Barefoot

We were in The Haight, San Francisco, when I saw her. She was sitting cross-legged outside a tattoo parlour in frayed olive green trousers, a long-sleeved black top and beads around her neck. She was also barefoot, the soles of her feet black and grimy.

Every time anyone walked past, she would smile sleepily and raise her hand to beg, but she didn't say anything. Very few people gave her money and if they did, it was mostly coins.

After about 10 minutes, which was how long I spent looking at tie-dye t-shirts in the shop next door, she got up and left.

We were on Haight Street and it was about three in the afternoon. My (then) boyfriend had gone off and disappeared into a dodgy-looking shop three doors down while our other friend was looking at colourful skirts somewhere at the back. Somehow she'd never struck me as the tie-dye type.

The t-shirts hanging in front of me swung to one side and a face poked through.

"Hey." My boyfriend was back. "Found some good stuff. I even met a guy who told me his whole life story."

"Really now," I said.

"Really. Let's go look for something to eat."

We passed the tattoo parlour, some kids getting high by the corner, the jewellery shops with the tongue and navel studs, more kids, the smoke shops and the shops selling kinky underwear when I saw her again, the barefoot girl in faded black, her brown hair turning red in the sun. 

This time she was standing outside a '60s record store, once again reaching out pathetically, asking for money. "Please? Please?" she said as people walked by. 

The three of us found a small pizza place across the street and I watched the girl as she continued to beg for spare change. "She's not asking for money to buy food," my boyfriend said in between bites. I asked him how he knew.

Chomp. "She would say so, right? 'I haven't eaten since yesterday, I need some money for food', etc. She didn't say that, so the money's for something else." Chomp chomp.

I thought about what he said. Do people really tell the truth when they beg? I've given spare change to people who'd said they hadn't eaten since the day before or needed money for a train ticket home, only to see them buying cigarettes a few minutes later.

The girl, in her early 20s, was getting ready to leave. She looked around one last time, her arms lowered, her hands no longer reaching out for sympathy. I saw her shoulders hunch as she looked down at her bare feet and in that instant, I felt guilty and turned away.

When I turned back to look, she was already gone.

Sleepless in Shenzhen

I will always remember the train from Guilin to Shenzhen as the train where I did not sleep.

It all began with the Man Who Snored.  He came on board when the train stopped at a small station, way past midnight, and after we had left Guilin far behind. 

I was on my bottom bunk, halfway into a dream when I heard someone enter our compartment. Something brushed against my nose and I guessed it was someone’s jacket or backpack. I opened my eyes and saw a man stuffing a backpack and plastic bags- the thin, noisy, crinkly kind- under the bunk opposite mine.

He then took off his shoes, lay down and immediately went to sleep. The only problem was that I couldn’t. 

This man did not snore quietly. There was no gentle build-up. He launched straight into his snoring the second he lay down, blubbering and gurgling away, sounding like he was being murdered underwater.

I looked at my fellow compartment mates. They had fallen asleep hours earlier and didn’t appear to be affected by this annoying man, although I thought I heard the teenager in the top bunk swear. The other three seemed to be fast asleep.

The snoring did not stop, but instead got louder. The train was dimly lit but I could see by the light from the corridor. The man was lying on his back and his mouth was wide open, his lips quivering as the unholy sounds sprung forth.

I gave up. I took my daypack and blanket and went out in search of an empty bunk. It was about 2am. None of the train attendants were in sight, which was a good thing. I would hate for them to see me creeping around, searching for another bunk in the dead of night, looking like I was up to no good.

A little up ahead, I found a compartment which was completely unoccupied. What luck! I thought as I climbed into the top bunk, where nobody would notice me because it was so close to the ceiling.

Soon after I dozed off, I realised my bed was swaying.  At first I thought it was an earthquake, then I realised that quakes didn’t make strange noises in the dark.

A couple had climbed into the bed directly beneath mine. I heard whispers and giggling, then the sounds of kissing and more giggling.

I listened to their whispers, fascinated, wishing I could understand their Cantonese. I was curious about them. Where did they come from? Had they met on the train or had they planned this trip together? 

I don’t remember if I actually slept at all that night. I must have, but it was probably only for a few minutes. All I remember is climbing down the bunk as quietly as I could at 5.25am –I wanted to get back to my own bunk before we were due to arrive in Shenzhen at 6.30. Before I left, I stole a look at the couple. They were young, maybe in their late teens, and fast asleep and smiling contentedly amid crumpled sheets and blankets.

The arrival at Shenzhen was chaotic, as Chinese train arrivals usually are. I was in no hurry. Unlike everyone else, who would be welcomed by their husbands and wives and parents at the station, no-one would be greeting me or taking me home.

There was only one thing I wanted to do – to find a hotel room and sleep.

My Happy Un-honeymoon

The young couple had been smiling at us for more than half an hour. It's like they know something we don't, I thought. I couldn't tell what it was. Finally, the guy spoke up. "So, how's your honeymoon been so far?" he asked as his girlfriend beamed at the two of us.

Neil and I laughed. So hard until we shook. "Oh no, we're not together. We're just friends. Honeymoon?? Gosh, no," I shook my head. We were on holiday and it was perfect honeymoon weather, but no, they were mistaken.

That wasn't the first time. Earlier that morning as I walked past the shops on the main road, I met a man whose store we'd visited the day before. "Hello, hello again! You are alone today? Where is your husband?" he said, greeting me like an old friend.

I sighed. My darling 'husband'- poor, unsuspecting Neil- was probably checking out guys on the beach at that moment and secretly snapping photos of the hot ones to show me later.

I am as straight as a pencil, a ruler, as Darth Vader's lightsaber, but I have gay friends and Neil is one of them.

We must have come across as a pretty strange couple. We laughed and whispered together a lot, but never held hands. We were obviously very close, but yet didn't exchange long meaningful looks. And if anyone had gone up to our hotel room, they would've been mystified to see two single beds instead of a double bed which was messy and with sheets all over the place, hinting at whatever it is they thought we were up to.

I found it liberating knowing that Neil would never think I was trying to seduce him if I wore a particular dress or top, that he would never think I was trying to attract his attention if I did my yoga stretches in front of him. It was great to be close friends with a man and know that there was no way it would get any further than that. Sometimes a girl just doesn't want her life to get complicated.

We took a day trip before we left. There was some travelling involved and we had to ride on a van together with five other couples. Neil climbed on board before me and after getting in, immediately turned his back and sat down, leaving me outside.

"Hey," I called out.
Neil got up from his seat, his eyes asking me, What?
I motioned for him to come closer. "This is when you pretend we're on our honeymoon and help me up," I whispered.
"Oh, shit. Sorry, babe," he whispered back and gave me his hand, which was nice and tanned from the sun.
"Do I have to tell you everything?" I said softly as we sat down next to each other.
And my husband laughed, and so did I.

Getting down and dirty in Taman Negara

I was very, very uncomfortable. The cave was dark, I could slip on the rocks anytime and fall to my death and worst of all, I had just touched something soft and sticky. I wasn't sure what it was, but I had a feeling it came out of the wrong end of the bats which were flying above me.

"Don't stop, you must move on," our guide, who was a few feet ahead of me, called out. I tried not to think too much and went on.

My friends and I were in Gua Telinga, which in Malay translates as 'Ear Cave'. There was something about this cave which reminded me of the inside of an ear; the way one had to climb down into it because it wasn't at ground level, the way it narrowed uncomfortably in certain places, the way it twisted and turned before it narrowed.

I'm not exactly the caving type. In fact, I'm not any type at all. I had come to Taman Negara, Malaysia's National Park where Gua Telinga was located, to - I don't know, enjoy a bit of trekking, a bit of walking, nothing too difficult, you know, stuff like that. Unfortunately my friends were keen on caving, so I tagged along.

I had heard all sorts of stories about Gua Telinga. I'd heard that in some sections the ceiling was so low that you had to slither on your stomach to get through and that most parts of the cave were practically coated with bat droppings. But then, I enjoy a good challenge, so Gua Telinga it was.

Our guide entered the cave first. The opening wasn't very large and was only four feet high so we entered it sideways, crouching. Water was dripping down the walls, making it a little dangerous, so we held on to the rock with our fingers and toes.

The stench didn't hit me at first but as we went deeper into the cave it got stronger- an unpleasant, cloying smell which filled the air around us. I held my breath and tried to breathe through my mouth, then immediately realised that that was even more disgusting.

After walking with bent backs for about 15 minutes, the ceiling dropped even lower to barely three feet above the ground. So this is where we start crawling, I thought. With the help of our headlamps, we made our way into the narrow passage. My palms touched the cave floor, which was cold and wet. "Try not to talk, guys. It's pretty gross," someone's muffled voice came from far behind me.

We crawled for some time until finally the ceiling rose. This allowed us to relax our knees and limbs a little, although it still wasn't high enough for us to stand. The walls had also opened wider, giving us more room and air to breathe, as stale and musty as it was.

Finally the passageway opened up to a large chamber. Here, the ceiling was high, maybe about 15 feet; I couldn't really tell. We could all stand now. "Is everyone here?" asked the guide. I wiped my filth-covered hands on my clothes but they were just as dirty.

And as we re-assembled and stood there, we heard the sound of hard, leathery wings flapping all around us. Bats flew above us, back and forth from wall to wall, from ceiling to wall and back again. Those that weren't flying were hanging from the ceiling, their wings folded around them protectively like perfect black capes. There were also bats huddled together in crevices, there were bats hanging from ledges, there were bats looking at us with beady eyes; there were bats everywhere.

After going up another smaller chamber and making use of holes and cracks in the wall to pull ourselves up, we emerged from Gua Telinga a few minutes later, exhausted and in need of a wash.

I'm still not the caving type, but I really would do that again. Just remind me to bring a pair of gloves next time.

Falling asleep

It was one of those days.

I'd already seen the man in the waiting lounge, his bright red shirt impossible to miss. His eyes were staring at me, watching my every move. I checked my watch; he was looking. I yawned; he was still looking. Please don't let him sit anywhere near me. I'm not in the mood and I don't want anyone creepy next to me, I thought.

When I got to my seat on the plane, I saw him sitting next to mine. He in the bright crimson shirt. Waiting Lounge Guy. He flashed me a big smile as he watched me sit down, running his eyes over my body.

I was on a flight from London to Kuala Lumpur. I couldn't figure out the man, whom I estimated to be about 10 years older. He looked Asian and had light brown skin, but then he had blue eyes. 

Thirty minutes in the air, I became aware that he was staring at me. It made me very uncomfortable so I pretended to fall asleep because that was the only thing I could do. 

When I 'woke up' half an hour later, I found him grinning at me. "You are looking very beautiful while you are sleeping," he enunciated with care, his blue eyes looking deep into mine. WHY did I take this plane? Once again, I didn't know what else to do so I pretended to fall asleep again. 

This time I slept for real. I must have dozed off for a few hours because when I opened my eyes, stewardesses were pushing food trolleys and pouring out drinks. "Chicken or beef?" I heard one of them ask the woman behind me. I turned around. "Can I have fish?" the woman asked brightly. There's going to be a slight problem there.

I had the beef stew. It was served with rice, some steamed carrots, potatoes and a salad. Dessert was a square of custard pudding. Nothing much, but it was all right.

I ignored Waiting Lounge Guy throughout the meal, pretending to listen to music on my earphones and be totally engrossed in my salad. I saw him looking my way from time to time, which I thought was just too weird.

"Are you marriage?" he asked suddenly.

"Sorry?"

"Marriage, you know, marriage. Are you marriage."

I wasn't marriage, but I wasn't about to tell him that. 

"No, but I will be soon." You liar, Anis. 

The man smiled, and this time it was a nice sincere smile, almost kind. "He is very lucky." 

I immediately felt bad and regretted that I had lied. "That's very nice of you. Thank you."

Then he shattered the moment and said,"But you are very beautiful while you are sleeping." He grinned, raised his eyebrows and suddenly turned back into creepy Waiting Lounge Guy. 

What else could I do but turn away and go back to sleep.

Remembering

I'd always suspected I was a sentimental fool but now I know for sure.

I'm not exactly a hoarder, but I like keeping stuff, especially things which remind me of my travels. A few days ago I found receipts for dinners I had in Rotorua, Bali and Moscow, business cards from carpet shops in Istanbul and a ticket stub for a movie I watched four years ago with someone I used to have a crush on. 

The list goes on. Ticket stubs for museums, heritage sites, you name it. I have them.

A receipt from Planeta Sushi in Moscow took me back to October 2007. That was the day we walked for hours to look for food. I also found a handwritten bill dated February 2008 from Luang Prabang. Breakfast- one pain au chocolat and Lao coffee, strong and black. 

One piece of paper stood out, though- a faded, seven-year-old receipt with Chinese characters. It was from 'Soxworld' for a pair of socks I bought in Xian in February 2005. I remember that day because it was -3 degrees Celcius and my feet were absolutely frozen. I thought Beijing in winter was cold, but this was ridiculous.

The Soxworld receipt also made me remember the following day. The day after I bought the socks was pretty special. The sun came out and it was 5 degrees. Not exactly tropical, but at least it was above freezing. I got excited when I saw the weather forecast on television, the only thing on TV I could understand. There was a little yellow sun beneath the characters for Xian and the number 5 in bright red. Excited because it was 5 degrees? Yes, I know. Cold weather makes you go a little crazy.

I walked to the Drum Tower Square to find it full of people. Someone had brought a radio and music was playing. Children were running around with their kites, vendors were selling noisy wind-up toys and couples were holding hands. I celebrated with a McDonald's sundae with extra chocolate topping.

My room is a little neater now but I've still got those dinner receipts and museum tickets with me. I'm going to hold on to them for a while. I'll sort them out one day eventually, but for the moment they're in my room, ready to be re-discovered two years from now.

Malacca

When my grandfather went into a coma in November 2002, one of my first thoughts was that he would still be able to hear me. That's what people say about someone in a coma, I told myself, he can still hear us and might just wake up.

So for the next four months, I spoke to my grandad while he slept. I told him I was tired of my job and that I wanted to leave. I told him I planned to take a few months off to travel but that I would come back when he woke up.

I also read to him while he slept. My grandad was and still is, the most well-read person I've ever known. He was always reading something- TIME, National Geographic, anything. He always amazed us kids with what he knew. Every morning, we would hear his slippers shuffling all the way from his room to the breakfast table. After he plonked himself down on his chair, he would look at us and say, "Do you know that they found some new dinosaur bones in the Gobi Desert? I read about it last night. Do you know where the Gobi desert is?" and we would wait for him to tell us, because we wouldn't know. If he wasn't talking to us about dinosaur bones, it would be something else, something scientific. My grandad was a doctor and even after he stopped working, he was always interested in finding out about new discoveries and new medicines.

My dear old grandad was reading right up to the moment he got his stroke. When we cleared his room after the ambulance took him to the hospital, his copy of 'Frankenstein' was on his bed, next to the space where he should have been laying.

I visited my grandad's grave in Malacca a few days ago. His grave lies under a tree which has white flowers if you visit at the right time of the year. When I saw his grave, it looked like that of a much shorter man. My grandad was tall, definitely a six-footer. But it was more than just his height. When I was in school, I didn't look up to him just in the physical sense, I looked up to him in every sense of the word. Or maybe he just seemed tall, like all grown-ups do when you're just a child. I tried to think of my grandad, my tears falling as I picked up the dried leaves and twigs on his grave. Am I not remembering him correctly? If he was so tall, why is his grave so short? I couldn't understand it.

When I look at the rows of unread books in my room- I have a habit of buying books when I see ones that I like, not necessarily when I've run out of reading material- I think of my grandad's old house in Malacca. I think of the hundreds of TIME, LIFE, National Geographic and Reader's Digest magazines dating from the 1960s which my mum, aunt and uncles had to clear up before they renovated the house.

We drove past the house before visiting the grave that day. It's now a private school with a white signboard and pretty little flags on the outside, ready to welcome the children who would soon sit in its classrooms.

When I said goodbye to my grandad before we left, I told him how his house had become a school. "It looks very pretty, Atok. The house will be full of books for children to read. You would like it."

Roman trails

I had walked right smack into an Italian tussle. Two gladiators were brandishing swords and shouting at each other. The taller man, who was particularly loud, looked as though he was ready to eat his opponent.

The brawl ended when one of them fell to the ground. He had lunged at the other man, but had tripped and lost his balance. The gladiator who was still standing laughed as the other man got up and brushed his tunic. None of the spectators around them looked alarmed. A few even grinned. 

The setting was perfect- we were outside the Roman Colosseum, the men were dressed as gladiators and they had been arguing in Latin. 

Unfortunately the fight wasn't real and this was the 21st century.

If you like ancient history like I do, you'll like Rome, an amazing city which was founded in 753BC. If you also like walking, even better- Rome is best enjoyed on foot as the main attractions are located close to each other.

Did I mention that I like history?

The two major periods in Ancient Rome were the years of the Roman Republic (510BC to 27BC) and the Roman Empire (27BC to 476AD).

The heart of the city was the Roman Forum or Foro Romano, which was the political, commercial, legal and religious centre. Ancient Rome's main street, the Via Sacra runs through the Forum. This was the route which Rome's generals used to take through the city in a public show of triumph whenever they returned from a successful campaign in a foreign land, so when you walk along the Via Sacra, imagine the hoards of admiring citizens cheering you on as you enter the Forum.

Beyond the Forum lies the Palatine Hill where the Emperors' palaces were located. Stand on the edge of the Palatine and see the ruins of the Circus Maximus below, the site of chariot races for which Rome was famous. 

Another interesting sight is the complex which houses the Baths of Caracalla (Terme di Caracalla). Built in 206AD, these are the best-preserved Imperial baths in Rome. This complex could accommodate up to 1,500 guests and came complete with a library and sports hall. Blue and white mosaics on the floors of the baths, although faint, can be seen if you look closely.

I had taken the Metro one morning to the Colosseum, the city's most famous landmark. After agreeing to meet up later with my travel companions, I headed for Stazione Termini. 

A local I met told me of plans to expand the underground rail network. The city council hadn't been able to progress very far, though. They keep finding ancient tombs every time they dig up the city, he said. "This, of course, makes it difficult to build more lines." 

The Colosseum's formal name is the Flavian Ampitheatre, after the dynasty of emperors which oversaw its construction in 72AD. Its seating capacity was 50,000 spectators. Parts of the arena floor have completely disappeared, allowing us to see the underground barracks and animal cages. From their barracks, gladiators would be transported to the surface via elevators worked by pulleys. The Colosseum was usually uncovered but an immense awning would be hauled into place in case of rain. 

It was crowded outside the Colosseum that day. The grounds were swarming with men selling either umbrellas or plastic wind-up toys. That alone did not make it strange; what was odd was that they were from the Indian subcontinent, and spoke Italian. 

How long had they been in Italy? Just a few months, said a man from Dhaka, Bangladesh. "But when you speak a language every day, you become good at it," he said. "You would like an umbrella?" 

The two gladiators, now revealed as part-time actors, were enacting their little battle for the benefit of tourists, waving cardboard swords as menacingly as they could. 

A foreigner in front of me whipped out his camera. The fight between the gladiators ended immediately and a verbal one began. 

"You must pay for photograph," said one of the actors, raising his hand. 

"Just one," said the man. 

"You must pay," insisted the Italian. 

"What the hell," the foreigner said, and left the scene. 

I watched him walk some distance away and saw him slink behind one of the ice-cream vans. He took out his camera and focused from afar. 

I turned back to the gladiators, who by now had stopped fighting. Their audience had disappeared; people had gotten bored of arguing over money. 

The tall gladiator took out a mobile phone from within his tunic and began stabbing away at the keys. The other one, who had two silver hoops in his left earlobe, yawned widely.

All around me, Indian and Bangladeshi vendors called out to tourists in English and Italian, their wind-up plastic cars and helicopters whirring on the ground.

This was definitely the 21st century.

On the T56

Somewhere in a flat or house in China is a Lonely Planet phrasebook in Mandarin which used to belong to me. It has ‘Anis Ibrahim, Feb 2005’ written in a big, happy cursive script on the inside cover. I hope it’s been of some use since I gave it away.

I met Fan on the T56, the overnight train from Xian to Beijing. He was 22, and a student at a university in the capital city. He was sitting at the window bunk in my compartment and had noticed me struggling to lift my rucksack onto the luggage rack. He immediately got up to help and I immediately decided I would try to speak to him.

We introduced ourselves after the train left Xian.  He brightened up when he heard that I’d worked as a lawyer before becoming a journalist. “I want to be a lawyer; I want to help the people,” he said in English, then stopped.

He looked around. The remaining four bunks in our compartment were occupied by a teenager with spiky hair, two sullen men who appeared to have come together but had not said a word to each other and a heavily-made up young woman who was preoccupied with her mobile phone.  None of them seemed to be too interested in where our conversation might lead.

“My father studied politics. Politics is very interesting but of no use in China, there is no point,” Fan said, shaking his head.

I remarked that I too, found politics fascinating. “I just don’t like politicians,” I said.

This time he nodded. “Politicians always want you to do something for them. I don’t like them. They are never sincere.”

Fan looked out the window.  His hometown Xian was already miles away. His Spring Festival break had just ended, he said, and now he was on his way back to “more studying, exams and noisy Beijing”.

I commented on how wide the roads in Beijing were. “On my way to Xi Ke Zhan the other day, I saw a very wide road with six lanes on one side.”

It was the cue for Fan to be negative again. “Oh, Beijing. Its traffic and transportation system is very bad. I never go to the city centre unless I have to.”

I asked him about his university. Was it a national university, or privately funded? 

National, he said. “Thank you to the government that English is part of our syllabus!”, he added in a sudden show of patriotism. “Thank you to the government that I can actually talk to you like this!”.

I suddenly remembered my Mandarin phrasebook and showed it to him.

“This is a good book,” he said as he turned the pages back and forth. “There are different sections for different subjects and there are some English words I never knew.”

Fan looked up. “Say something you learned from here.”

“Wo shi jizhe”, I announced proudly and he laughed. I am a journalist.

He flipped through the book and pointed out to a sentence to me. “Zuijin de cesuo zai nali?” he said, with a very serious expression. It was my turn to giggle. Where is the nearest toilet?

The two men in our compartment looked at us and frowned disapprovingly at our frivolous conversation.

We arrived in Beijing the next morning, only to discover that it had been snowing.

“Xue”, Fan said, pointing upwards when we emerged from the station, telling me the Mandarin word for snow.

I took out my phrasebook, remembering how interested he had been when I first showed it to him. “You can have this. Maybe it will help you.”

He thanked me profusely then apologised for not being able to give me anything in return. He asked for my email address, which I wrote in the book.

“I will write to you and I will tell you about my graduation in July,” he said, and we said goodbye.

I never received that email. We meet so many people in our travels- some we’re happy to see the last of, some, like Fan, we wouldn’t mind hearing from again.

So assuming that Fan never gave away my phrasebook, it’s probably on his shelf, maybe in Beijing, maybe in another city and hopefully not gathering dust. And hopefully helping him along his way.

Motorcycle diary

I heard the motorbike rattling behind me before I actually saw it.

The sound got louder and louder, which meant that I was being followed. 

Soon the bike caught up with me and appeared by my side.

"Hello," said the man on the noisy bike. "Where are you going today?"

Just walking, I told him.

"You want to go to the landmine museum?"

I stared at him. I couldn't believe it.

"You know where it is?" I asked.

"Yes, I know, of course. I bring you there, on my bike," he said.

I'd been thinking about going to the Aki Rai Landmine Museum before I even left home.  

And on my last day in Siem Reap, this guy turns up on a motorbike and offers to take me there?  This was something I couldn’t ignore.

"Yes, I want to go to the landmine museum," I said.

 But first things first, I thought. "Can you wait? I want to have my breakfast before I go, over there," I said, pointing to the Famous Angkor Cafe.

 "Of course. I wait for you."

 I watched him as I sipped my coffee.

 He was waiting a few doors away, checking his teeth every so often. I watched him grin, smirk and growl at the little round mirror on his bike. He looked harmless enough.

 That was how it started, my motorbike ride with a complete stranger in Cambodia.

 He was 29 and his name was Ta.

 "The museum is not far, I know a quick road there."

 Off we went on his motorbike, rattling merrily into the distance.

 I was interested in this particular landmine museum because it was set up by a former Khmer Rouge soldier called Aki Rai. In the 1970s, Rai used to install landmines for Pol Pot, the man who orchestrated the deaths of millions of Cambodians.

 Now, however, Rai is a transformed man. Deeply regretful of his past misdeeds, or so says the literature on the museum, he now educates the public and helps to defuse the very same landmines he planted, which still lie in scores in the Cambodian countryside. 

 The ride on Ta's bike was a long one. This was March, the height of the dry season. The sun burned my face and the back of my neck until it hurt.

 "You always do this? Take people on your motorbike?" I asked Ta as I held onto his shirt, my hair flying in the wind.

 "Sometimes. I need to make money. To marry my girlfriend," he turned briefly, flashing me a quick smile.

 "That's nice. When?"

 "Maybe next year."

 We passed village after village, all identical, with identical children and identical old ladies walking by the roadside, carrying mysterious bundles on their heads.

 "How long more?" I yelled. His bike was really noisy now.

 "Not long, you wait," Ta shouted back.

There were buffaloes in rice fields on both sides of the road. I smelt their dung drying in the heat and saw their thick fat tails swapping flies away.

Finally, we stopped at a white building. Ta got down and spoke to a man near the entrance. All I understood was,"Aki  Rai, Aki Rai." Would I ever get to meet the man himself?

Ta came back with a frustrated look on his face.

 "I'm sorry. This is the museum, but it's not really open today," he told me.

 What do you mean? I asked. The gate is open, right?

 Ta sighed. "No, it's open but not for everyone to see. It's not ready."

 I wasn't satisfied and didn't completely understand what he said, so I walked into the building. 

There were exhibits all right- warheads, old landmines and posters with gruesome photographs- but not all of them were up.

 The museum had just relocated to a new site so it wasn't fully complete.

 Neither was Rai there, so my dream of meeting a real-life former Khmer Rouge officer never materialised.

 "Not open yet. I'm sorry, I disappoint you," Ta said, shrugging apologetically.

 "No, that's okay," I said. "It was a nice ride. It was nice of you to bring me here."

 My eyes searched the road beyond the museum grounds. Nothing, really. Just a few huts nearby, with children playing.

 Then I remembered seeing a few shops along the way.

 "You want some iced coffee?" I asked and Ta's face lit up.

 "Of course. I bring you there," he smiled.

Spin cycle

It all started with a push.

"Are you ready?" the guy asked. I gave him the thumbs-up. With that, he pushed me down the hill, a big grin on his face.

As I rolled down, all I could see were colours. Everything went round and round. Green grass, then blue sky. Green, blue, green, blue, over and over again.

First I was on my feet, then I was upside down. Up, then upside down again. Ice-cold water was getting into my eyes and stinging my nose.

It sounds painful, but it wasn't. Far from it. I was rolling down a hill in Rotorua, New Zealand, in a 'zorb' - a three-metre sphere made of transparent PVC.

Not only that, a bucketful of cold water had been emptied in the zorb as well, so it was like being in a washing machine.

Of course, before the water is poured in, you're given a choice.  "Do you want to run dry like a hamster or do your clothes need washing?" I was asked.

"They need washing," I replied.

As the water sloshed and swept all over me, I thought, "Okay, so this is what it's like to be a t-shirt in a spin cycle."

It never surprised me that New Zealanders had created the zorb. After all, they made bungy jumping famous and created canyon swinging, which is where you ride the world's highest swing, 109 metres above a canyon floor.

Created by Kiwi brothers David and Andrew Akers and scientist Dwayne van der Sluis, the zorb is designed to be both comfortable and safe. Every zorb has an inner shell which you stand in to prevent you from being thrown about.  A half-a-metre thick air cushion which separates the inner and outer shell protects you like how bubble wrap would.

The thing about zorbing is that there isn't any point in being pushed down a hill in a big plastic ball. But that's exactly it - like painting your toe-nails blue, there is no point. Just a wish to have plain, crazy fun.

So what happens when you reach the bottom of the hill, all drenched? You could come out hating the experience, wishing that you'd never done it. Or you could come out laughing from the zorb like I did, thoroughly glad that you tried it.       

That was in June 2003. I'd just quit my job and wanted to go somewhere I would never forget and always love and even before I resigned, deep down I knew that that somewhere would be New Zealand.

New Zealand has always been special for my family. My parents met and fell in love in Auckland and when my brothers and I were still quite young, they took us to NZ for a holiday. We were only children then, but we could already appreciate the beauty of its lakes, glaciers and fjords.

So when I was old enough to travel on my own, it was only natural for me to decide that New Zealand would be the perfect place to celebrate my career change. After I managed to save some money after working for a few years, I bought a plane ticket and never looked back.

One of the cities I dropped by on my trip  in 2003 was Christchurch, which was hit by an earthquake on February 22 this year. My heart ached when I read the news and saw the names of the same streets I once walked on all those years ago.

Tourism is important to New Zealand, and they need you to visit them. Some of my fondest memories were forged there- I kayaked alongside dolphins off the Kaikoura coast, I saw little hobbit houses and even walked into the set of the 'Lord of the Rings' once.

This is my contribution for Blog 4NZ. New Zealand is open for business, so do go there. You won't regret it.

Always time for tea

The minute I crossed the road and locked eyes with him I knew I should have turned left. Or right. Or anywhere else.

“Good morning, it’s a beautiful day,” he called out.

“Yes, it is,” I smiled back and walked on. I don't normally ignore people who are nice to me but today was different- I was in a hurry so I didn't stop.

“Where are you going? I have a carpet shop which you must see,” he said. Was he actually running to keep up with me or just skipping? I couldn’t tell.

“The Grand Bazaar.” I need to get away from this guy, I thought. Honestly speaking, that would be easier if he didn’t have such beautiful eyes.

This time the man was in front of me. “The Grand Bazaar? But why?” he asked, eyes wide open and arms raised in feigned shock. 

I had to stop and laugh. “Because it’s just there?”

“But I am here for you, you don’t have to go there. Can I offer you some tea?”

Ah, Istanbul.  The city of East and West, honey-drenched baklava and carpet traders with impossibly long eyelashes.

Exchanges such as this one happened every single day that I was there. In fact, it happens to every foreign tourist who visits Istanbul, more so if you’re female and travelling alone.

Turkish shopkeepers don’t always sell something you like and not all of them remain pleasant when you walk away, but there is one thing which almost all of them will do - offer you tea.

Full-bodied, strong and always black, çay (pronounced ‘chai’) is drunk not in English-style teacups but in small, clear glasses. Sugar is added, but never milk.

Turkish coffee, which is also strong, is more famous than Turkish tea but in actual fact, çay is more popular among the Turks. 

Drinking tea is such a central part of Turkish culture that as a visitor to the country, despite the copious amounts you drink, you may end up never having to pay for a single cup- you will be offered tea almost every day by complete strangers. Even when you’re a guest at someone’s home, your host is likely to offer you tea first of all.

Just a day earlier, the owner of a carpet factory I visited began by rattling off about single knots, double knots and flat weaves. After 15 minutes of going into the details of silk, wool and cotton carpets, he stopped.

“Now that that’s done, let me be Turkish and offer you some tea,” he said, rubbing his palms together.

At the Arasta Bazaar in Sultanahmet, the owner of a leather goods shop accosted me and invited me to look at his jackets. They were beautiful, but a leather jacket is too bulky to bring back and I wouldn’t have much use for it at home, so I apologised and started to walk out.

“Please. You must at least allow me to make you some apple tea,” I heard him say. It was 6 ˚Celcius outside and his shop was nice and warm, so it didn’t take much for me to change my mind.

But let me get back to that day when the carpet seller stopped me on the way to the Grand Bazaar.

I was due to take an overnight bus that evening but as it was already 3 o’clock, I didn’t want to get sidetracked. After all, I'd already planned to spend time at the Grand Bazaar and still had to get to the bus station after that, so I decided not to visit his shop.

A few days later, I found myself at a transport terminal at a town called Aydın, waiting for my minibus to Selçuk. It was 7 o'clock in the morning. I had just gone through a back-breaking, 13-hour bus ride and was eager to leave but unfortunately for me, my bus driver wasn't. 

I watched him through the glass walls of the waiting room, smoking and chatting with a group of men, not looking as though he was in any hurry at all. As far as I could see, he was just taking his time.

After 15 minutes, I saw him stubbing out his second cigarette.  Finally. I could really do with a shower right now, I thought.

I waited for him to get up, but he didn’t. He continued talking to his friends, laughing loudly, his ample stomach quivering as he did so. I got annoyed. Something was wrong.

Then he looked up and saw me glaring at him through the glass. He grinned and raised his hand.

There in his fingers was what I had feared all along- a small, tulip-shaped glass filled with a clear, reddish-brown liquid- çay.  

He smiled again and shrugged somewhat apologetically.

"I'm simply being Turkish", he seemed to say.