PostScript about the prat.

The prat.  This is the fellow traveller whose obliviousness to others makes life difficult.  The god of airline travel gave me my own personalprat this flight. One on one exclusive service.  I'm sitting in my seat when without warning the seat in front of me whizzed backward at a rate of knots and stayed there the entire flight making it next to impossible for me to lean forward and retrieve my bits and pieces from under the seat. I got pretty adept at hooking my bags with my foot. But it did give  dining a  peculiar challenge and put ne up close and personal with the in flight entertainment system. Of course the prat, a young man of Indian extraction couldn't wait to turn his phone on the second he could.  From his seat emanated a stream of whistling. His hundreds of friends doubtless eager to hear from him.   That annoying dog whistling sound. Of course he's a prat so he would necessarily have chosen sounds that make it hard to suppress homicidsl rage in others.

It's now early morning and we are all luxuriating in thr bliss is being able to stretch out.

Micks cleaning his teeth in te bathroom, which is large in high ceiling end but has properties uncannily like an echo chamber. Unfortunate when dhal has featured heavily.  I haven't had the heart to inform Mick yet who from this day forward is to be known as mr farty pants. This makes me very happy that my extended visit was in thr middle of the night accompanied by Micks snoring.

Oh henceforth Mick is to be addressed as Mr snoring farty pants. Bernadette has just asked me if the beer I consumed has not worn off.

Eternity in a sardine tin.

We're here!  Let the eating commence.

Bernadette said she's never had more uncomfortable flights.  The first leg which commented at 12.45 am was 8.5 hours and while the seats were wide and there was elbow room, they seemed very upright and didn't recline very far and were deeper than some. End result was wrong shape for shorties.  There was no footrest bar and ended up with sore knees.  Hour and a half layover in KL where we wandered around the gate lounges like zombies. Called to our flight.  Looked to be only part full. Oh goodie. perhaps we can spread out a bit more, especially Bernadette who was sat next to a mum and bubs, we waited in our seats,then some people trickled on.  Must be a delayed flight somewhere.  Then some more, then more.

 Turns out a flight from New Zealand was delayed and there were 44 people and 66 pieces of luggage to load.  They wandered up and down the very narrow aisle trying to find spots for their hand luggage.  They sat down, we sat there. Just when we'd think everyone was on board more would come and do the same. Meanwhile the natives were getting restless and they too began perambulating the extremely narrow aisle.  It was like a boulevard. There was stripy man. A young man in jeans and striped tshirt who was so attached to his hand luggage that he felt compelled to visit it every 10 minutes or so and have a rummage. There was also old man Beanie who if he ever had a mouthful of teeth had long since mislaid most of them.  The purpose of his peregrinations were never ascertained.

Older lady who visited her travelling companions too. And of course there were the loos.
Only at the back of our not very big but very squeezy plane. A word about this . I don't  know what model plane it was but seats were configured 2 rows of 2 seats. With a narrow aisle, this is the type of aisle where if two people want to pass the poor aisle seat passenger is either treated to an eyeful of crotch or someone's bum in their face.  This then was to be our home for the next 22 thousand hours. Ok so it wasn't that long, it just felt like it.  At one point Mick questioned whether the trickling passenger phenomenon was
because there was some hidden back door and they were just passing through. The staff tried to be helpful but they would march up and down the aisle opening and closing overhead lockers looking for spaces for the many, many pieces of carry on. Didn't seem to dawn on them that leaving them open so they could see the contents rather than opening
and closing them all the time in search of increasingly elusive space might be more efficient. After an hour and a half of this we finally took off with a rather testy sounding pilot
exhorting us to "try and enjoy the flight". And we did. Try that is, but we failed.  The food
was pretty good but drink selection was limited to apple juice, orange juice, Pepsi and water.  There was beer and wine but they were only in evidence during meals and even then tucked away.  I decided after a bit to ease up on the juice as, after all we were headed to India and all its implications and compounding potential digestive issues with vast quantities of fruit juice didn't seem the wisest idea in the universe.

So finally on our way. Time to numb the brain with a movie. Off to the latest releases section of in flight entertainment.  Under construction. hUh?  Where's the Desolation of Smaug I had planned to watch this leg? Tried again, nope. And I'd watched all the eps of Big Bang Theory on previous flight.  Most of the rest was Hindi movies which was too much effort for my weary brain which totters towards feebleness at the best of times.  So I contented myself with the flight map as we slowly inched our way to India. Did you know
there's a place called Cox's Bazar in Bangladesh? No I didn't either. Another feature of the
Malaysian airlines in flight map is the compass which tells you where Mecca is in relation to the nearest inhabited town below.  We flew over Burma with its green jungles and almost unpopulated western coastline.  Over Bay of Bengal . No wonder Bangladesh is so prone to catastrophic flooding. The Delta looked like veins and capillaries stretching into the sea.

Bernadette who was wedged in next to mum with bubs did get another seat, next to me. Hurray. Finally we can gave a chat.  As we took off she said, " now is when the wing falls off". I gave her a look. She grinned.between attempts to doze she regaled me with stories airline disasters.  I gave her the glare. That didn't work either. I told her you can go off people rather quickly. That didn't stop her. Even threats of physical violence didn't deter her.  Some day, in some way I shall get my revenge.  After 45 years we landed.   One of the others. Can't remember if it was Mick or Bernadette wondered out loud if  the car and driver engaged to take us to our hotel were still there. They were.

As for Malaysian airlines, well years ago when they were known as MSA the joke was that it stood for Miserable Service again.  Look it wasn't horrible but we have had better flights. And given a choice we would go with someone else.

So what's Delhi like?  Well don't really know yet. The drive from the airport was fun. I volunteered to sit up front with the driver.   They drive on the left here. Well most of the time. The rules seem simple. Bikes give way to cars. Little cars give way to bigger cars who give way to bigger cars who give way to buses who give way to trucks who give way to big ass trucks. Simples.  

Road was busy and congested.  "Wouldn't want to break down in this!"I commented to the driver. Oh this is ok. You should see it peak hour.  Ohh kaaay.

We got to the hotel and haven't ventured out. It's clean and comfy, but not flash. The staff pleasant and attentive and I Love kingfisher beer.  I know this coz I had 3 bottles of it.  It comes in 650 ml bottles which might explain why I woke up at 3 am with a thumping headache.  And can't get back to sleep which is why I'm inflicting this epic tome on the Internet.

Dinner on rooftop.  Dhal, stuffed paranthas, vegie pakoras, afghan chicken, spiced Pilau. Kingfisher beer for 3 total cost about $40.  Not flash but if this is what the food is like the rest of the trip then bring it on!  

In a couple of hours we are off on early morning train to Amritsar.  The bloke from the company we booked the trip with rang us at the hotel.  Turned up when he said get would, was friendly and helpful and Gave us the business card of his company and said "my man in Amritsar will meet you at the station". My man in Amritsar. Can't make up my mind if it feels like a spy movie or if I've been transported back to the British raj. One thing. The Indians know about good customer service.

Ps. The menu items. I know the spelling may seem odd. It's how they were spelled on the menu.

Beware the 500 MPH Storm: Movie review

No. It's not some dire weather event. Well it is but this one exists only in the movies and probably just as well.
Let me explain. I was having lunch. It was cold so I ate in the living room where the wood heater resides and as you do, I turned on the telly and caught 500 MPH STORM

It stars Casper Van Dien, (here on in known as CVD for  brevity)  an action movie actor, although the word actor is probably overdoing things a bit.
He has a delivery style which I think could best be categorised as gabble.  I pondered on why this should be and all I could come up with was the thought that perhaps he has the memory span of a goldfish and therefore has to get his lines out as fast as humanly possible before he forgets.
So the plot. (again using that word dignifies it a bit).  Some sort of experiment with scientists shooting unknown beams into the atmosphere which makes the weather go postal.
Storms abound.. they get worse and worse .. our hero CVD is a science teacher somewhere or other with his idiot, whiney teenage son and forever gurning wife.
CVD realises before they do that there is danger a-coming so he races up to his family and orders them into the car and  announces they are going to find shelter without burdening them with an explanation. He ignores their whys (CVD waited to long to deliver his lines and forgot?)
There follows many, many many minutes (or was it hours? - it felt like it) of them speeding about the place in an SUV dodging dodgy SFX which I think was supposed to represent tornados. He decides the safest place is in this huge abandoned factory with lots glass window which we all know the ONLY safe place to shelter during a tornado. They pause there for a few minutes before there are heavy clunking sounds and he decides no, this isn't the place.. High Ground. That's what he needs. Don't know why.  If CVD ever knew the reason his goldfish memory ensured he's long forgotten.
During this headlong race to find a place of safety his son whines that he wants to go home. "I can get on the internet" he says apropos of nothing that I can discern.  "You can't" says CVD, " there is no internet.
"Why not?" asks idiot son. Good god, not enough that the son may have inherited his father's goldfish memory and forgotten they are fleeing the 500 MPH STORM, but he seems to have inherited his mother's deductive reasoning abilities. But never mind, good old CVD knows.. the storm has knocked out all communications, there is no internet.  Wow.
Now a word about the script, if indeed there was one. It was littered with awkward pauses (now perhaps I'm being unkind to the script writers. Perhaps that was down to CVD's goldfish memory rather than the writers putting in awkward pauses while they tried to think of the next thing to say)
There were also the scientific explanations which seemed to run thus: someone, usually idiot, whiney son or gurning wife would ask a question, CVD would explain incomprehensibly  after which gurning wife would rephrase the question and answer it in a slightly less puzzling fashion ( and when I say less puzzling, I don't mean that it made much sense. That would be asking way too much of the movie). Aah, so that's her purpose, she's a prompt and translator for the goldfish..err CVD I mean.
They end up somewhere or other (by this time I confess my attention had turned back to my game of Bubble Bust on my iPad) and they needed to put something or other on top of something "here and here" said the soldier on duty. Not sure where he came from, but he couldn't do it coz he couldn't leave his post. "What post? asks CVD , "there is  no post."  He did have a point, I suppose, but by this time i was past caring.
The suspense of the situation was complemented with music that was out of of character for the movie, in that it actually did the job required of it. During scenes of high tension the director resorted to close ups of wife gurning and CVD doing his "I'm tense" look which seemed to consist of maniacal grinning at the camera; or he could have been in pain. Do goldfish feel pain?
Oh and just to make sure we didn't forget the situation was fraught with tension, the point was made many times that if the storms couldn't be stopped the population of the USA would be wiped out.  Now, I like the US, in fact I love the place. It's one of my favourite holiday destinations, but I found myself almost wishing the population would be wiped out in order to end everyone's suffering. Esecially mine.
I like a good bad movie with the best of them. I love those overblown hammy b movies from the 30's. One of my favourite movies is John Wayne's Big Jim McLain; a bad movie made hysterically funny by the earnestness of it's anti-communist message (it was made under the auspices of the House of Un-American Activities Committee and if you haven' seen it do so) but there is a line. There are bad movies, there are bad movies so bad they are funny, but sadly 500 MPH STORM is beyond even that.so bad it explores new depths of badness.
Did CVD save the world? Probably. I don't know coz I gave up and decided a re-run of Midsomer Murders was infinitely preferable.

Sometimes it doesn't take much.

Today is my birthday.(OK, keep the excitement down to a dull roar). At my advancing age it's become something I'd rather ignore.  This year I have struggled with it. No particular reason; a combination of things.  Post holiday blaahs, winter, being underemployed right now with not much work about and friends all being tied up with other things.

It all turned around in the early hours of the morning, however.  Unable to sleep I logged into my favourite new obsession: Twitter. And there it was. Only very short (even in terms of 144 character limitations) but oh so sweet.

"Happy birthday. Have a great one. R."  It made my day. Hell, my life is so uneventful right now it made my week, if not my month. The R. in the tweet is my current lust subject du jour -  Richard Hammond!  I had sent the Top Gear presenter a tweet the day before saying it was my  brithday and would it be possible to have a tweet from him. As he is constantly inundated with messages I had no real hope that anything would come of it . Then a couple of my lovely online friends stepped in and also tweeted him asking to wish me happy birthday and lo and behold he noticed one of them and did.

It's a simple thing.  No great effort on anyone's part.  But thoughtful gestures from friends and a celebrity who perhaps doesn't take it for granted or is mindful that fans are the reason he's where he is, took that little bit of time out of his busy shedule to send that message.  It cost no one anything. Yet it's made me ridiculously happy.  I had a grin from ear to ear when I read that message and I'm  still smiling.

So you don't need to spend vast amounts of money or make huge gestures. Sometimes it's just the little things that demonstrate that others are thinking of you that mean the most.

Thanks Cath, Elaine, Kim and thank you Richard Hammond.

Cambodia

This isn't a book review.  Not long ago I was lucky enough to visit Thailand, Lao, Vietnam and Cambodia. A wonderful, beautiful, vibrantly colourful part of the world.

I knew about the history of the region. I grew up to the backdrop of the Vietnam War on the telly.  My country conscripted young men and forced them into National Service. Many lives were ruined and lost. As a teenager I supported the anti-war movement in that vague semi-informed way that young teens will do . Had my husband been just a year older he too may have been caught up in the draft.

We saw reminders of the war everywhere. The engine of a downed B52 in the middle of a pond in the cente of Hanoi.  The infamous Hanoi Hilton, the Cu Chi tunnels that were so effective in thwarting the US war effort, old bomb craters, but nowhere were these reminders of the recent past so stark and moving as in Cambodia.

I won't go into history here. I'm not an expert.  There are numerous sources that can talk about the what, why and when with far greater knowledge than I possess.

What I want to talk about is the effect Cambodia seems to have had on me. I visited in April as a tourist. In Phnom Penh we had what our tour guide dubbed  "misery afternoon" first a visit to the infamous Tuol Sleng, the High School in Phnom Penh that was turned into a "detention centre"  Photos of prisoners. Hundreds and hundreds of them. All of them "executed".  Men, women and children; staring out at us in black and white. Some wide-eyed with fear and panic. Others seemingly resigned. One young man even managed a slight shy smile.  On the tiled floor of the former classrooms are many dark stains.  The blood of those condmned to be sent there

It is estimated that between 17,000 - 20,000 prisoners found themselves in Tuol Sleng. Of those there were only 7 known survivors.. All but two of whom are now dead.  We were lucky enough to meet one of the surviving two the day we visited. He is now elderly and spends much of his time there meeting people, and selling books and magazines about the prison and his experience in order to supplement the all to meagre pension that was awarded to him by the Cambodian Government.

If I thought that was bad it was nothing to what confronted us when we visited Choeung Ek -one of the Killing Fields.  There are an estimated 20,000 bodies on this site. Serious excavation ceased some years ago, but because of the seasonal nature of the rains, remains are constantly coming to the surface. On our walk around the site we saw part of the top of a skull sitting on the ground. A partial lower jaw bone with teeth poking out of the surface, numerous fragments - probably from limbs, and rotting pieces of clothing.

There is a large pyramid-like structure there with glass sides; several stories of the remains of vicitms of the murderous paranoia of the Khymer Rouge/Pol Pot Regime.

Around the site are a couple of glass cases which hold other remains discovered since the completion of the main memorial. One of them; about the size of a fish tank, has clothing. The most poignant of which are a pair of intact purple shorts - child-sized.

You see, they didn't just murder men and women. Innocent children were killed as well. Mostly, it seems because keeping them alive was an inconvenience. They would have had to be fed and sheltered.

Most of the killing occurred under cover of darkness to a soundtrack of blaring loudspeakers to try and drown out the screaming. Not for them the quick bullet to the brain.  That would have made too much noise. Instead most were executed with sharpened gardening implements. Shovels, mattocks and the like. Some poor souls had their throats cut with the razor sharp-edges of sugar palm fronds.

There is a crater - an excavated pit where the bodies of several hundred women and children were found. Every one of them naked.

But the worst, the very worst was the tree. I can't remember what sort of tree. Its trunk is fairly substantial and snagged on the bark are hundreds upon hundreds of those colourful cord bracelets that are given out when being blessed by a buddhist monk. They are there to pay respects to many tiny ones who died at that spot. How? They were taken by their feet and their little heads bashed against that tree.

Tragic, terrible, brutal.  Horrifying to even contemplate, how can man do that to someone else? What makes it more horrifying was that most of those so-called executioners were little more than children themselves.  Removed from anything resembling family life and indoctrinated at an early age, they were the just right for the purpose.

It was awful at the time. It was upsetting but I was OK. I was OK yesterday and I suspect I'll be just fine tomorrow, but today for some reason its haunting me, and I feel compelled to write something down.

There is so much more I could say. I could talk about how just about everyone you meet in Cambodia lost someone near and dear to them. Numbers are irrelevent. In terms of per head of population the number of lives lost in the insanity of the 5 years of Pol Pot's Khmer Rouge far eclipse the Nazis or Stalinist Soviet Union. 

Do I regret visiting those sights of these unimaginable atrocities? No I don't. I'm glad I went.  Those who forget history are condemned to repeat it..
Lest we forget.