PART 1: HOLIDAY TIME

This blog may be weighty, like a good meal of zesty carbohydrates that is delicious at first, but gut rotting and excess by its mid-way point. Feel free to drop out at any point along the way. I have decided to format this entry in a "live time" narrative approach, just for something new.

Dec. 12
Cheratien and I are up early to catch the bus which will take us to Trinh's parents home. Today, we will be a part of a Vietnamese wedding. With ao dai's in tow, we make a 6 hour journey into the countryside. With only pork fat sandwiches as sustenance (generously provided by the groom's parents) we arrive a bit peckish. We change into our ao dai's on the bus and hightail it in front of the other relatives, so that we can be the first to arrive. It is our responsibility as "bridesmaids" to receive the gifts which the groom's family will bring for the bridges family. After wandering down a small path in the forest for about 20 min, led by Trinh's small cousin on his oversized bicycle, we arrive and line the sides of the drive to the house. The groom's family arrives and hands us over large trays filled with fruits and other offerings. I received the heaviest, but was able to retain a graceful gait for its delivery to the family alter. From there, are job was done and we were able to simply watch the ceremony. Tea. Prayers. The lighting of the candles (couples hope that the flames of both are of equal strength, as that will symbolize at equity in the power dynamics of the relationship). The groom's parents giving the bride jewellery. And so on. Humourously, many of those who came the great distance for the wedding, sit back in the tent drinking beer and eating peanuts. We have a delicious meal, at which numerous family members take turns scooping choice meats into our bowls... a sign of friendship and respect.

One of Trinh's small cousins takes a liking to me, and more particularly to my casualness with my camera. He becomes my resident photographer, documenting the day and forcing together odd partnerships for photo opportunities. He speaks to be quickly and often in Vietnamese, in spite of his knowledge that my Vietnamese is limited. Once again, my belief that children are some of the most innocently generous hosts is reaffirmed. We babble at each other in our respective languages and communicate quite well. Upon seeing us to the bus, he gets a light-bulb flash of inspiration and hopes on his over-sized bike once more, to race back home. He returns sweating, a few moments later, with a gift for me. One of the wedding balloons... a dilapidated pink heart. Thankfully, Cheratien has a Canadian pin on hand, and so leans out of the bus window to pin it on his lapel. He beams. Another great moment of the day was being offered a husband by a Vietnamese woman who decided I should be her daughter in law. She literally went and collected her son and brought his forward. An awkward few moments of stilted conversation ensued, before she let him recoil in embarrassment.

Dec. 13

We are to meet Trinh and Trang at the "Beauty Saloon"... yes, two "Os:...at 11 to get our hair and make-up done for the reception, which would take place at noon at a restaurant in town. We arrive and are promptly seated and attacked by brushes, hair-spray, and sponges. My eyes are closed in preservation, but I can feel my eyebrows growing. I open my eyes to note that large caterpillars have taken residence on my brows. It takes a bit to convince my make-up artist that they should be tamed down--that they are big enough as it is. Because of my persistence in this matter, I let it slide when she brought out the purple, sparkly eye shadow. As mom always says, choose your battles. I, however, felt quite fortunate when I swivelled my chair to check out Cheratien's make-up and coif. Mouse and a curling iron had transformed her hair into a pageant-participant's style. Her eyelids were vibrantly adorned with blue, glitter, and her lips a bright coral pink. Beauuuuutiful. Her boyfriend would later compare her visage to that of the Joker. Trinh rolled in at quarter to twelve. With only fifteen official minutes to get her ready, she had a team of about eight working on her at all times. With no question as to her desire, one woman pinned her hair into two side buns and spray painted them a fuchsia pink. In went some orchids and baby's breath, seemingly materialized out of thin air. Another woman lathered whitening lotion on to Trinh's arms. Another went to town on her face. We rushed to the back room, and there stands a suitcase. When opened up, we see that it contains Trinh's three wedding dresses. She chooses one, yanks it out of the suitcase and puts it on, while another helper runs next door to try to find a crinoline. In a few second we are being ushered out the door and into a taxi on our way to the restaurant. We arrive to see our images broadcast onto television screens scattered throughout the restaurant. We take the elevator up to the main room, where our little photographer eagerly awaits our arrival. The bride enters moments later with the groom and the parents, with the back-track of what can only be described as eerily similar to "The Final Countdown" (think Job's theme song in Arrested Development). The strobe light is pumping. The smoke is flowing. All important parties say a speech, and the couple cuts the cake. They also pour pink campaign over a pyramid of campaign glasses, cleverly stocked with dry ice to produce billowing smoke. The singing begins and a middle aged Vietnamese woman gets up to crock Jingle Bells out. The music is so loud that no conversation can take place. Following the litany of legitimate performers comes karaoke time, which was mostly monopolized by staff of the Canadian International School. Although I was not foolish enough to sing, Trinh dragged me on stage a few times to dance. Overall, this two-day wedding affair was a blast to be a part of. Culturally, highly informative.

Dec. 15

As I stand in the Activity Room, a small carpeted area which houses nearly 55 pre-pubescent and pubescent youngsters practicing for "The BEST Christmas Concert Ever" in the stanky heat of the Ho Chi Minh City afternoon, my principal, Bonnie, sticks her head in a calls me yonder to the door. Typically a sign that something of secret confidence needs to be shared. I keep a half-watchful eye on the tiered students dragging through the last refrains of "IT'S HOLIDAY TIME!" Ji Hun is pretending to me a Christmas ninja and punctuating the rhythm of the song with karate chops to the air. Man sleeps with his head doing the infamous drop and pop manoeuvre; as he falls into sleep he lets his head drop down, only to snap it back up in recovery.
Sung Woo is using his music sheets as a make-shift torture device. Appreciating my students’ fatigue, I turn to Bonnie to be informed that because of an important soccer game that will take place on Thursday (the scheduled date of our performance), the owners have decided to reschedule the concert to tomorrow night. Still without a stage and tent, a dress rehearsal, several major props and costumes, and so on, this seemed like an impossible and ill conceived proposition. The students, upon hearing the news, go into hysterics for several key players would be able to attend the rescheduled date. With all these confirmations of the horrific nature of this plan, we swing into action to convince the owners that we should proceed with the concert as planned, and ask parents to attend in spite of the "Big Game." We reached a compromise. The concert will go ahead on Thursday, but the game will be played on big screens before the show begins, and an update of the score provided mid-way through. Reasonable. In the end, the students think that the teachers have pulled a massive practical joke on them to spook them into taking practice more seriously. We did not correct their misinterpretation.

Dec. 18

After two months of shenanigans, it is performance day. During the day, students run gleefully about the halls in their costumes. Alice asks me if she can wear her elf costume all day. By noon, the kids have shed their costumes in favour of regulating their body temperatures. One kindergartener is caught, during dress rehearsal, pulling off his cotton tail, eating bits of it, and sticking the rest into his nose and ears.

Perhaps all the headaches paid off when I get to see 190 of our students dressed in a variety of costumes (from dogs and ducks to elves and ghosts) singing their hearts out on stage. The parents were worse than paparazzi, ploughing through real and invisible boundaries in order to capture their kid-letts in action. In the end, Cheratien, Kay, and I receive big bouquets of flowers for our work and kid speeches from several students. One student states with confidence that we were "the absolute BEST music and drama teachers in the school." Sure, the only, but also the best. I was very proud of my students and their grand accomplishment to sing and act from memory, in their second or third language. You can see facebook for some blurry and inattentively taken photographs of the event.

The staff gathers afterwards to have some drinks. We toast to this odd accomplishment and to optimism and co-operation in the new year.

Dec. 19

Riding the let-down from the concert, the Intermediate teachers hold a pancake breakfast and movie time for the students. We made pancakes served up with genuine Canadian maple syrup and watched Elf.

By 4:30 Cheratien and I are on a flight to KL, Malaysia. On this flight I solidify something I have abashedly had fleeting recognition of previously, I like airplane food. Yeppers. It's true. Our flight to Kota Kinabalu is delayed several hours, so we spend much of the time chatting with Mohammad over cups of white coffee. He manages this store and passes his days meeting interesting travellers.

December 20th and BEYOND

Upon arriving in KK, we learn that 126 bags had been left in KL because the plane was too heavy to fly. Our bags were among these. We arrived at our hostel at 2:30 a.m., slept, and then waited for our promised luggage to arrive. We explored the city, marvelling at the vast varieties offered in the drug stores. Zai, the hostel attendant, meets up with us to go about town. In the evening, her husband picks us up and we all go to a local beach outside of town. We eat steamed peanuts and corn on the cob, and drink young coconuts. We see some local musicians and dancers performers as we sit on the beach chatting. Zai and her husband are eager to continue the night, so we go to a local street cafe/bar in the centre of town. They are having a street party in opposition to the development of coal plants proliferating in Sabah. We eagerly join in with the crowd, starting a dance party to the tunes of the live music.

It was here that we met Chantal, a fellow Canadian, who insisted that she was drawn to us because we spoke her dancing language. She accompanies us as we explore the Sunday market which bustled just outside the front door of our hostel. We head from there to catch a boat to the islands of Abdul Rahmin National Park--a collection no islands just off the coast of KK known for their snorkelling and trekking. We rent a tent and head to Mamutik first. After trekking around the island, a local diver, Billy, takes us under his wing and shows us the best snorkelling spots. It was beautiful and vibrant. Although the group of rag-tag divers tried to convince us to stay, we head to Sapi for our night adventure. We arrive just as the island is shutting down for the day-4 p.m. I am able to convince the owner of the small food stall to cook us a small meal, even though they are officially closed. He, like the park ranger, takes moment to warn us about the wild boars, which WILL attack our tent should we leave food inside. After receiving this warning three times, we decide to tie our goods into a tree. We set up our tent right on the beach, after much carefully deliberation and head out to trek around the island for sunset. The trails entirely to ourselves, we wander through the jungle terrain and find an ideal spot to watch the sun drop. On our way back to camp, we realized our situations had the makings of a great horror movie plot. Three girls. alone on an island. The night is getting dark. They are lost in the jungle wilderness. Warnings of wild boards. There may be some money in this. We made it back to camp after some wanderings and went for a night swim. The island, stars, and water to ourselves. After our swim was sat on the jetty and watched fish and sea creature for nearly an hour. I read the girls some pages from my book, Catfish and Mandala. Early to bed with little else to do.

This was not the best sleep of my life, although I don't mind waking up to an immediate view of stars, mountains, sand, and water. I wake in the middle of the night fairly certain that I see a wild boar cross in front of the tent, but in the morning, upon track analysis, we determine that it was likely just a cat. What a letdown. I want a wild boar story. At least some chewed shorts, tracks, or a slight glimpse.

We spend the morning snorkelling, despite the prickling sensation all through my body. It was jelly-fish season--as the signs warned us.

People began arriving around 11:30, impeding on our tropical paradise. Snorkelling in PFD dominated the area, standing--irresponsibly--on the coral when they got weary (Coral dies when it is touched!). We busted out of there before our sweet memories of the place were corrupted. We spent the next days with horrifically sunburnt bums, for although we wore sunscreen our exposed rear-ends, so white from constant coverage, took a hit.

After returning to town, we eat a delicious dinner of nasi goreng (fried rice) at the evening market.

The following day, we are picked up by Romeo and Canon, our white-water rafting guides. We collect several people about the town and head for out 3 hours drive to the Padas River. The drive is beautiful, winding through the mountains. We stop at a roadside dinner which clings to the side of a hill, overlooking valleys and mountains. We enjoy tea tariks in the cooler climate. We take trolleys to the starting point.... small flat wood rectangles (with enough room for three) which careened along the rail-lines, propelled and controlled by men with long sticks. Pushing us forward with the stick to the ground, breaking by placing the stick in front of the wheel. The 45 min ride takes us beside the river, through the Borneo jungle. Stunning. The river contains level three and four rapids, which our guides take us through in a myriad of dangerous fashions. "Flying Without Wings" has to be one of my favourite of the guides attempts to capsize us. Canon loads us all into the back compartment and heads us straight into the rapids, so that the front of our boat juts 45 degrees into the air, while the back weighs heavily in the water. We bounce around uncontrollably, but fail to capsize. They ensure that this occurs, though. We are tossed from the boat. I am momentarily trapped underneath the boat, free myself, and consequently body surf through boisterous rapids. The videographer, who shared out boat, drifts gracefully in front of me, filming me flounder and flop so ungracefully. On the more peaceful sections of river, Canon asks us to sing to him. We rock out to some Christmas tunes and Bon Jovi.

That evening Canon and Spider (another guide... neither of whom go by their given names, clearly) take us to Karaoke. We butcher "All that she wants is another baby" and a variety of other cliche sing-a-longs, but nail "Santa Clause is Coming to Town."

The next day, we are in a mini-bus winding through the mountains toward Mt. Kinabalu National Park. Tomorrow, we are climbing the mountain, which is a two day venture. The driver lets us out at the park entrance in the afternoon drizzle. We check-in to our hostel, which is luxurious by our hostel standards and find our way to the main building, which contains a small restaurant and sitting room with a roaring fire. Two girls are sitting next to us. My suspicion that they are Canadian is confirmed by their Mountain Equipment Co-op backpacks and Lulu Lemon pants. I yell "CANADA" at them as they are leaving, and they join us for tea and conversation. They are backpacking SEA, and will be trekking the mountain on the same day as us (we are four of 75).

That evening as Cheratien and I are in our hostel room, the girls enter and we realize we are sharing our four person room. We grab books, head to the fire, and enjoy this "Christmas" time facsimile. A group of Malaysian men and women (staff workers at the park) come out decked in Santa hats and sing Christmas carols in four part harmony. Their traditional attire and heavy accents make it an endearing, but slightly humourous scene.

We begin our trek at about 8:30 and reach the rest point before noon. Although our guide, when present with us, chides us that we are going to slow, confirms that we did the first day's accent fairly quickly. We, and our new Singaporean friends, are the first to arrive at Laban Rata. We enjoy some tea and the awesome view off the side of the deck. We chat about our respective countries, meet other interesting folks as they arrive, and enjoy a well deserved meal. The first days climb is a strait accent, plagued with tremendous flights of rustically constructed stairs worked into the mountain side. Porters, getting paid 8 RM (3 dollars) per kilo, carry all sorts of goods up-- propane tanks, towels, water bottles, food, etc. One older woman was carrying nearly 30 kilos on a trip she makes almost daily. Unbelievable.

We go to bed just after sunset, and are ready to start trekking again by 2:45 a.m. Nicholas (our guide, who we lovingly termed St. Nic) suggests that, because we are fast, we don't need to start climbing until 3:30. We ignore his advice, and start on our way. This part of the climb is indescribable, but I will attempt to do the impossible. The steps give way to rocky embankments, and it isn't long before we are climbing into the dark sky. I have only once in my life seen starts like I see now. I was in Kenya, sleeping on a night bus, with my head pushed against the window. The bus hit a pot hold and I was shaken away to see a night sky unlike I had ever seen before. It was as if the sun had exploded into tiny pieces and splattered itself over the resulting darkness. As if there were more stars than dark sky. This morning is quite similar. The only difference is that we are continually moving towards them. The temperature was consistently dropping, and I somewhat desired to be able to climb into one of those burning balls of gas to warm up. I was thankful for Kim's warnings and the bundle of warm clothes, mitts, hat, and scarf that I had lugged along.

We are the first to reach the summit, along with Bianca. Bianca had been trekking Tibet previous to coming here, but is a circus trainer by trade when she is back in Australia. Unique character to share the mountain with. Due to our quick ascent, we revel in our arrival and then hunker down in the freezing cold to wait another two hours until the sunrise. Ha. We share a kit kat and tell stories.

The sun rises and sheds astounding light onto the layer of clouds below us. In various directions, between patches of clouds, I can see Sabah spread out below. They say that on a clear day you can see the Philippines. Photos, nor my words, can describe the scene. The descent from the summit provides lots of breathtaking moments, as the sights we had missed in the darkness of our rise, are now clear.

After our trek, we reunited with our fireplace and begin reading once more. Merry Christmas.

The following day, we wait by the gates, in the rain, for a bus to take us to Sandakan. The bus arrives, with the only seats left by the lavatories. We enjoy a 5.5 hour bus ride in the company of the intrusive smell of urine. To further the experience, the in house movie is titled "Cyclops" and revolved around a Cyclops that had invaded Rome. Some stellar lines from the film include: "We shall not kill the beast. We shall take him back to Rome so that all will know that I, Marcus Aurelius have defeated the Cyclops."

With that I shall leave you... I am off to make dinner. Another day, I will continue on with tales from the holidays.

Much love to all,
K