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Tuesday, 31 August 2010

Mood:  chillin'
Topic: Latin America

The past 9 days had been a real adventure. Since leaving the hustle and bustle of the city last Monday, our daily schedule quickly fell into a routine. Each morning, we would explore the surroundings of the village. Mid day we stop for some empanadas (South American wheat dumplings). During the Siesta hours of 1-5pm, we would explore further towards the next destination village of region, then check into a new hostel or hospedaje (family runned accommodation), have a rest than dinner at 9pm followed by a walk around town experiencing the vibe of evening social life of the locals. Next day it´ll be a new place to explore, new towns and new people.


The north of Argentina is simply stunning. As far as tourism is concern, it has the best of both worlds – the remoteness and devastating beauty of the Andeans yet with the comfort and service standard of a first world nation. We toured mainly around the 3 states, Tucuman – for the Quilmes Ruins, Salta for the numerous vineyards and Jujuy for the geological splendour. In this trip, not only did I learnts much about Argentina, the North Indians (sub divided into several trips – the 2 main ones we encountered were the Calchaquis in Salta and Quechuan in Jujuy) actually regarded themselves as Andeans not Argentinians. In a way it feels as though we were visiting 2 countries. The Andeans are hard workers, proud people. Most of their heritage were destroyed by the Spanish and the people are resentful towards the destruction of their heritage, in a cruel twisted kind of irony the Andeans are very religious towards the Catholic faith and nearly idolise football as much – both European imports.


While relatively unknown to the Western World, the vineyards of Salta had long established tourism in the country, with heaps of farmstays, wine tours and scenic hikes for the Argentines. Jujuy, on the other hand, inherits the hippies and backpackers from Northen Chile and Bolivia, all cladded in their tie-dye uniforms and braided hair. We ate copious amount of meat accompanied by delicious wine. Food was great but the typical Argentian fare is relatively limited – 2 weeks was good. Anymore I will start craving for seafood noodles..!

 We had an amazing time so fare, seeing and experiencing such a variety of landscape, hardworking salt-of-the-earth-type Indians. Today, we rest in a secluded farm of the south of Salta city. Sitting here, feeling the gentle breeze, birdsong, fragrance of magnolia, it is simple bliss. Back to the cities tomorrow.

Posted by Ching Yin at 12:01 AM JST
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Wednesday, 21 October 2009
The Hundre Dollar Baby
Mood:  accident prone
Topic: Life in Aussie
My whole life, I wanted to be a fighter. In my fantasy I have always been a long robed pugilist floating amongst the bamboo forest swinging my blade gracefully and kicking the shit out of bullies and wannabes. In spite of my years of martial arts training, and regardless of how good I looked in photographs and on stage, I had never been in a real fight. The closest I had ever gotten into one was 7 years ago whilst I was living in London, I bumped into a homeless tramp who promptly mouthed me off with a string of vulgarities. I turned around and gave him the finger and for that brief moment our eyes cross I swore he must have contemplated leaping onto and beating the crap out of me. I suppose it was the confidence in which I displayed my disregard for him that held him back.


I was 31 years and 1 day old exactly when I first experience in real terms how it feels like to be beaten into pulp. I went for my first novice Muay Thai boxing tournament naively thinking that I could win! Yet looking back at the 3 minutes during which I suffered a brutal beating I knew if the score of 10 was divided between Cassie Field and me, she would have scored 9 and I would have scored 1, and that 1 point must be awarded to me only and only because I left the boxing ring standing up.


That fateful morning, Keith (my Scottish instructor) and I arrived at St Albans Melbourne and caught up with Tim, and 18 year old boy in my gym who was also fighting that day. The Ultimate Muay Thai gym was crowded, busy with fighters warming up, weighting in for the tournaments, trainers meting out last minute advice. It has been 17 months since I started Muay Thai and by now I was used to the type of men and women that hung out in fighting events. Most men had serious attitude and gigantic tattoos all over, girls have long hair short skirts and thick make-up, drapping around their fellas like a limp mink scarf. Not quite the type of people I usually mingle with but I found them interesting and intriguing nonetheless. Tim was a large 85 kg Aussie boy of Philippine origin, very adroable, polite and eager to please. I told him he’s a very nice boy and should try and grow up a good fighter but a normal person – none of those ‘I’m so macho look at me look at me bullshit’. He assured me with great enthusiasm that he will never become a dickhead. I was pleased.


Tim went into the fight first. He was steady, calm and composed against his frantic, older opponent. He won the fight easy – we were so proud of him. The whole event looked like a walk in the park for him.


A regular from our gym showed up and said he came to watch the fight to support me! I was so touched.


There were 8 more fights between Tim’s and mine and by then I was trying very hard not to piss in my pants. I was mortified and tried every means to distract myself and ended up so successful in distraction I did not realised it was my turn to go up the ring until right the very moment before. No time to get pumped up with anger or aggression, I was up on the ring mind still full of rubbish and partly still thinking this was all for a laugh.


It only took 10 seconds before I realised how screwed I was. Reminded me of days of Chinese Martial Arts competitions when my instructor said that the quality of a participant is usually apparent within the first 10 seconds – that cliché definitely applied to myself in that match. The truth is I cannot remember much of the fight except Cassie’s gloves flying towards my face over and over again. Then she grabbed me by the neck and kneed the crap out of me, giving me a very bruised rib that is still hurting as I type. My life flashed before my eyes. I tried feebly again and again to hurt her but I was getting nowhere. The referee broke us up several times as he was worried that I was going to collapse, ‘If you don’t keep your hands up you’re going to get knocked out’. I wanted to say, ‘oh my gosh are you serious?’ but my sense of humour had escaped me at that point in time.


In the 30 second break between the two rounds, I stumbled pathetically back to my corner where Keith and Tim beckons. Neither of them knew what to say nor could they look me in the eye in fear of betraying what they were thinking – I SUCKED. Nonetheless, true to the style of team spirit they edge me on with their best capacity to lie (which really wasn’t too good). Then it was time to get hammered again. I hear Keith’s voice in the far distance saying ‘Hands-up!’, ‘Do this!’, ‘Do that!’ but I could translate none of that into action. I continued my act as a sitting duck being hammered by my opponent and in my mind I could only think of one thing – damn this really hurts.


Before I knew it, it was over. I fumbled with my hair wondering where the hair clip fell and right at that point in time the referee shouted out, ‘who’s hair tie is it?’


‘Ah it’s mine it’s mine,’ I jumped animatedly towards him. Everyone laughed. Well, at least I was entertaining as always. I grinned foolishly at the audience as the referee predictably announced Cassie Field as the winner.


And Keith, sweet dear Keith, bless him, must have felt awful watching me getting crushed like a bug. After the fight he went over to Cassie’s lot and enquired about her training background. He consoled me later to say that she was 3 kg heavier, way more experienced and truthfully much bigger than I was. We ended up agreeing that she actually have a really deep voice and was trying hard to hide her stubbles and Adam’s apple.


This pretty much summed up the beginning of my fighting career. I’d like to say what happened on the 18th Oct 2009 will never repeat itself but I now accept the tragic reality that despite my natural aggression as a thinker and strategist I am hopeless in physical realm. In Keith’s words, I certainly could try to become the ‘hundred dollar baby’. J

Posted by Ching Yin at 9:08 PM JST
Updated: Saturday, 24 October 2009 6:50 PM JST
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Thursday, 20 August 2009
Mount Kinabalu
Mood:  a-ok

I had completely under estimated the prowess of Mount Kinabalu. Having accomplished Mount Everest Base Camp only 10 months ago I had continued my fitness regime and saw myself as someone who is fairly athletic. Never had I expected that I would struggle through the 13 hour return trek and be assaulted with so much pain for days after. It was only on reflection I realised that the total ascend for the climb was approximately 2,229 metres, which is an extraordinary height to conquer in 2 days, especially considering we took around 8 days to ascend 2,700 metres in Nepal.


Nonetheless there was nothing exceptional about my achievement on reaching the summit. Each day approximately 180 people attempt the climb, resulting in an overcrowded summit at sunrise. I do, however note with pride that I had broken the record of Asian trekkers with my tour guide. In his experience, most Asian tourist takes between 20-25 hours return and he was convinced that even if I managed better timing than that I would not have been far off.


Climbing aside, in the few days I spent in Sabah, there were several interesting stories and encounters. I had an animated chat with a taxi driver about Malaysia politics. Apparently the natives of Sabah and Sarawak are not of the Malay racial origin but a mixture of many tribes including Dusun, Bajau and the notorious Murut or Head-hunters clan. Sabah and Sarawak did not ‘join’ Malaysia. The 4 areas (pre-1965) namely Malaya, Sabah, Sarawak and Singapore together formed ‘Malaysia’. According to the driver, Sabah and Sarawak weren’t particularly excited about being part of the Malaysian federation as they felt that Borneo had many natural resources, yet their leaders were unable to get a grip on their politics in time to be independent. He even went as far as saying that a suggestion was made at some stage to have Sabah, Sarawak and Singapore (three ‘S’s) to form a nation. I wonder how our lives would be if that had been the case.

Posted by Ching Yin at 6:22 PM JST
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Tuesday, 4 August 2009
Great Scots
Mood:  party time!

“I drank to drown my sorrows, but the damned things have learned to swim…” Frida Kahlo


Considering how much I like a drink at the end of the day I certainly couldn’t hold my alcohol too well. Yet the state of drunkenness rarely fails to entice me and I’m always looking to get addicted to a new drink. I had been drunk till I passed out and on occasions barely survived a 30 minute subway ride followed by a 10 minute walk home in a state of severe intoxication. Thus my rapture would be apparent when I had the opportunity to live above a pub for two blissful nights whilst travelling in the Isle of Skye, Scotland. It was also in that fateful inn where I began my love affair with Dalwhinnie, highland single malt whiskey.


Naturally, Scotland has so much more than whiskeys and pubs. Once I got pass the perpetual rain, the beauty of the highlands was surreal. Beneath the ever changing sky lie dramatic thunder clouds and countless castle ruins. There was something painfully poignant and romantic about the landscape that made my heart ache.


I learnt a number of things about Scotland and their people in my trip. The Scots can’t cook; it is not a cliché. Haggis didn’t taste too bad but once is enough for my entire life. The Scots once fought a terrible war with the English at the Battle of Culloden. It nearly resulted in the destruction of their race and the annihilation of the highlanders. However, during the British colonisation of the Indian subcontinent, the highlanders had their own regiment and did not show the Indians the mercy they would have liked to be shown during their Battle with the English.

Posted by Ching Yin at 6:24 PM JST
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Saturday, 18 July 2009
The Green door Resident 1 - Patrick Byrne
Topic: Europe

Patrick Byrne was the first resident I met. He was originally from Ealing, London and ended up in working in The Green Door, Ireland because ‘…the wind blew that way,’ I overheard his fellow colleague mentioning to some European travellers that Patrick spoke French. Few Englishmen are multi-lingual thus I made a mental note that he might have some linguistic flair or simply unusually disciplined. Patrick sings, plays the guitar and believes that he knows most popular English folk songs. The most interesting point I remembered about Patrick was his obsession with this 1987 British alternative movie ‘Withnail and I’ which he claimed had watched it 265 times. This strange comedy was about two poor and struggling actors living in a crumpling flat in London going on a badly planned holiday. The main character played by Richard E Grant was someone that felt his talents were clearly unappreciated and the world somewhat owes him recognition and perhaps fame and fortune. I watched the movie for a mere fifteen minutes and was too tired to follow continuously stream of arty-farty cult lingo. Yet for that brief quarter of an hour I caught on what the movie was about. I would bet my last dollar that the reason why Patrick was practically reciting lines from the script was largely due to how he secretly feels that the movie was about his life.


Patrick was convinced I will not be able to understand the movie in the same way that he must be convinced I would not be able to comprehend the eccentricity of highly intelligent cult figures like himself. I wondered which part of my appearance gave him that conviction – had he assumed that young Asian girls must have a very different outlook in life or did he thought that someone with my unimaginative dress sense and lack of interest in booze and late night cannot possibly be too funky. Clever people can think in stereotypes too, unfortunately. Nevertheless, I was not offended, merely bemused, maybe even inclined to agree with him. I spent 3 years in one of the most avant-garde art and design colleges in Europe observing and occasionally befriending misfits from all over the world but never quite felt integrated into this island of nonconformists. It wasn’t so much the tattoos, ear piercings and unnatural hair colours that differentiate my college mates from the rest of the world, nor was it their choice of unusual work hours and methodology that set them apart from society. The paradox in trying to describe non-mainstream people is that they cannot be classified by any straightforward terms, but perhaps one underlying factor that links them all is their staunch belief that society cannot comprehend them, the way Patrick was confident that I cannot grasp the brilliance of ‘Withnail and I’.

Posted by Ching Yin at 11:59 PM JST
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The Green Door
Topic: Europe

There was nothing particularly outstanding about ‘The Green Door’. As far as youth hostels in the UK went, it was mediocre. The building was old, the sheets were drab, the rooms smelt musky, the kitchen and TV room was cluttered with mismatched crockery and ancient furniture. The place wasn’t unpleasant but there was little character in its obvious age.


It was by sheer chance, a string of insignificant events that had conspired to throw me into a four night stay in The Green Door, a town with the unpronounceable name – Drogheda. I arrived 1am late night Friday, 24 hours after setting off from Singapore with 17kg worth of luggage, no address, no phone number, no fucking clue. The bus pulled up somewhere on Dublin road, a couple of miles from Drogheda and I decidedly leapt out of the coach despite not knowing where on earth I was. It was dark, the streets were quiet but there was life lurking in the pub across the street.


Strapped with my 2 backpacks I marched into the pub and announced my quest to find The Green Door. Half of the folks there were intoxicated, not quite expecting a Chinese girl with a giant bag that time of the evening that part of the world asking for directions without an address. I was stanchly ignored.


A taxi was parked outside.


Fortunately the driver had heard of the place and happened to be picking up a tipsy couple from the pub into town and was able to take me there. I squeezed myself with my massive two packs into the tiny passenger seat of a mid-sized sedan and the couple at the back couldn’t stop giggling. The three of them were genuinely intrigued by the peculiarity of my presence and bombarded me with questions in our short ride into Drogheda.


When the taxi dropped me off at the corner of where he thought The Green Door was located, it crossed my mind briefly that I should offer to pay him. However, given the short distance of the ride, plus my European cash were stashed deeply in some remote corner of my bag, then noticing he already had 2 other passengers but most importantly of all I was completely buggered after 27 hours without sleep, I just climbed casually off the taxi and gave him a moneyless “Thank you”.


“You’re welcome,” he said, “and don’t worry about the fare!” he said, part amusedly part sarcastically, then drove off into the darkness.


It was a good thing I didn’t pay him anyway, for he had actually dropped me off at the wrong place. The accommodation place he left me had a bell but no one was answering the door. Perplexed, I circled around the block and found nothing that resembles a youth hostel. It was dark, everything was shut and the only folks left on the streets were but drunk groups of locals.


I had to stop 4 people in their tracks and walk around town for the next 20 minutes before finding the hostel. When I finally found it, I was surprised that anyone would even know of that place. While it was situated on a main thoroughfare, the signage was modest and there were little commercial facilities immediately around the hostel that distinguishes it from other apartments in that block. I checked in at 1.26am, 4 minutes before my estimated time of arrival. Triumph is mine.

Posted by Ching Yin at 7:17 PM JST
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Sunday, 10 May 2009
Seville, April Fair, Cordoba and Lisbon
Mood:  happy
Topic: Europe

The 3 cities that I visited, namely Seville, Cordoba and Lisbon had one common denominator; with their close proximity to Northern Africa and a history of Moorish domination, the region was a unique melting pot of European, Mediterranean, African, Gypsy and Arabic culture. In the week that I was there I was a full-flung tourist – I visited everything as advised by the guidebooks and was completely mesmerised by the enchanting architecture and interior design, delicious food and beautiful people.


Seville, April Fair and Cordoba


I wanted to stop the girl in her tracks and tell her how stunning she looked; could she please stop for a moment and let me take a picture of her gorgeous dress, make-up and hair do? Not pose for me, but just continue what she was doing before except to freeze in action, for I want to capture that splendid moment forever…


By a stroke of luck I arrived in Seville on the week of the April Fair, the infamous city wide celebration of the Holy week. During this 6 day long of non-stop eating, drinking and merry making, the fair grounds of Seville is transformed into a mini city with hundreds of tents. Unfortunately, it is difficult for an outsider to participate in the fun bits as most of the tents are privately leased to families, businesses or other groups of people with common interest to congregate at the fair for unabashed partying. Nonetheless a tourist is kept sufficiently entertained just standing on the pathway watching the thousands of colourful flamenco dresses strutting by, each girl trying to outdo the other with immaculate make up and dazzling jewelleries. Families with co-ordinated dresses, traditional and not-so traditional costumes, bright orange polka dots and gigantic plastic flowers, teenage girls with their eyes flicking everywhere wondering who is watching their every moves and older folks singing and dancing like no one is looking – I was overwhelmed and my camera was overworked.


Seville is absolutely magnificent; I had fallen in love with this city.


Often overshadowed by the glamorous Madrid and spectacular Barcelona, the fourth largest city of Spain is frequently overlooked by international visitors. Ashamed to say, it took my third visit to the country before I uncovered this modest gem tucked away in the Andalucía province, South West of Spain. Large enough to be fashionable and sophisticated, yet small enough to maintain a friendly and sincere charm, Seville is the perfect destination for a relaxing getaway. I spent 5 nights soaking up the balmy climate and cordial atmosphere, walking through plazas after plazas of folks enjoying beer and tapas, students congregating with a guitar and song and tourists all dressed up trying to find their way to a fancy restaurant and flamenco performance. The city is also home to the 3rd largest cathedral in the world (after St Peter’s in Rome and St Paul’s in London). The dominating tower embellished with Arabic motifs had me debating whether it was the architect or the city that had the identity crisis.


The irony was that in Cordoba, neighbouring city of Seville had the 3rd largest mosque in the world. Yet the tower (are mosques even suppose to have towers?) resembles a cathedral. Cordoba markets itself as a ‘City of 3 cultures’ – the Christians, the Muslims and the Jews living side by side in harmony but that was hundreds of years ago. The Jews had all but been expelled since the 1400s, leaving behind only a tiny synagogue as evidence of their presence.


I saw this tourist T-Shirt that read España = Mucho (Calor) ²’ which translate as ‘Spain is very hot’. Already in early May the daytime temperature reached a burning 34°C. It is no wonder shops are shut usually by mid-day to re-open late afternoon. The only place one should be in the heat is a cevezaría. I dare not imagine what July and August will be like, now I can understand why many people die in Spain during summer heat waves. People of this region (both Spain and Portugal) are late risers. Each morning I would get up at an 8-9 (which to me is indulgence!), leave my room around 9-10 and still the streets are dead. It’s hard to find good breakfast, and a sure sign that they are meant for tourists is when breakfasts are all named ‘Menus Americano’, or ‘Desayuno Inglaterra’. On the other hand, dinner places don’t open till 8pm, and even then the diners are predominately tourists. At a local tapas place, as I hungrily devour my dinner at 9pm, I noticed that the Spanish folks are still having a drink or two, slowly building up to their main meal…


Portugal – Lisbon, Sintra and Cabo da Roca


A mere 2 days but I’ve had so much fun in Portugal. Other than having a few too many ‘Pastais da Belem’, the world famous ‘Portuguese Tarts’, I managed to pack nearly most of what the capital city had to offer into 2 short days. In Lisbon, I visited Alfama, a hilly suburb with an old Moorish fort, Belem a coastal village and home to the original custard tarts and strolled through the notorious Barrio Alto and its nightspots. The following day I went on the most popular day trip route to Sintra (quaint little touristy village), Palace of Pena (fairy tale like summer palace for the last royal family), Moorish Castle (ancient remains of an old civilisation) and Cabo da Roca, most westerly point of Europe just so I can say I’ve been there.


The people of Portugal are literally more colourful than in Spain. There I find a more exciting mixture of pale and dark skin, not unlike the well known Brazilian and Cuban blend of ‘black coffee’, ‘coffee with milk’ and ‘milk with coffee’. I wondered if it was due to a less regulated Portuguese border or somehow the common language had attracted many Brazilians to the country. Most of the tourists in Lisbon I’ve encountered are from Spain. On occasions I do wonder if there lies a deep-seated habit of setting tourist traps to rip their richer neighbours off. Ordering a meal in Spain is straightforward – what you order you see in your bill. In Lisbon, I can never predict what will show up eventually.


I had the pleasure and luck to sit with an old Portuguese couple at the Pastais da Belem café. Being true blue Portuguese they couldn’t understand a word of Spanish, though fortunately the husband knew a tiny bit of English. They assured me that while there are Pastais all throughout Portugal, there is none like Pastais da Belem. The wife told me in animated body language that on a good day she can devour 9 of those scrumptious tarts in a row.


Before I know it, it was over. Here I rest at the airport lounge waiting for the flight to take me home where the reality of shutting down my business awaits; I need to cut it loose with ruthless efficiently or it will be too painful to tolerate. At least before this agonising but inevitable path that I will have to take, I managed a week-long of escape to a world I am so fond of. Only with the inspiration that came with travel could I remind myself that life will continue wonderfully even after my creation is dead.

Posted by Ching Yin at 3:06 PM JST
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Saturday, 18 April 2009

Topic: Life in Aussie

Starring into the blank screen – the infinite beckons. My life passes through my eyes; I thought about recent events. The screen remains blank, or is it merely my mind?

Posted by Ching Yin at 7:39 PM JST
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Friday, 6 February 2009
Duuf duuf makes you dumb dumb?
Mood:  incredulous
Hey all you unoriginal cliche bunch of party animals, aren't you sick of the duuf duuf music? Nearly every Friday or Saturday night, some neighbour blasts their stereo with their idea of what 'music' is which in fact has no melody, little musical merits and an absolute lack of creativity. I don't really care about the noise, ear plugs take care of it all, but crikey, these party people are just so bloody boring!

Posted by Ching Yin at 8:09 PM WST
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Wednesday, 4 February 2009
Muay Thai in Phuket
Mood:  energetic
Topic: Asian Travels

 Paat was his name, or at least what I’ve made of it. My first authentic Thai Muay Thai (MT) instructor. He had a chubby, jovial face, I almost wonder how he is capable of revealing a deadly and violent side when it matters in the ring.


He was surprised when I told him I’ve had 8 months worth of MT Training. He promptly lead me to the rear end of the large airy campus where the ‘intermediates’ train. Regardless, not long after he got me shadow boxing and a few rounds of pad work later, he started to doubt my experience in the area…


“You sure it is MY Training you have? Not Kickboxing?”


“Yes, yes. In our lessons there are many many people, instructor no time to adjust our moves.”


In the ring Paat rapidly lost his smile. Clearly I wasn’t performing up to his idea of ‘intermediate’. It wasn’t long before his patience starts to fray, when his cutesy face starts to morph into the constant grimace of a child in permanent tantrum.


“OK, 1, 2, left, right. Elbow… ELBOW! You not readee!! You must always be readee!!” He flings his fist and stamps his foot in annoyance, “Again, Elbow.. ELBOW! Forward! Harder, faster!!”


The truth is, I’m not a young, aspiring boxer who intends to one day fight in the ring. I merely want to train to be a good fighter, ready for self defence anytime but hopefully will never feel the taste of someone else’s knuckles on my teeth. With my red toe nail polish and newly coloured hair and with each reprimanding from Paat I burst into a giggle, which in turn further aggravates him and make me look more pathetic.


Paat is not without his endearing side though. During a break session he told me not to get upset with his reproaches as he doesn’t mean them personally, merely part of the Muay Thai culture. I was honestly impressed he could hold back his tongue and not scream in my face, “You retarded woman, I said the RIGHT LEG, the RIGHT BLOODY LEG, NOT THE LEFT!!”


Above all, Paat’s kick packs a serious kill in spite of his cuddly appearance. When teaching me how to kick, he would demonstrated by giving me a “mock kick”, what appears to be a gentle tap with his feet on my abdomen. Yet with each apparent gentle tap, I was stunned for a moment because it actually hurt much more than I’d expected. While it was obvious he’s held back most of his muscles, I can feel the chunk of his power withheld in that harmless tap. I cannot begin to imagine what a real kick from Paat can do to me.


The final blow, regardless, came from just before the closure of the lesson when Paat told me to knee the sandbag 50 times and kick it 100 times consecutively. I couldn’t believe my ears, “a hundred times, you say?”


“Yes,” he grinned triumphantly, “100 times”


And so he begins counting, “One, two…Eleven, twelve…Twenty…Thirty…Forty…fifty…sixty…fifty,” Wait, did he just say ‘fifty’ again? “Shit,” I thought to myself desperately, “I can’t take this anymore…” but I had no strength or breathe to protest. Fortunately, after the 2nd ‘fifty’, he jumped straight through to ‘seventy’ and continued to 100, making it 110 consecutive kicks.


“You are a strong lady,” Was I hearing things? He was complimenting me! “Most ladies can’t do 100, they…” he drops his head sideways and stuck his tongue out like a pretend dead man, “So I say, you strong lady”


And with that, we clasped our hands the Thai style, bowed, thanked each other and bade farewell.

Posted by Ching Yin at 8:42 PM WST
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Sunday, 11 January 2009

Topic: Practising Spanish

La pintura de la primavera

Un sueño de las estrellas

Felicidad sin sombras

Disfrutamos la música


Con pasión como fuego

Te seduzco

Posted by Ching Yin at 9:38 AM WST
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Saturday, 10 January 2009

Mood:  sad

¡Adiós, mi corazón, mi ángel del cielo! Gracias por el breve momento de pureza que trajo a mi vida. Te recuerdo siempre.

Posted by Ching Yin at 12:47 PM WST
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Friday, 5 December 2008

Mood:  amorous
Topic: Practising Spanish
"Hay siempre algo de locura en el amor, pero siempre hay algo de razón en la locura"

Posted by Ching Yin at 12:48 PM WST
Updated: Saturday, 13 December 2008 10:58 AM WST
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Saturday, 22 November 2008
Estoy esperando del ?!ngel para llegar desde el cielo


Un ángel del cielo

Tiene un corazón muy bueno

Aún no consciente de la tristeza de este mundo


Un chico tan inocentes

Una joven vida con mucho más anticipación

¿Puede comprender mi exasperación?


Beneath the anger, the spite and all the whinging ultimately it is but a disguise. After the partying, the gossiping and all the best entertainment in the world, eventually they are just distractions. The obsession with holidays, tours and travel, in the end the escape is always temporary. In the height of the night I face the darkness alone; the reality of it all confronts me and it hits hard it hits mercilessly.


When I met him he was 19 years old. He wasn’t exactly a soulful thinker that usually captures my imagination, but then again not many teenage backpackers are. As a result I reminisced a great deal of the time I was 19 and contemplated what had changed since. What I had to offer the world then was youth and potential; the world in turns offer excitement and hope. A decade had come and went; my youth is quickly evaporating and a resignation creeps in that the prospects are as good as it’ll ever get. While the world still excites me much of the thrill had ceased and the burden of responsibility had taken over.


Oh what I would give to be free again. Why oh why?

Posted by Ching Yin at 9:59 PM WST
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Tuesday, 11 November 2008
Remembrance Day - I will remember you. Will you remember me?

It’s Remembrance Day today. I spent 11am on the 11/11/2008 at Victoria market where they made an announcement for everyone to have a minute of silence.


There is an inexplicable sensation of ennui I am experiencing. Amongst many other feelings, I am excited, depressed, fed-up, happy and sad at the same time.


Yo entusiasmado porque hay un Sueco muy joven y guapo visitando me en dieciocho días.


Estoy desesperado y de harto porque mi negocios es muy mal aunque he intentado todos ideas posible.


Feliz porque verano es aquí, Melbourne es en cuanto más cálido, entonces todos son bueno.


Triste porque hasta hoy, sigo Ben perder muchísimo.


I need something radical. I yearn for something spectacular. Just give me that one good thing that can somehow outshine my despair then all will be well.

Posted by Ching Yin at 8:34 PM WST
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