Back to the Beginning

I sat with some feeling of trepidation, exhilaration and excitement as the Ethiopian Airlines Boeing 737 took off from Delhi at the ungodly hour of 3:45am for Addis Ababa on Sunday. Already late by about an hour, we had been fuming with non-functioning AC for some time onboard when we finally took off. At least we will be away from the drudgery and routine of office life for a few days I comforted myself as I finished off the last of what was probably the worst airline meal I’ve ever had.

I looked out the window as we approached Addis Ababa, wishing we had some time to get out and explore the city often referred to as the political capital of Africa because of its historical, diplomatic and political significance. But we had just over an hour to catch our connecting flight. The chilly and gentle breeze that welcomed us as we emerged from the aircraft on to the tarmac to get on the bus that would take us to the terminal where we would catch our connecting flight for Maputo was a welcome relief from hot and humid Delhi.

And so, on a cold Sunday morning I found myself in Ethiopia, often called the original home of mankind due to various fossil discoveries like the Australopithecine Lucy, and once rule by Emperor Haile Selassie, revered as the returned Messiah of the Bible and God incarnate by Rastafarians and immortalized as the Lion of Judah in Bob Marley’s ‘Iron Lion Zion’.

All thoughts of Bob Marley and the Lion of Judah quickly dissipated by the time we reached the end of the interminably long queue leading to the security check-in inside Bole International Airport where we were thoroughly checked again and made to take off almost everything including our shoes. As we took off for Maputo on another Ethiopian Airlines Boeing 737, I looked down at the city engulfed in light mist with the Entoto Mountains in the north calmly and majestically watching over the city. I looked out the window till the city disappeared.

The 6 hours it took our aircraft to reach Maputo was one of the most uncomfortable flights I have been on, with cramped seats and lousy food but it brought us in one piece to our final destination. It was good to touch down in Mozambique again after more than 11 years. As I looked out the window, I saw that the small, cozy airport we flew out of in early 2005 had morphed into a big terminal with its own aerobridges and all the modern accoutrements one expects to see nowadays in any self-respecting international airport.

The cool, almost chilly, winter air of Maputo that welcomed us as we stepped off the plane was a welcome change from hot and humid Delhi and, by the time we came out after clearing immigration, all the discomforts of our flight were forgotten as we wrapped our jackets closer to keep out the chilly breeze. After some delay caused by some of our delegation members having forgotten to take the mandatory yellow fever vaccination for passengers transiting through Ethiopia which is in the yellow fever belt of Africa, we finally reached our hotel at around 4pm.

Apart from the modern airport that welcomed us, Maputo, where we spent almost 4 years from 2001 to 2005, felt almost the same as we drove towards our hotel. I hardly noticed anything new on the drive from the airport to Av. Kenneth Kaunda where the Indian High Commission is located. As we drove past the High Commission and down Rua Jose Craveirinha towards Southern Sun Hotel, located right on the beach, where we would be staying, my first sight of the beautiful Maputo Bay after more than 11 years made me realize that, yes, I was really here again. We drove past the new Radisson Blu, which had come up during my absence and soon reached our hotel which was just a stone’s throw away.

As soon as I learned that I would be going back to Maputo, my thought immediately turned to Av. Friedrich Engels, the back street behind the highrise apartment on Av. Julius Nyerere which was our home in Maputo and where I first started jogging all those years ago. I planned to retrace my steps, as it were, at the first opportunity. From previous, similar assignments, I thought there would be ample time in the mornings before the official part of our trip began later in the day. But, as it turned out, from the very day of our arrival there were so many meetings and arrangements to be made and loose ends tied up, I did not make it to my old jogging street till the morning of the day we were to return. I fumed and fretted for four days, unable to make time for my planned trip to the past. I did manage two trips to the hotel gym and half-heartedly went through the formalities on the treadmill, all the time thinking how near and yet so far was I to my dream run, just a few kilometers away.

I was up at 2am on D-day and, except for a minor hiccup, everything went off smoothly and I was able to finally crawl into bed, exhausted, before midnight. We were to leave the next day at 2pm which meant I had about 6 hours to complete my mission as well as try and tick off whatever items I could from the long shopping list thrust upon me by the powers-that-be the night of my departure from Delhi. So I set my alarm for 0530, aiming to start my run at 0600, and soon drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

The next thing I knew was my mobile alarm telling me it was time. I quickly awoke and, after dumping as much excess weight as I could from the scrumptious dinner the previous evening and freshening up, put on my jogging outfit. It was just before 0600 as I stepped out of my room, ready for my dream run. Though it was still dark outside, the hotel staff was already up and about readying for another day. I walked into the lobby, past a few guests checking out to catch their early morning flights to wherever they were headed next.

The chilly breeze that greeted me as I stepped out of the hotel reminded me that it was winter in this part of the world. I stepped onto the pavement and, finally having completed my official assignment the previous day and all tensions gone, began the run that I had been planning for the past two weeks. I put on my earphones and pressed play to my regular ‘jogging’ track on my ‘walkman’ and, turning right onto Av. Marginal, began my run. After about a hundred metres, I turned left on to Rua Jose Craveirinha, which is a gentle climb just opposite Radisson Blu, and soon reached the top where the road merged into Av. Julius Nyerere.

Despite the climb of about half a kilometer, I found myself breathing comfortably and, turning left on to Av. Julius Nyerere, continued on my usual pace to the rhythm of my regular jogging tracks on my walkman. To my left I glanced at Maputo Bay where dawn would soon break. To my right, I caught a glimpse of the High Commission where I spent an eventful three and a half years of my life. I crossed the street and, with the Presidential Office to my left, continued my run towards the historic Polana Hotel, our temporary HQ during my trip. I was surprised at the ease with which I continued my run and the thought came to my mind that perhaps it was because I was running at sea level where Oxygen would be at its maximum. Or perhaps it was all the anticipation that I had built up in my mind the week before my trip and the frustrating few days when I was unable to get time off for the run.

As I continued on my run towards Polana Hotel, some 2km away, memories of the many times I had walked on these same pavements more than 11 years ago came flooding back and, before I realized it, I found myself crossing the traffic juncture just before Polana. I crossed the street and continued past Polana and soon turned left onto Av. Friedrich Engels.

Finally, as I turned right on to Av. Friedrich Engels, I again saw the familiar street where I first dreamed of being able to run at least a kilometer without having to stop for breath. I stopped awhile and stood at the railings from where we would look out on to Maputo Bay and beyond, often telling ourselves that our loved ones were somewhere across the Indian Ocean thousands of miles away. Dawn was now breaking over the Bay lighting up the horizon and, as I looked at the deep blue sea, felt like I had never been away. I turned right and looked up at the 11^th floor balcony of our old apartment where we would sometimes set up our barbeque on an evening and, with the cool breeze blowing in from the Bay, reminisce about old times, a can of chilled 2M or Laurentina in hand.

I shook off the flood of memories that threatened to overwhelm me and began my run afresh along the familiar pavement. With Maputo Bay to my left and the row of beautiful Portuguese-style bungalows and their well-manicured lawns to my right, I ran on till the end of Av. Friedrich Engels to the corner where I would turn back for home. The street was exactly like I remembered. From the row of trees that lined up one side of the street to a corner at the end of the street used as a natural dumping ground for empty plastic cups, beer and liquor bottles by late evening revelers and romancing couples, everything was the same. It seemed the trees hadn’t grown an inch since we left, and the content of the corner dumping ground showed that youngsters had continued their party even after we left.

I turned back at the corner and, instead of returning the way I had come, turned right at the beginning of Av. Friedrich Engels, on to Rua Caracol which is a steep road, about 500m, leading to Av. Marginal and the beach. As I ran down the steep road, I recalled the many times I had run up and down the very same road. I met quite a few early morning joggers running up the steep road. Most of them greeted me with ‘Bom Dia’ (Good Morning) as we passed and I recalled with nostalgia the pleasure of being in polite society where even strangers wish you as you pass by on the streets.

I soon reached Av. Marginal and crossed the road to continue my run on the pavement next to the beach. I turned left, across from the Clube Naval de Maputo and headed for my hotel up the road about a kilometer or two ahead. As I passed by a stretch close to the beach I recalled the one time we had gone down to the beach at that very same spot when the tide was low, picking clams and even some small prawns which tasted quite good. As I ran on, I reached a spot where we once came across a live puffer fish that must have been washed ashore by the high tide, wriggling in the sand. I ran on and all sorts of memories which I had forgotten came rushing in and I realized that I was really reliving my memories.

As I neared our hotel, I turned right on to the beach and continued till I reached the portion of the beach maintained by our hotel. I ran on the beach a little past our hotel till all the songs in my ‘jogging’ folder ran out. Despite the early morning winter chill, I was drenched with sweat by the time I stopped to walk across the beach to my hotel.

That’s when I realized that I had just run one of the best runs of my life. Because it was a run which brought me back to the beginning.

11 July 2016

(Written on return from an official trip to Maputo 3-8 July 2016)

Memories

Somewhere in the middle of the 500+ songs in one of my pendrives, which I listen to on my daily commute to and from office, is a folder named ‘oldies’ which contains favourites mostly from the 60s. It’s one of those folders I rarely listen to mainly because my cheap Chinese-made car mp3 player does not give me the option to select/choose and play from different folders. Once I plug in the pendrive, the songs automatically start playing from the beginning. The only way I can select a song is to keep on clicking the forward button till I get to the song. Which is why I rarely listen to the ‘oldies’ because they are somewhere in the middle of the pendrive which means I have to click more than 200 times to get to them in the first place.

This morning, with several heads of state from Pacific countries in town and traffic slower than usual, the smooth golden voice of Engelbert Humperdinck from my ‘oldies’ folder telling the world ‘there goes my only possession…’ suddenly filled my car as traffic crawled slowly opposite Maurya on SP Marg.

Humperdinck gave way to Dean Martin’s ‘Blue Spanish Eyes’, followed by Tom Jones’ ‘Green Green Grass of Home’ and I suddenly found myself back in the early 70s, in Mission Compound aka Old Churachand. In my mind’s eyes I saw grandpa HL Sela, white-haired but looking fresh and spry, his signature hnang lukhum (bamboo hat) on, smartly dressed as always, with pipi at his side, as always, walking home from early morning prayers in church. I pictured myself sitting in the big living room where my putes (maternal uncles) kept their most precious ‘record player’ with their collection of the latest Neil Diamond, Humperdinck, Tom Jones, Jim Reeves, CCR as well as various Gospel LPs neatly stacked on the side.

One by one, I saw my putes’ faces from long ago. Pute Rayson, Pute William, Pu Lien, even Pu Royal (just back home on retirement from the Army). I saw Pu Zalal’s ever smiling face from long ago, before he joined the Army as a chaplain.

I clearly felt Pi Kim hugging me as I waved to my parents and brothers leaving me for a month-long trip to thingtlang. I still have no idea why I did not go with them on that trip but I still recall, as if it was yesterday, the extra care all my putes took to make me feel at home that month.

With Tom Jones singing of how they laid him ‘neath the green, green grass of home’ I felt myself transported back to a time when time hardly mattered and life and love and a bright future seemed to be there for the taking. I was young again.

All too soon I found myself rolling down the parking ramp in office, looking for space to park my car. I sat for some time in my car, unwilling to let the feelings go and return to reality. Listening to nostalgia.

Then, suddenly, I saw mom, young, beautiful, smiling, waiting for me as I walked home from school.

That’s when the tears came……

Another Dream (unrealized)

I know, I know. Another post on running. For those who don’t get it, this must be extremely boring and narcissistic. But those who get it and, like me, have been bitten by the bug, will understand that this is a post that just had to be written. Because it’s like the mountaineer who replied when asked why he climbed mountains: “Because, it’s there”. When you see an announcement for a 10K run in your own locality, there’s no way you are going to pass that up. Especially when it’s for free and you’d have been more than happy to pay to run. That’s what happened when Red River Runners announced their annual ‘Turn Up And Run’ a few weeks back……. 😉

When I woke up on Saturday (22 Feb), I already knew how I’d start my next post: ‘Finally! 10K in less than an hour!’ I was going to run my seventh 10K later in the afternoon and my dream was to do it in less than an hour.

I ran my first 10K in 2010 at the Tokyo Marathon (https://ruolngulworld.wordpress.com/2010/03/03/a-dream-realised/) in an hour and seven minutes. It was the first time I had ever run more than 5km at a stretch in my life. A good friend even told me, ‘John, at our age, running would do more harm than good – a good, brisk walk is all that we should be aiming for’ – or words to that effect.

But I’d been dreaming since I first started jogging (or trying to) back in Mozambique and, despite my better half’s sincere advice to the contrary (for fear that I was attempting something I probably would never be able to achieve – words to the effect that I might drop dead from exhaustion might have been said – the word ‘might’ here is important 😉 ), I applied and was accepted for my first Tokyo Marathon. And so, a dream was realized, and I was hooked. I ran the next Tokyo Marathon (10K) in 2011 clocking an hour and four minutes which made me dream of an under one hour 10K. We then shifted to Hanoi and the first thing I did was sign up for the Song Hong Half Marathon which also had a 10K component where I thought I’d finally realize my dream. I managed an hour and eight minutes that year but the dream remained. I managed an hour and six minutes in 2012 which was two minutes off my personal best but my dream remained. Then, last year, I barely managed an hour and ten minutes – my worst timing yet, which made me realize that, perhaps, having met Abraham (https://ruolngulworld.wordpress.com/2012/08/12/meeting-abraham-2/), a sub-hour 10k was now beyond me.

But I continued to dream because, after all, ‘dreams die hard’. Which is how I found myself at the starting line of my seventh 10K on a cold, drizzly afternoon last Saturday – lining up with 70 or so fellow enthusiasts, thinking to myself that here was another chance to realize my dream.

The race began with a lot of adrenalin, as usual, and I managed the first 1K somewhere in the middle of the pack before others began to slowly overtake me. I managed to make it to the halfway mark in a little less than half an hour which kept my dream alive. Though I knew I had to do considerably better if I wanted to really realize my dream, because the second leg of the race is always the most difficult part where it really becomes ‘mind over matter’ as your body tells you to just stop, walk for a while, take it easy (‘you’re just an old guy – nobody really cares whether you finish the race or not’…), I glanced back and, realizing that there were other runners also struggling behind me, pushed on. I suppressed the urge to stop and walk a bit, telling myself that my wife would be somewhere at the 6-7km mark waiting to take photographs. I told myself that, if I had to stop and walk, it would only be after I had majestically run into her frame and continued to do so till I was reasonable sure that I had passed beyond her sights. And so, I ran on, and even passed a fellow runner as I sighted my wife lining up her shots, even managing to give her a few thumbs-ups and ‘V’ signs.

I pushed on, carried by the momentum and the realization that I was still not the last and there were quite a few runners still behind me. The moment I crossed the 8km mark and glanced at my watch was when I realized that my dream was again slipping away from me. Which realization triggered my brain (yes, blame my brain!) to decelerate my muscles and make me slow down to a walk as I neared UNIS with barely a km left. My only comfort at that stage was the knowledge that there were still a few stragglers behind me and I would, at least, not be the last. I somehow summoned up the strength to run the last km and, cheered on by fellow runners who had obviously finished long back and were walking back from the finish line to Jafa Restaurant for some well-deserved beers and cheers, crossed the finish line in an hour and nine minutes.

Though my dream of a sub-hour 10K remained unrealized, the exhilaration of finishing another race hit me as I crossed the finish line. I waited for the remaining five (five!) runners behind me to finish before walking towards my car to go home for some well-deserved rest. I took off my sweat-drenched t-shirt, letting the cool chilly breeze cool me.

Along the way, I took off my shoes and walked barefoot to my car, my t-shirt draped across my shoulder, sipping a bottle of cold Gatorade bought from the corner shop, feeling, if only for a moment, as cool and athletic as any Olympic athlete 🙂 

And the dream remains…..

A Christmas in Cambodia (Part 1)

After two weeks away on holiday in Cambodia, we were supposed to be back in Hanoi by 9pm after a two hour flight by the Vietjet flight from Ho Chi Minh City, but we ultimately landed at 11:25pm after a number of changes in our flight timing – the last of which was on Boxing Day, just a day before our scheduled flight home from Ho Chi Minh City, which our travel agent informed while we were still in Phnom Penh. After the half hour it took to collect our considerably heavy baggage (compared to when we left for our Christmas holiday), it was well past midnight by the time we reached home.

After a quick bath and a light meal of instant noodles, I went out to our balcony and, looking out from our 15^th floor apartment, drank in the fresh and chilly air of Hanoi which, coupled with seasonal decorative lights still twinkling below, made it seem like Christmas was still around the corner. After two weeks basking in the warm weather and warmer company of friends in Cambodia, the cold air and familiar sight of the golf course to my right along with the ever-busy airport road in the distance still filled with considerable traffic rushing late night passengers to and from the airport made me realize that we were back home after a most fulfilling and memorable family holiday.

And, just like that, a two-week Christmas holiday we had planned for almost a year became a memory. Like a good dream from which you never want to wake up, but eventually must.

…..leaving on a jet plane. On the flight from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City

I had booked our seats more than three months in advance not only to avail of the cheapest fares available but also to ensure that, by paying the full, non-refundable price for the air tickets, we were committed to a real family holiday. When I booked and confirmed our tickets, we were to leave Hanoi on 17 December by 7am and be in Ho Chi Minh City by 9am, which would give us two full days to see the sights before we caught the bus for Phnom Penh two days later, on 19 December. The only hitch at that stage was whether we’d be able to wake up early enough to catch the flight but the flight timing kept on changing and, when the day arrived, we left at 5pm and reached Ho Chi Minh City after dark, at 7pm – a whole day wasted, giving us just a day to explore and see the sights.

Ho Chi Minh City

17 Dec 2013

From chilly Hanoi, we arrived in Tan Son Nhat International airport at 7pm and breathed in the comfortably warm weather of HCM City for the first time. Mr. Chanh, the Consulate driver, was waiting for us as we walked out of the arrival lounge. He, of course, id not see us walking out with the other passengers. Expecting an Indian family, he looked past us as we trooped out with our baggage. A dignified looking man, probably in his 50s but looking much younger like all Vietnamese, I spotted him almost immediately as we walked out. As we were about to pass him, I took out my phone and called his number and I saw him reach into his pocket to take out his phone, looking past us into the mass of passengers exiting, still looking for Indian faces.

I tapped him on the shoulder from behind and watched as it took a few seconds for him to realize that the Viet Kieu-looking family that just walked past him was actually the Indian family for whom he’d probably missed a good family dinner to rush to the airport. Introductions duly made and doubts cleared that we were actually the people he’d been asked to pick up from the airport, we quickly put our bags into his Mercedes and drove into HCM City and so, finally, began the family holiday that we had so looked forward to.

Unlike Noi Bai airport in Hanoi which is 28kms from the city centre, Tan Son Nhat airport is within the city itself and, as we drove out of the airport, we joined the early evening traffic of this bustling, lively and impressive city still affectionately called Saigon by many of its residents and expats. After driving about 20 minutes through well-lit streets full of festive and blinking decorations and signs wishing us Merry Christmas, we reached the residence of our colleague Manoj Kumar, Consul and Head of Chancery at the Indian Consulate, where dinner was waiting for us. Despite our protests that our good friend Lucy had already prepared and kept dinner for us, we sat down for a nice dinner prepared by his wife Rosy. By the time we reached Lucy’s apartment in District 7, where we would be staying for two nights, it was past 10pm. We huffed and puffed our way up five flights of stairs, carrying our baggage, cursing the absence of a lift all the way

Morning, 18 Dec 2013. View from Lucy Pautu’s apartment

Cu Chi Tunnels

18 Dec 2013

We asked the Consulate-arranged Innova to pick us up at 8am as we had just a day to see the sights but, as it turned out, we just about managed to leave at around 9am. After a few more precious minutes wasted debating on our itinerary, we finally agreed on starting with Cu Chi Tunnels, about two hours’ drive from Lucy’s place.

We duly reached Cu Chi Tunnels at around 11am. Located in Cu Chi district of HCM City, the tunnels are an immense network of connecting underground tunnels 121 km long and the Viet Cong’s base of operations for the Tet Offensive of 1968 as well as several other military campaigns during the Vietnam War and have been preserved as a war park and the main tourist attraction of HCM City. We duly did the touristy round of the place, sneaking into many of the tourist groups and listening to their tour guides as they went on and on about the history and significance of the tunnels. Andrew and I even entered into one of the tunnels. The ten minutes or so we crawled around the tunnels which had been widened enough to allow the mainly western tourists to comfortably crawl around, searching for the nearest exit, was enough to give us an idea of what the Viet Cong must have gone through during their years-long struggle to finally defeat the Americans. One has to just crawl through one tunnel to realize the truth in the report that ‘Sickness was rampant among the people living in the tunnels, especially malaria, which was the second largest cause of death next to battle wounds. A captured Viet Cong report suggests that at any given time half of them had malaria and that “one-hundred percent had intestinal parasites of significance’.

Inside one of the tunnels in Cu Chi

All through our tour, the one constant sound we heard was the sound of gunfire – the rat-a-tat of machine guns as well as single rifle shots. At one stage I thought that they were some kind of sound effect from hidden speakers to make our experience of the tunnels more realistic until I realized that it was actual gunfire which came from somewhere ahead. As we continued our tour, we suddenly came upon a clearing where the sign read ‘National Defence Sports Shooting Range’ and we saw a line of wannabe soldiers lined up in front of a counter below a signboard which listed, among other weapons, AK-47, AK-52, M-16 rifles and all sorts of machine guns which could be fired at prices ranging from VND 35,000 to 50,000 (US$ 1.50 to 2.50) per bullet (minimum of 10 bullets). From the long line that sneaked from the counters to the constant sound of gunfire coming from the firing range just a few steps away, one could immediately make out that the Vietnamese Army or whoever had stumbled upon the idea had come out with a brilliant idea for minting money by catering to one of man’s basic instincts.

Andrew and Esther in front of the Museum (no idea how this photo came up here, should’ve been down there 😉 

And, almost by instinct, Andrew and I found ourselves lining up in front of the desk as we mentally ticked off which weapon to choose. And that’s how I found myself cradling the AK-47 of legend and shooting off live rounds one after another at a target in the distance. Whether I hit the bull’s-eye or not, I’ll never know, but I can now say that I’ve held a real killing weapon and fired live rounds from it. It was only later on that the creepy thought hit me whether the AK-47 that I held in my arms (which looked well-used) had actually been used to kill people.

Though we had planned on a quick tour of not more than half an hour as we had only that day to see the sights in HCM City, we still spent an entire hour there even though we skipped entire portions of the regular tour. Back in the city, we had a quick lunch at the first KFC we came across before driving around downtown HCM City, past the Reunification Palace and well-maintained parks, and stopping at the Notre Dame Cathedral, a beautiful cathedral with two bell towers, reaching a height of 58m, built by the French during 1863-1880

.

Notre Dame Cathedral with my girls

Feeling truly touristy by now, we decided to visit a Museum next and our driver immediately suggested the War Remnants Museum, said to be one of the main attractions in HCM City. But, already having been to the War Museum in Hanoi a couple of times and having just come from Cu Chi Tunnels, another memorial to war, we told the driver to take us to the National Museum, or any museum which had more to do with the culture and people of Vietnam.

We tried our best to explain to the driver but our best efforts ended up lost in translation and, in the end, we landed up at a museum dedicated to the southern campaign of the Vietnam/American War. Since all signboards in Vietnam are in Vietnamese (naturally), and still thinking that we were walking into the National Museum, I was surprised at the absence of any sort of crowd at the ticket counter. In fact we were the only visitors till, halfway through our tour of the museum, a lone European guy came walking in, looking slightly bemused and bewildered. I suspect he also thought he was walking into the War Remnants Museum as there were the usual US jetfighters, tanks and other wreckage greeting visitors near the main entrance gate. Since we were there (and the entrance tickets were non-refundable), we dutifully made a quick round of the museum and, deciding that we had had enough cultural education for the day, headed for the nearest shopping mall.

Our driver dutifully dropped us at Saigon Square as the girls were ostensibly looking for boots which turned out to be a rare commodity in hot Saigon. Of course, that didn’t stop them from looking for the boots anyway as they checked out each and every other item on sale in the hundred or so shops in the mall. I, of course, was long gone by then, walking up Le Loi street to the Opera House, camera in hand, taking in the sights of downtown HCM City, which looked as prosperous and glitzy as downtown Singapore or Tokyo with its highrise buildings and many designer stores and five-star hotels.

Opera House, Ho Chi Minh City

Lovely park in downtown HCM City

Having been out since morning and having covered quite a lot of ground from Cu Chi Tunnels to some of the main sights and having somewhat satiated the shopping urge, we decided to call it a day and headed for Lucy’s apartment to rest for an hour or so before venturing out again for dinner onboard one of the floating restaurants that ply the Saigon river.

The Saigon River Cruise is one of the main tourist attractions of HCM City where ‘floating restaurants’ which are actually double-decker boats capable of seating upto a hundred diners or more take you on a leisurely one-hour cruise of the Saigon river with live music on board. A cool gentle breeze was blowing as we reached the dock at around 7:45pm and saw a line of brightly lit boats waiting for customers. We boarded the nearest boat and were ushered on to the upper deck where we saw a rather garishly-dressed lady and a gentleman in white suit, both of indeterminate age, checking the microphone while another guy sat behind a console fiddling with their sound system. Looking at our ‘band’ for the evening, we sat ourselves at a table near the steps which led down to the lower deck, on the port side, as far away as possible from the stage.

On board the ‘My Canh’ floating restaurant on our Saigon River Cruise

As we settled in and pored over the menu trying to decide on what to order, the afore-mentioned lady took to the stage and started belting out what we presumed were Vietnamese classics, soon followed by the gentleman in white as they took turns singing to soundtracks being played by the guy behind the console. Suffice it to say that, as far as we were concerned, the evening would have been much more enjoyable and memorable without the ‘band’.

Saigon skyline from the Cruise

Fried frog meat, anyone?

Feeling adventurous, we decided to order frog meat, fried, which was the first time for all of us, along with the usual Vietnamese dishes. Soon enough, as the waiters brought the dishes we ordered, our boat left the dock and we began our cruise on the river Saigon, dining on frog meat and other Vietnamese delicacies. We spent the next hour cruising the Saigon river, admiring the well-lit and impressive Saigon skyline. By the time we came back and walked down the gangway to our waiting car, it was almost 10 and the cool early evening breeze had become decidedly cold. We reached Lucy’s apartment well after 10 and, setting our alarms for an early morning wake-up to catch our 8am bus for Phnom Penh, turned in for the night.

Though Mr. Chanh turned up with the Consulate car by 7am the next morning, and we had planned to make it to the bus stop well in time, we barely made it with about five minutes to spare. But we did make it and were soon on our way to Phnom Penh, seven hours away.

Phnom Penh

19 Dec 2013

After driving for what seemed like hours through HCM City and its suburbs, we finally left the city behind and reached the Moc Bai border crossing at around 11am. We all got off the bus and, after completing the immigration formalities which was surprisingly fast and smooth, made our way to our bus which had also crossed the border into Mavet, Cambodia while we were completing our entry procedures.

Typical Khmer architecture – immigration check point at Bavet, Cambodia

As we crossed the Customs/Border gates into Cambodia, we almost immediately came upon glitzy Casino-hotels on both sides of the road with names like Las Vegas Sun, Golden Palm, Goodluck 9. There are more than 30 casinos on the Cambodian side of the border, catering mainly to Vietnamese gamblers from the southwestern provinces including HCM City. Everyday thousands of Vietnamese go to Cambodia to gamble in these casinos and many of them are said to have gambled away their houses and assets. A number of media reports have appeared about gamblers being held hostage by lenders at these casinos who have had their fingers and ears cut to be sent to their families in Vietnam to force them to bring money to Cambodia for redemption. After another 10 minutes’ drive the bus stopped at a restaurant run by the same bus company where we had lunch and freshened up to ready ourselves for the remaining 3-4 hours’ drive to Phnom Penh.

After over an hour’s drive through a countryside dotted with the occasional village and town and rice fields on both sides of the highway, we reached Neak Leung where we crossed the mighty Mekong river on a ferry. I was pleasantly surprised at the efficient manner in which we crossed the Mekong river on the ferry which could take at least 4-5 big buses/trucks as well as smaller cars and other vehicles. It took hardly 5-10 minutes from the time our bus drove up to the ferry crossing to line up with other vehicles, wait for the vehicles on the incoming ferry to exit and then for us to drive onto the ferry. We sat in the bus and watched fascinated as the ferry came slowly onto the dock, disgorged its load in a few minutes, clearing the way for our bus as well as a big truck and several SUVs and cars to drive onto the gangway and into the ferry.

We didn’t even have to get off the bus and from out comfortable seats watched the majestic Mekong flow by, as it has done for centuries, as the ferry made its way to the other side. The crossing took about 15 minutes and, without so much as even a short stop on exiting from the ferry, we continued on our way to Phnom Penh, some 60-70 km away.

Soon, after about an hour, we reached the suburbs of Phnom Penh. The number of tuk-tuks and two-wheelers increased proportionately as we neared the city centre and, coupled with ongoing road construction work almost every few hundred metres, our bus slowed down to a crawl and it took us almost an hour to reach the bus stop. Taxis are conspicuous by their absence in Phnom Penh and, in the absence of a proper public transport system, its denizens depend on tuk-tuks, a cleverly constructed two-wheeled four-seater trailer pulled by a two-wheeler/bike, something akin to the autorickshaw in India or the ‘phut-phuts’ that used to take us from Connaught Place to Chandni Chowk/Red Fort when we first came to Delhi all those years ago.

On a tuk-tuk in Siem Reap

As soon as we got off the bus at around 2:30pm and claimed our luggage, we were surrounded by tuk-tuk drivers. But they were not as aggressive and obnoxious as the taxi drivers in Delhi fighting with other drivers for fares. In any case, our good friend Yesudas Bell, a former diplomat and owner of Futurelinks, a business consulting firm based in Singapore with rep offices in several SE Asian capitals including Hanoi and Phnom Penh, had kindly arranged for his office to provide us a vehicle to pick us up. Rajshekhar, the Futurelinks rep in Phnom Penh, with whom I had been in phone contact from the time we left HCM City, was waiting for us with their office SUV and we were soon on our way to my cousin Dinpui’s house in Bassac Garden City, one of the exclusive gated communities that have come up in Phnom Penh in recent times. 

Off to shop, soon after our arrival (poimaw full thrak 😉

(to be continued)

(8 Jan 2013, Hanoi)

Keep On Running

I have been running, whenever I can, depending on the time and place, for a little over 10 years now. It is perhaps the only good habit I’ve developed over the years.  I love running, or more precisely, jogging. A blog I recently read (here) pretty much describes the feeling, though I would have put it a little differently 😉

It has become so much a part of my normal routine that I feel lost and incomplete on days when, because of work or some other reason, I am unable to go for my daily jog. When I first started, I would get up early and jog in the morning before going to office.  But now, I find it easier and more relaxing to jog in the evening, after office. I also recently realized that this a more efficient use of time because, once I reach home from office in the evening, there is always a gap of an hour or so before dinner during which, if I don’t go jog, I would just be lazing around watching TV or wasting even more time on the internet, plus, I get a few more hours of sleep in the morning. I now jog only occasionally in the morning on weekends, when the mind is more relaxed, knowing that the whole day is yours.

Another thing I love about running is being able to actually participate in actual races. I am extremely proud to say that I have participated in six (six!!) real, organized, races. Proud, because I have never ever been the sporty type, and to be able to actually race with younger and fitter guys than me at this age is a huge thing for me. I started with the Tokyo Marathon in 2010 (a dream realised) and 2011. Then we moved to Vietnam and I have since participated in the Song Hong Half Marathon 2011 and 2012 as well as the Hanoi Moi Run 2011 and 2012. No, I did not win any of those races. But I managed to finish in all, and not in last either 😉

My daily route takes me from P2 Tower, our apartment building in Ciputra, to the roundabout near the Post Office/E4/E5 Towers, and back, a distance of about 4 km. To put this into perspective for friends back home, let me just say that the distance from Sielmat ‘field’ to Muolvaiphei ‘field’ is just over 2.2 km and Sielmat to Saidan just over 3.3 km and, in Delhi, Priya Cinema to Sector 3, RK Puram (Pu Vunga’s residence) almost exactly 3 km. 😉

The first 2-3 minutes are to die for, as you feel the wind against your face and your feet start to get into their rhythm, and you feel energized and the day’s troubles and worries fade away as you start to concentrate on the run ahead. The next 4-5 minutes are always the hardest when the physical exertion hits you and you start getting a little out of breath. Then, before you know it, you are into your rhythm and almost before you know it you are past the halfway mark and heading back home.

After ‘meeting Abraham’ (meeting abraham-2) and just before the Song Hong Half Marathon last December, I had more or less decided to ‘retire’ from running. The recurrent thought that passed through my mind at that stage was that I had, through God’s grace, been able to actually fulfill my dream of participating in several actual races and, having now crossed 50 years, I should now concentrate more on walking or cycling, at the most. It was actually in that frame of mind that I took part in the race. I even became a little nostalgic, thinking that this would be my last actual race/competition.

But the next day saw me more than eager to continue my ‘run’ and now, after more than a month since the race, except for about 2 weeks in the New Year when I simply didn’t have the time because of work; I am happily back into my daily (or at least 5 days a week) runs. And thinking of this year’s Hanoi Moi Run and Song Hong Half Marathon. 

Meeting Abraham – 2

And so, finally, today, I joined the elite club of people who have met Abraham.

I am now fifty years old and, according to the Dutch, wise enough to have met Abraham. But, sadly, I just find myself sitting here in front of the computer trying to type in some deep words of wisdom. And my mind is a huge blank. Maybe it’s true only for Dutchmen.

But 50 years, half a century, is such a momentous occasion that I am overcome with the need to write something. I could reminisce about old times but then that’s what I always do in most of my blogs and I tell myself I can’t continue living in the past. I’ve reached a stage in my life when I should, as a legitimate ‘old man’, start giving out pearls of wisdom. But no such pearls come to me.

And then I enter my Facebook page and find good friends from all over wishing me a ‘Happy Birthday’. I thank God for having reached this day and am once again overcome with the realization that I am blessed. I have the best family in the world, a wonderful wife, two wonderful kids, a job I love and enjoy. I have had the privilege of travelling and experiencing life in three continents. I have had the privilege of meeting and sharing thoughts with some great men and wonderful people. I have met and made great friends along the way with whom we remain in touch. My only regret is that my mother is no more here to share this special day. But I am comforted by the knowledge that she continues to look out for me from up above.

I may not have gained any wisdom along the way and probably never will. But when God has given me such a wonderful life, I can’t find any reason to complain.

Words may have failed me tonight, but who needs them when I have such a wonderful daughter who’s written a blog entry especially for me. She just came online and said she had a new blog entry which she wrote specially for me. Words fail me and all I can think of is that song from ‘The Sound of Music’ that goes “…. Somewhere in my youth or childhood / I must have done something good….” So, without further ado (or words of wisdom), I end this wonderful day with a link to my daughter’s blog: http://musictomyhormones.wordpress.com/2012/08/12/happy-birthday-pops/

……and then there were two

After more than 50 days in hot Delhi/Noida, returning to the cooler climes of Hanoi should have been something to look forward to anytime. But not this time. Not this time.

 

We reached IGI Airport well in time for our 1:40pm flight to Bangkok. Though I am one of the laziest persons I know, I hate arriving late for appointments, functions and, especially, flights. As far as my memory goes, I have never ever been late for a flight. There have been more than one occasion when I am at the airport even before the airline counter opens and I am usually one of those who line up to get in first into the aircraft. We arrived well in time and duly passed the security checks, booked our baggage and made for the lounge where we had a leisurely lunch of faux Japanese dishes which included a soup, obviously meant to be miso soup but tasting unlike any miso soup I’ve had before.

 

As I still had a few hundred rupees left with me, I went to buy some books to read on the flight. With about 2 hours left for the flight, I settled down to read while my wife kept herself busy calling and texting friends on her mobile. She went to the ladies after a while as I continued trying to concentrate on my book and keep my mind from thinking of all that we were leaving behind in Delhi. The next thing I knew was hearing two airport staff checking with the lounge receptionist whether there were any passengers for Bangkok still left. I looked at my watch and suddenly realized we had only 15 minutes left for our flight, and my wife was nowhere in sight. I immediately rose, called my wife on her mobile telling her to hurry, grabbed our bags, and told the airport staff we were on the Bangkok flight. She immediately picked up her walkie-talkie and I heard her telling whoever was on the other line that they had finally found the ‘missing’ passengers and that we were on our way. From the corner of my eyes I saw my wife leisurely making her way towards us when the lady told me it was about 10 minutes’ walk to Gate 24 and we should hurry. With our best apologetic faces in front of the Air India staff at the gate, we passed through another security check before boarding the aircraft with about 5 minutes to spare. We were the last passengers on board and the aircraft doors closed almost immediately after we entered and started taxiing for takeoff even as we settled down for the four and half hour flight to Bangkok.

 

So began a new chapter in our life.

 

In more ‘normal’ circumstances, we probably would have panicked with recriminations all around, running to the gate and apologizing profusely to the ground staff. But we were super-cool and, without breaking a sweat, walked up to the gate, ignoring the irritated looks of the Air India staff, and almost leisurely made our way to the aircraft as if we were used to being the last ones to board. It seemed almost like we were deliberately trying or hoping to miss the flight. And perhaps we were. Perhaps we were.

 

We hardly spoke the whole way, each lost in our own unspoken thoughts. After more than two decades of always travelling with kids in tow, we were finally on the move again as a couple. My mind wandered back to the last time we travelled as a couple from Delhi to Paris, on our way to Morocco. We were young then, and the future was still before us. In between then and now, we have been blessed with two wonderful kids, now grown up into a fine young man and a wonderful daughter. I thought of all the wonderful and blessed times we’ve spent together and realize that they are all just memories now.

 

There were times during the last two decades when my thoughts strayed to the time when we would finally be alone again. But, even then, when such thoughts intruded, I always tried my best to think of other, more pleasant, thoughts. In fact, I always tried to suppress the thought. Frankly, it was, and is, sometimes too much to think of a life without the kids. Except for the few occasions when you wanted to snuggle in bed for just a few more minutes but had to get up to get them ready for school, I can hardly recall a time when my kids caused any trouble or hardship that would have made me really look forward to a time when I would be ‘free’ of them. But here we are, finally all alone, while they are thousands of miles away in India, doing their best to adjust and make their own future.

 

Even during the last few weeks we spent together, poring through numerous college brochures, filling up numerous applications and standing in line for what seemed like eternity in the hot Delhi sun, and it was just a matter of a few weeks, days even, when we would part, the thought of us parting was something I refused to entertain though it was like a dark cloud that hovered above us at all times. We never spoke of it, but parting was the one constant that always tempered our happiness and joy even when Esther secured a place in St. Stephen’s, or when we managed to get a suitable place for her to stay. Even when God answered our prayers and provided even beyond what we expected, the thought that our answered prayers were only bringing us closer to this next chapter in our life always managed to somehow dampen the spirits. We are, after all, only too human.

 

Now we are back to the proverbial Square One but I find that it is no longer the same Square. Yes, we are back to only the two of us, more than two decades later, a little the worst for wear and tear, but all systems still functioning. The first time round, we had a whole future to make and dream about and there was much to be excited about. Looking back, even the air then seemed much fresher (and, perhaps, it was), and there was a whole future to plan for. Now that we’ve seen that future and we find ourselves having to plan for another, different kind of a future, I find myself thinking and dwelling more in the past, clinging to memories.  

 

It is now all quiet at home. Too quiet. For the moment, and perhaps for quite some time yet, our minds and hearts will be thousands of miles away. But life goes on and we will, soon I hope, have to regroup and restart our life. A few more days and I will ‘meet Abraham’ and another future beckons.

 

(Hanoi, 5 Aug 2012) 

Meeting Abraham

We regularly attend the Hanoi International Fellowship Sunday morning service at Intercontinental. As part of his sermon series on ‘The Great I Am’, Pastor Jacob, who is of Dutch origin, was recently preaching on John 8:48-58 where Jesus makes one of his ‘I Am’ statements (v58) when he told us about an old Dutch custom.

According to Dutch tradition and custom, when a man turns 50 he is said to have ‘seen’ Abraham. In the same manner a woman has ‘seen’ Sarah (the Patriarch’s wife) when she turns 50. A life-size doll or figure of an old man or woman (representing Abraham/Sarah) is also usually placed on the front yard to announce the fact. The custom stems from verse 57 where the Jews sarcastically tell Jesus, “You are not yet fifty years old, and you have seen Abraham!”.

I have never been big on birthdays. I don’t specifically remember my 10th, 20th, or even 30th birthdays. I do remember the days leading up to my 40th and thinking that I should put my thoughts to paper on such a momentous occasion. But I never did get round to it and I don’t even specifically remember how I spent that day. Today, as the days, weeks and months creep ever closer to the day, later this year, when I will be ‘meeting’ Abraham, I am again somewhat obsessed with putting my thoughts to paper as it were.

Even as I write these lines, I can hardly believe that I am now about to complete my half century. It seems just yesterday that, after completing my high school and what was then called ‘Pre-University’ in Churachandpur, my hometown, I left the comfort of my family for the first time to pursue further studies in Imphal. As I’ve written in an earlier blog, I only recently realized that the day I left home for higher studies in Imphal was the day I really left ‘home’. I never really came back ‘home’ after that. I realize now that, once I left for college, the ties that bound me to my parents and immediate family had started to stretch and, though they will never break, nevertheless, the process of my becoming an individual separate from my identity as the son of my mother and father which was not so pronounced as a school-going kid had begun in earnest as I tried, in my own clumsy way, to forge a future for myself.

When we were children, all married people were ‘old’. Married people with kids were even older and those with kids in colleges were definitely so old as to be over the hill and practically of not much consequence as far we were concerned. Now I have become one of them with both my kids in college. But, as I told a friend recently, I still listen to the music I grew up with; Deep Purple, CCR, Jim Reeves, etc. – some on cassettes which are older than my son – and in my mind I’m still in my late twenties, or maybe thirties, at the most. I know for a fact that I am now seen as an ‘old man’ with a thinning hairline (to put it mildly) and, perhaps, as someone over the hill or about to go over the hill. But, despite the many stumbles and falls along the way, what a climb it has been!

As I sit here reminiscing, my peaceful childhood and schooldays flash before my eyes in a blur. Those long, lazy summer days spent fishing in the small stream that ran near our village or ‘hunting’ birds in the surrounding hills have now gone forever, never to return. Those were the days when No. 4 was just a number and not the terrifying drug that would forever ruin the lives of so many of our youth and their families. Looking back, I now realize that my childhood and schooldays was a period just before our ‘patriots’ with guns took over our lives and society. It was a blessed time to be a child. It was the lull before the storm that was to soon blow over our beloved land and society.

I remember the first time I landed in Delhi in the summer of 1985 from the cool climes of my beloved hills and how it felt like stepping into a furnace as I stepped out of the plane. I remember the morning rush hours in Delhi, clinging to DTC buses trying to make it to office in time which, when I first joined, was in Chanakyapuri. I remember Chanakya Cinema Hall, next to our office, which, in those days, only showed English movies. For more than a year, I probably watched each and every movie that they screened. For a few hours at least, constant thoughts of my girl and family back home would recede to the background while I lost myself in some Hollywood fantasy.

I remember our first posting in Morocco and that lonely June night more than twenty years ago outside the delivery room of Clinique Tour Hassan in Rabat as I paced alone in the corridor awaiting the arrival of my son. I remember the small boy, all smiles and waving, walking towards his first classroom. I remember him shyly clinging to me as we went through the admission process in his first international school, the American School of Milan. I remember sitting in my car late at night waiting to pick him up from a friend’s house in Maputo, Mozambique as he emerged laughing with his classmates from the Maputo International School, all drenched and wet from a dunk in their swimming pool at their farewell party. I remember how proud I was on his Graduation Day at St. Mary’s in Tokyo, where he played the guitar and sang on stage with his good friend Nigel at the drums.

I remember the day he left us for university, knowing that the time had finally come for him to leave us and reach for his own dreams. As Bill Bryson, one of my favorite authors once wrote, “When they leave for college, they never really come back”. I remember the long emails and longer telephone talks from faraway Japan during the first few months as he struggled to fit into his new life. I remember him walking towards us as he got off the plane in Narita on our last summer in Tokyo. Home for the summer holidays, dressed in an all-black outfit, dark glasses with his long hair in a ponytail, I could hardly believe that this fine looking young man was my son as I hugged him. I still remember the book he carried that day. ‘The Stone Boy and Other Stories’, a book written by Thich Nhat Hanh, the famous Vietnamese Buddhist monk, teacher, author, poet and peace activist. In the car, on our way home, he told me it was an interesting book which he’d carried to read on the flight. The first thing that struck me about the book was the author’s nationality. Those were the days when we were awaiting news of where we’d be headed after our stint in Tokyo and, at that moment, with a book about Vietnam written by a Vietnamese in my hands, the first thing that came to my mind was that surely this was a sign that our next port of call could be Hanoi. I mean, out of all the books that are out there, what were the odds that my son, whose favorite authors include Poe, would be reading a book written by a Vietnamese of all people! And, sure enough, a few weeks later, we learned that we would indeed be headed for Hanoi. But that’s another story.

Then I recall the October evening my beautiful daughter was born in Delhi. I remember how, this time surrounded by good friends and relatives, we jumped with joy outside the delivery room in Veeranwali International Hospital leaving the ward boys wondering why we were so happy at the birth of a girl. Little did they know. I recall how blessed I felt, looking at her beautiful sleeping face that October evening when they finally brought her out. I remember how determined and independent-minded she has always been. Never once did we have to remind her about homework and how she simply refused to be tutored, preferring to study and find out everything herself and still always manage to be among the top in all her classes. I have probably learned more from her than she from me.

I remember how she’d never really care how she was dressed till suddenly one day, somewhere along the line, she’d go only for that particular dress or style or that particular pair of shoes, or rather, boots. And suddenly, just like that, I had become the father of this beautiful and extremely talented young woman. Somewhere along the line, without any tutor, she learned to play the guitar and piano all by herself and, as her talents manifested themselves one by one, we learned that she had also become a singer, and a damn good one at that with quite a number of followers on her youtube channel and one of her songs even garnering more than 12,000 ‘hits’. How proud I was attending some of the events in Tokyo where she got invited to sing on stage. I was probably the proudest parent on her Graduation Day at Seisen International School whose alumni include the Empress of Japan.

With her brother gone, we’d dreamt of her being with us till at least she finished her college education but at this moment, my poor baby’s been left adrift with her college in Hanoi suddenly closing down. And I find myself staring at the prospect of her leaving us within the next few months as she also goes off to pursue further studies away from us in our present posting. I console myself that God has other plans for her and for us and that she will finally be able to be independent and free to pursue her own destiny. As I count the days she has left with us and the day of my ‘meeting’ with Abraham draws ever closer, the day also draws nearer when it will be just the two of us again. And, just like that, my mind drifts back to that hot day in June almost twenty three years ago when we made our vows. And here I am, one cycle of life about to be completed, and I find myself standing on the cusp of a new cycle as I count down to the day I will finally meet Abraham.

Intimations of Mortality

Isn’t is strange how, despite knowing that we all have an expiry date and, however much we try or delude ourselves into thinking that we will live to a reasonable age and slowly fade away without much complications or suffering when the time comes, we are caught so off-guard when finally confronted with undeniable proof that we are, after all, only human.

I rarely reach home from office before 7 in the evening. But last Thursday I was home by around 5:30 and, just as I opened the door, our landline phone started ringing.  Which was quite a surprise because we are now so ‘mobile’ that I sometimes forget we even have a landline. I quickly threw my office bag on the sofa and grabbed the phone.

 

Within the few seconds it took me to grab the phone, my mind ran through a list of who all knew my landline number. The usual suspects immediately came to mind; office work following me home with someone calling from office, or Puia (having ‘accidentally’ deleted my mobile number again) or, most likely, one of my wife’s friends calling to see if she’s back. But the voice on the line was someone I least expected to call, especially at that time of day. I had spent the whole of Diwali morning going through a full medical for the first time in my life and, though I should have been expecting it, it was quite a surprise to hear my doctor on the line. As soon as I heard his voice on the line, I recalled him mentioning, as I was leaving, that in case of a bad result he’d give me a call before the complete results came out. I immediately realized that this was not a social call.

 

My life has been a blessed, privileged and healthy one so far with only the occasional seasonal fever about once a year or so, thanks to God’s blessings, far beyond what I deserve. When I turned 40 ages ago (or so it seems), I seriously considered going in for a full medical. But, after dilly-dallying for quite some time, I finally gave in once again to my natural reluctance to see a doctor unless absolutely unavoidable, and so passed my 40^th year and the other years just rolled on till I suddenly realized a few weeks ago that I am now on the wrong side of 40 with my half century just a couple of years away. So, finally, having fasted for 12 hours from the previous night, Diwali morning saw me report at the clinic for my long-delayed and first full medical. I came home after the tests after having been told that the results would be out after about two weeks.

 

He came straight to the point and told me that my blood sugar levels indicated that I am, at the very least, ‘pre-diabetic’. Despite my initial surprise at his call, I hadn’t really expected to pass my medical with flying colors. Which was, to be frank, one of the reasons I’d kept on deferring my long-overdue tests. I must admit that I had subconsciously been expecting the call from my doctor. He then asked me to come in the next day for another blood test to confirm the first one and to enable him make a definite diagnosis and start me on a course of treatment. So here I am, waiting for the final diagnosis after having given the clinic another full syringe of my blood last Saturday.

 

Despite all the evidence of the diabetic gene running through my family, I must admit that I have been in denial for so long and it was somewhat of a shock to learn that I would henceforth be known as another diabetic, saddled for the rest of my life with so many restrictions in food and drinks – so many of the small things that make life worth living. Images of my uncle pricking his fingers to test his blood sugar level and carrying a ‘pouch’ wherever he went and giving himself insulin injections came rushing in.

 

I almost immediately googled ‘diabetes’ and started reading up on a subject which I practically knew next to nothing about. I read up on the symptoms and, though I had never really noticed it before, it suddenly seemed to me that I was going to the bathroom more than normal and my throat seemed parched all the time. But then I saw the other symptoms like ‘losing weight without trying’ or ‘weakness or fatigue’ in which I seemed OK. In fact, I’ve been trying to lose weight without much success. So I comforted myself that, perhaps, the first test was somehow wrong and the second test will prove that it was just a mistake, a nightmare, the lab switching my blood sample with someone else’s.

 

My second blood test results are due today and the doctor has promised to call as soon as he gets the results and so I wait, with trepidation and some hope though I have already started reconciling myself to a new chapter in my life.

 

The Thunderbolt Kid

I was introduced to Bill Bryson by my daughter when she brought home “The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid” from her school library. It was/is probably the most hilarious memoir I have read. I have since bought and gone on to read quite a few of his other books, each one as good, or even better, than the last. From ‘A Walk in the Woods’, ‘Neither Here Nor There’, ‘Down Under’, ‘A Short History of Nearly Everything’ and ‘Notes From A Big Country’ to ‘Notes From A Small Island’, which I am currently reading, Bryson’s particular brand of irreverent-but-at-the-same-time-serious writing/humour has had me in splits for many an hour.

Since I’ve not updated my blog for quite a few months, I thought I might as well share a few lines from the latest Bryson I am reading. These are lines from ‘Notes From A Small Island’ which, in 2003, in conjunction with World Book Day, was chosen by voters in UK as the book that best sums up British identity and the state of the nation. The lines I am sharing have nothing to do with the main subject of the book, which is an account of his trip around Britain and his hilarious observations of the British people, their habits and their idiosyncrasies. It made me wish there was someone like him amongst us Mizos who could write about our own sometimes self-centred, self-righteous, sanctimonious society in his typical irreverent manner.

As I said, these lines have nothing to do with the subject of the book and, in fact, came in abruptly in the midst of his description of life in rural Britain. A sort of philosophical rambling, seemingly unrelated to the subject, but somehow blending into the narration. But I digress. So here goes:

The way I see it, there are three reasons never to be unhappy.

First, you were born. This in itself is a remarkable achievement. Did you know that each time your father ejaculated (and frankly he did it a lot) he produced roughly twenty-five million spermatozoa –enough to repopulate Britain every two days or so? For you to have been born, not only did you have to be among the few batches of sperm that had even a theoretical chance of prospering – in itself quite a long shot – but you then had to win a race against 24,999,999 or so other wriggling contenders, all rushing to swim the English Channel of your mother’s vagina in order to be the first ashore at the fertile egg of Boulogne, as it were. Being born was easily the most remarkable achievement of your whole life. And think: you could just as easily have been a flatworm.

Second, you are alive. For the tiniest moment in the span of eternity you have the miraculous privilege to exist. For endless eons you were not. Soon you will cease to be once more. That you are able to sit right now in this never-to-be-repeated moment, reading this book, eating bon-bons, dreaming about hot sex with that scrumptious person from accounts, speculatively sniffing your armpits, doing whatever you are doing – just existing – is really wondrous beyond belief.

Third, you have plenty to eat, you live in a time of peace and ‘Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round The Old Oak Tree’ will never be number one again.

How can you not love this guy 🙂