Suicide Note

So it's less than 24 hours until the KOTO sponsored bike ride.

An eighty kilometre bicycle ride through the still green lakes and hills of Vietnam, to raise money for a worthy cause: the education and training of street children of Ha Noi, by an aussie charity here.

I'm all hyped up. Pumped, as Arnie says. I'm ready to kill myself doing this.

And kill myself doing this is extremely likely.

• Did I mention that I'm not really outdoorsy?
• That despite my action man exploits underwater, back on dry land, I remain the world's biggest seven stone weakling?
• Did I mention that I haven't ridden a bicycle in fifteen years?
• Did I mention that I haven't done any physical exercise at all since rowing with the british dragonboat team in Singapore four weeks ago?
• I did mention that just those two hours left me crippled for two days, didn't I?
• Did I point out what eighty kilometres is in imperial measurements? It's FIFTY MILES. When I wrote to everyone in my address book asking for sponsorship, I didn't realise this. To a Brit, every metrical measurement appears tiny. I assumed this would be something simple, like a foot or so. 80 metres. 80 centimetres. Perhaps 80 millimetres. You know, something possible?
• I ever mention to you that even in the gym in days of yore, the stationary bike machines were the one thing I couldn't cope with? That my thigh muscles are such flaccid dead fish of a human sinew that they usually appeared to split at the seams after just 75 repetitions of pressing down an unweighted wheel to get nowhere?
• Many of my good sponsors have communicated an earnest hope that I have been in training since I foolishly agreed to murder myself by two wheeled means. This is not so. My training regime has been a peculiar one. It involves food poisoning, a full week laid prone in bed, running to the toilet every hour, and eating one bowl of rice and boiled broccoli a day. I look skinnier, yeah, but fitter? Think 'The Pianist'.
• Have I mentioned that Ha Noi's road traffic doesn't follow any rules whatsoever? That simply crossing a road intact was a Vietnamese challenge set by one reader, here?
• The streets are infested with speeding mopeds, ridden to be seen, not to get from A to B, and therefore populated with the type of motorist whose mirrors are angled to check their hair is straight rather than to stay alive.
• The rules of the road are: the bigger the vehicle, the faster you have to move out of the way. Horns are a deafening everpresent scrum. A horn beeping replaces the indicator lights, replaces the use of brakes, alerts people to the oncoming road accident, and tells everyone that you're rich enough to have a moped. Horns beep day and night in an orchestral cacophony. Horns beeping will not save me from harm.
• Did I tell you that the reason I never cycled in London was because I'm not roadworthy. I was the only kid in my primary school class who didn't pass the Cycling Proficiency Test.
• Did I tell you that the last time I cycled anywhere, I had to ask a friend to cycle just in front of me, so I could steal the signals from her without looking behind me? Because if I look over my shoulder, I wobble ten feet to the left, then fall off the bike?
• That I've never yet managed to stay on the bike on a mild incline?
• That I have a serious problem navigating Ha Noi's streets, and have only once managed to leave my hotel without getting lost within six paces?
• That one of the KOTO bike rides central problems is that people with an actual sense of direction get lost year after year?
• Are you feeling quite how bloody foolish this bike ride will be for me yet?

Nevertheless I will do this.

I will do this because KOTO is a really really worthwhile cause. I will do this because I promised my friends if they sponsored me, I would photograph my agony and embarrassment.

I will do this because having read this promise, my sodding bloody over-generous friends committed more than $800USD in just 48 hours, if I kill myself on Saturday.

Every mile I ride, every muscle I tear, every ragged gasp I breathe, every pained tear I shed, every tendon I split will be recorded for their delectation.

And it will kill me.

"if you're not willing to be changed by a place, there's no point in going."

If you're willing to add to the sum raised by my death, and are titillated by the thought that KOTO will sell you pictures of it, please leave your email and your sponsorship promises in the comments below.

Roll call of esteemed sponsors:
Russell Braterman, Germany, Eroica from Frogstar World, NZ, Looby from Gay Nazi Sex Vicar ..., UK, Francesca from End Message, UK, Vikki Tomlinson, UK, Martin from Web Frog, UK, Tess from Bored and Broke, Northern Ireland, Duch, UK, my mum and dad, UK, Margret Smith, Spain, Ruth Gilburt, UK, jatb, UK, Will of Moving Forward, Mexico, Tim Worstall, UK, Karen from Secret Walk, Phillippines, Robin Brzakalik, UK, my sister, UK, Paul from Noxturne, USA, Paula Newark, UK, Fishboy from Effing the Ineffable, Australia, Pete Connolly, UK, Yidaho from kitchensunk, UK, Bloom from Tales from the Chalkface, UK, Madeleine Minson, Sweden, Emma from Etcher: A Print Maker's Diary, UK, my mum's boss at work, UK, Terry of More Coffee, Less Dukkha, UK, Mike of Troubled Diva, UK, Nicole Hammond, UK.

Killers, all of them.

bit of an interval

disembarkation,
originally uploaded by digitalia.

I know I should be writing about Indonesia, or at least tell you something of what happened there, or about going back to Singapore, or anything about arriving in the chaotic crazy maelstrom that forms HaNoi, or ... well, just something.

But a couple of things:
1a. I had an argument that I didn't want to write about
1b. Scratch that, I had several people I didn't want to write about
2a. I wasn't particularly happy with the stuff I wrote in KL
2b. Though I cheered up, the fourth month on the road, I have to admit, is HARD. But the fifth month is starting and I want to give it my full attention
2c. And there's not being able to access blogspot at all from this fine communist country
3a. The fury of seeing people you know bitching about you on a blog, especially when it's done under a pseudonym
3b. Then the mild arse rupturing embarrassment of someone I'd just met finding my blog
4. And the whole guardian thing and sun thing and book thing on the work blog, which I find just excruciating

I just don't feel like writing at the moment. It's disappointing, but there it is.

Perhaps I will later. And then I'll catch up with what I'm lacking.

In the meantime, listen to this page of sounds from Vietnam. Beautiful.

Of course, whenever I write something explaining how I'm not writing anything at present, I end up writing more and more and more. Of course. More updates soon.

In the meantime: SPONSOR ME to kill myself with just a bicycle as weapon on Saturday.

So where've you been? 9 Singapore again

Singapore is lovely. It's like coming home, somehow.

I spent a week resting and eating and chatting to tourists, some of whom were interesting, although the most interesting of which were not. Bizarrely.

I lay down in a hot hostel, freezing at 22 degrees centigrade, clad in all my woollies, and cursing the acclimatisation, and chatting to a girl from Derry.
She'd spent one day in Singapore, and had "seen all there is to see" (this translated as the zoo).
She commented on my flight to Vietnam in a day or two; apparently she'd seen "everything" in Vietnam, been "everywhere", and had ultimately, she felt, spent "too long" there. (Two and a half weeks.)
So bored was she with Singapore (my lovely Singapore!), that she was off to KL tomorrow. "Do you think KL is a one night city or a two night city?"

Speechless.

Eventually she asked me, with an air of absolute rectitude, if I thought her wrong about Singapore, if I thought there were anything worth seeing here that she could see.

"No," I concluded, imagining her dismissal of Geylang Serai, of the boats, of the warm-hearted people, of Little India, of the hawker centres, of Fort Canning, of Bishan's temples, of the little secret places you discover around Chinatown, "I think it's true. I think perhaps you wouldn't find anything of interest here."

predictable,
originally uploaded by digitalia.

I miss my cats

Where've You Been? 8: Bahowo Village, North Sulawesi, Indonesia

Bahowo Village, Indonesia,
originally uploaded by digitalia.

With these 'where've you been posts' (and sorry about the number, but all blogspot sites are banned in this fine communist country of Viet Nam, so I can't check and see where I'm up to), I try to restrict myself to just one moment out of all my time in each country, something I fear I might otherwise forget.

Only, I spent just one week in Indonesia. I'm at serious risk of forgetting ALL of it. What moment do I choose?
There's Bahowo village, (the main street is there in the photograph) a place you won't find on maps or in guidebooks. A place that's pretty wealthy by Indonesian standards, yet still one of the poorest places I've ever seen. AS my camera died in Indonesia, losing all my photos, I can't show you the families of piglets that used to run up and down this road. The bullocks pulling carts. The one hundred year old palm trees in the jungle that separate this mangrove swamp bay from the rest of north Sulawesi. The wooden huts and tin shacks, the school without paper, the washing in the creek, or the children on automatic 'hellohellohello' shouting duty who would do a double take when they'd gotten confused and yelled it at a local, not me.
I could write moments where I witnessed what I'd term serious trauma in expats who've been too far away, and too stressed, for too long, and how they themselves perceive that.
I could write about the local families, about the misreadings and cross purposes at which we communicated.
About a day out at the volcano with Aimond, and the sulphurous stink of hot lava springs.
About the Wild Dog, the rottweiler that liked to grab my arm in its jaws and knock me over, but was such a puppy underneath.
I could write about the legend of the songkok. Boy, could I tell you more than I need to have in my head about the songkok.
I could write about the foods: a serious culture shock (I rejected bat on a stick and dog, but ate a goldfish, and was in culturally induced shock for three weeks afterwards; culture defines taste A LOT - I couldn't tell you what a goldfish tastes like, I couldn't concentrate enough to know).
I could write about diving there; the action man dives whose scars are only just now, a month later, healing. The arseholes I dived with, the fear on two occasions that this was the end.
Or about Tomohon, the village in the mountains where it's not possible to buy a souvenir or a postcard. They just don't have any call to make that sort of stuff.
All sorts of things.

But I was only there one week, I can't choose. There's no one memory that's more or less 'real' than the others.

It was just good. Another place where I felt part of things, felt somehow like I had a surrogate family somewhere. And they invited me back for Christmas, though I'll be in northern Thailand. Tempting, though. Tempting.

Roast Dog

I took the best photograph of my life.

It was beautifully framed. The colours and textures were superb. The layout was perfectly proportioned. The contrast of the background charcoal blue smoke against the mid ground animals, and the foreground red lighting from the market canopies was delicious.

It was breathtaking.

And it depicted a scene of gruesome animal torture. A bamboo cage overfilled with overheated dogs in Tomohon market, next to the fire. Next to the fire so you could decide which one you wanted roasted on the spit.

So it's probably a good thing that a faulty camera memory card wiped all 320 photos I took in Indonesia.

Answers to questions sent by email

sky tower,
digitalia.

1. If you want to sponsor me for the 80km bike ride to raise funds for KOTO, please email me at audacity at gmail dot com.

2. No, I do not know how you're suppposed to get the money to me. My friends are FANTASTIC because they have promised upward of $250 in just 24 hours, but I can't get any info from KOTO about how to get money from A to B.

3. As I will be in Ha Noi this weekend, though, I figured I can just ask them when I'm there.

4. DON'T send the money to me, though. i will spend it on beefy noodles. And I am the last person on earth without a paypal account.

5. Because Paypal hates me.

6. If you want to send me a letter or a christmas card, if you post it before the end of November, please send it here:
Anh Dao Hotel,
37 Ma May Street,
Old Ha Noi,
Vietnam.
Mark it with my surname underlines, and note on the outside that they should hold it until 17th December 2005. Bear in mind that your country may write dates in a different format to other countries when you do this. Also bear in mind that the hotel staff aren't that cool here, and I've been reduced to threatening to report the receptionsit for stealing my mail to get them to even check if I have any, so don't send anything crucial or valuable.

7. If you don't recall my surname, email me and ask about it.

8. If you want to send me mail later than that, you can send it to Vanessa SURNAME (obviously my surname isn't surname, that would be weird) at:
Poste Restante,
Th Charoen Muang,
Chiang Mai,
Chiang Mai Province,
Thailand.
That will count for the first week or so of December. Please write in capitals, because Thai script doesn't use a roman alphabet. And note on the envelope to hold it until 2nd January 2006. After that, they'll destroy it. So please don't send me a christmas present this way.

9. After that you have until early January, to send mail to me at:
Poste Restante,
Th Charoen Krung,
Bangrak,
Bangkok,
Thailand.
I can pick it up in mid February, and it's safe to assume three weeks journey time for your envelope.

10. I feel much better at present, thank you. I was particularly happy to get long emails about the weather in NSW from fishboy, interesting emails from Billy and waterhot, and voicemails from Frogstar, jatb, looby, and Jen. And entertaining photos from Lux. You have no idea how disproportionately such small things cheer you up.

11. But it's a week after my last dive today, and I can feel the first fingers of post-narced moroseness already at my neck, so I shall probably be a bit miserable for a few days again. That's okay, I can survive that. The crux of my woes are being on holiday after all, it's not deadly serious.

12. But if you do want to send me emails and voicemails this week, they will really count.

13. The number to call for voicemails depends on which country you're ringing from. Suffice to say, my account number is 2103935603, you signal you've finished typing a number by pressing #, and you'll have to input that as you follow the recorded kiwi giving you very clear instructions.
From the UK dial 0800-028-9653
From the USA dial 0800 182 7643
From France dial 0805 113 721
From Singapore dial 800-120-3480
From Holland dial 0800-020-3235
From Germany dial 0800 182 7643
From NZ dial 0800-445-108
From Canada dial 1866-626-9724
From the Phillippines they won't let you dial anything
From Mexico dial 01800-088-5000
From Switzerland dial 0800-834-578
Did I forget anyone?

14. You're lovely. Thanks.

i promised myself

Hitching sign,
originally uploaded by digitalia.

that things would be different, this time, that if I was in trouble, I'd say so, instead of keeping quiet and fighting through it like my instincts tell me to.

So, though I don't want to let you know, I'm not enjoying this at the moment. Things are going badly, but only on the inside.

So I need your help.

If you know me, you could help out; you could ring me and leave a message on my voicemail, you could send some mail for me to pick up at the Anh Dao in Vietnam in a fortnight, or you could email me.

Every time I get some contact from home, it makes things easier for awhile longer.

You could let me know that even if I feel completely adrift, that someone somewhere knows I'm alive.

Would you do that?

So Where've you been? 7 KL; woozy mid-journey airport post

uniquely singapore,
originally uploaded by digitalia.

I'm in Singapore now, at the airport, late at night, after a nine hour bus ride, then a two hour fun filled adventure to find somewhere to sleep.

Within two hours I was reminded why I liked Singapore so much.

I checked out of my poshish KL hotel at 11, and asked them to get me a taxi. They waved vaguely at the street outside. So I don my 22kilo pack, crosses the road, and flags one down. I only want to go four blocks, but it's too hot to carry stuff. Actually, at that time of day, it's too hot to walk without any baggage, also. He starts an argument about the price independently of me (he's quoted me one pound thirty). Whatever, I say, the price doesn't matter, get me to the bus station.

Two minutes later, we're on the wrong side of the highway of KL bus station, when he chucks me out, and charges me more than the figure he'd quoted (now it's one pound thirty one pence). I pay up and haul ass across the road. I charge through the masses of crowds of people suddenly in traditional Malaysian dress travelling on Hari Raya to meet their families. It takes a while to get through the hordes to my ticket window, and around me touts are screaming non stop. The lady takes my ticket, and scrawls the registration plate number of my bus on the back. I'm two hours early to get it. I decide to eat at the food court here.

Vaguely laxative food just before a five hour bus ride, what could go wrong?

I dump the massively heavy pack, and a mini-tout tries to drag me to his food court table. An argument ensues. He will get me the food I want, but only if I go ten yards further to his table. I tell him unless he lifts my pack for me, I ain't moving. I've landed at a chinese food table. They refuse to sell me any Malaysian food. I can have chinese food. They're kind - they let me buy a lemon ice tea, and go get some food elsewhere to bring back to their table. They didn't have to do that.
So I go to the Malay food stalls and ask for laksa. It's my last hour in KL, I want a laksa. Nobody does laksa. Tom Yam? Nope. Anything spicy? This is a tour of six different stalls each time.

Nononono. Malaysian favourite word.

So I shout "Rice? Give me some bloody rice?" and some bloke lets me serve myself dubious looking stuff on top of it.

I try to ignore the locals staring intently at my every move, because I'm beginning to get a tad grumpy. I try to make myself amusing, and smile. No doubt, I am amusing, so better to live up to it than to let any furiousness through.
Using sign language, I indicate to the table of women staring at me that my pack weigh four handfuls of kilos and is heavy. I stagger to the bus stand, which is an unmarked pavement, having remembered to buy some tissue for the squat bogs on the way. I won't mention how I knew I'd need it.

Hari Raya traffic is incredible. The roads are chockablock. Everyone is out of their western clothes and in a bright batik silk concoction. They're in buoyant mood. Unless they're driving.

I give up counting accidents, and try to sleep through the Steven Seagal movies. Malaysian coaches are twenty times better than UK coaches - they're actually comfy. But cold.

My hotel room in KL was 19 degrees celsius at night - I would sleep in sweaters and sleeping bag on top of the blankets. The bus is 22. Every now and then it stops and I get thrown off, and made to stand in inexplicable queues, for customs, frisking, kaya splat cakes, squat toilets.

We get to Singapore, and they chuck me unceremoniously out in the street. Which street, I don't know. Then the driver buggers off, leaving some of my stuff left in the coach.

One family helps me work out where I am. Then where to get money. Then how to get to the airport. Another family watches my bags, makes sure I get a cup of ice tea, gives suggestions. Another three families show me where the coach drivers' office is. The coach driver eventually turns up, and lets me get my stuff.

Everyone on the street laughs when they see I was waiting and fussing to pick up a water bottle. I try to explain through sign language that though water is cheap, unbreakable plastic is expensive by beating the glass against my forehead. I think I made my point rather eloquently.

Another family get me a taxi, saying I look "lost". The taxi driver gives me good tips on hotels and on avoiding rip off taxis. He charges me an eighth of what I'd pay.

I announce to the wrong airline that because of Hari Raya, I'm twelve hours early for my flight. The transit hotel is behind the boarding gates, and check in doesn't open for ten hours.

They run about fussing. Check me in anyway, running to the right airline for me to pick up unnumbered passes and tickets. Process half of my gear as diving gear, despite obvious appreances, and don't charge me extra for the over weight stuff. Suggest other hotels in the area.

Behind the gates, clam looking chaps in suits rent me a room in a five star airport hotel (with bath! with bath! with tea, coffee, CABLE TV! did I mention the bath?), by the hour.
Book a wake up call for 8am. Warn me there might be some building noise in the night.

Send me off round the corner for my free massage and movies.

I never get there because I spot the free internet stand.

Did I say how much I love Singapore?