, and lots of wine, and I made some great baked paprikas filled with tofu and shitake mushrooms. Had a good time, just chatting, relaxing and enjoying one another's company.

Then my friends encouraged me to go out. To be honest, at first I was reluctant, and feeling somewhat 'ugly' to go out. But eventually I did, and I'm glad I did. Went to a bar/restaurant at the Village, then later went dancing at a trendy 90s bar/club. Initially, I was feeling somewhat ill from all the food I had earlier in the evening, but the music, the dancing and company made it all the better. Soon I was dancing away to hits from my teenage years, miming the lyrics and moving shoulder to shoulder with my friends.

It was 3am before we finally left the place, and drizzling a little. But I insisted on going home on my bike. The idea of sleeping over at my friend's place, together with two other couples seemed just a little too much for comfort, so I said I'd rather cycle in the dark and rain to go home.

Home alone, like the many nights before this night. But at least I can sleep well and rest well after all the fun and excitement I've had this night.

Tormented by nightmares

Day after day, I've been having nightmares. Frightening ones, ones in which I cry and weep, hurt and feel deep, deep sorrow. Just woke up, thinking that my eyes and face are wet from tears. Somehow I dreamt of dad, he came to me, and told me all about his favourite foods. Fermented egg, salted egg, little squids, pork knuckle, potato leaves... all his favourite foods. And in the dream, I felt a strong sudden urge to get up and prepare these things for him. To honour him, to remember him, to respect him, and show him how much he means to me still....

And I woke up, feeling such deep loss, such deep pain and longing. The day's already begun, but I am left wandering in the lingering past...

Canada Day

It's alright 1am, and I'm sitting in my apartment at 2560 Allard. This has been my first home since I settled down in September. Many good memories, but some also bad experiences. If it weren't for the noisy neighbour upstairs and kid who's always running around next day, or for the strange bugs and flies that appear out of nowhere, I'd have stayed longer.

Fortunately I found a new place literally around the corner from here. It's a nice apartment with big windows, three rooms. Needs a little painting, and some work here and there, but otherwise it's really cosy. Well, at least as far as I know, since I've not slept there yet. But if all is well, and goes well, I have a feeling it might be a place I'll try to make a warm, cosy home at, even if it's for the short term. And I think my cat will like the place too. Seeing the large window sills and the balcony made me smile and imagine the kind of fun and lazying about she could have there.

Yes, it was Canada Day yesterday, and true to Quebecois tradition I also started to move some of my things. Now just the big heavy pieces of furniture, and I'm all set.

It's a day I guess I could pauze and reflect on. Not so much because I'm Canadian, but because I have been made to feel welcome and wanted in this country. A far cry from the subtle and inert racism and xenophobia I experience and sense in the Netherlands or Europe generally, I feel so strangely at home. All these people, black, yellow, white, from all these different heritages, cultural backgrounds and with so many religious faiths all coming together to celebrate, to waive that red and white banner. They're all proud, proud to be Canadian, to be born, to be living, to have come to this wonderful country, this blend of mutual acceptance, blending and cosmopolitanism that is a model of for the future of this world.

Happy Birthday, Canada.

And while it is a joyous day here, I also cannot but not remember that it is/was also my dad's birthday. Were he here to see this world, to experience with me what I experience now, this joy and achievement here in Canada, I think, or at least I'd hope, he'd be very proud...